#dry january is off to a terrible start

[nobdoy]

My mom gets so mad at my dad for having a disability and I just. Don't. Understand.

[frodo-with-glasses]

Dreams in the House of Tom Bombadil (and the Four Elements of Trauma)

Now that we've gotten to the point where the hobbits spend the night in Tom Bombadil's house, I'd like to expand on this bullet point from my chapter review:

Much apologies to my girlies on the server who headcanon the hobbits with phobias corresponding to the four elements; sadly, Tolkien is not on the same page as us this time.

For context, I present to you these screenshots of messages sent on the Fig Tree Discord Server back in January:

This started as a half-joke, but it's since evolved into something of a shared headcanon for some of us. Pippin has a Thing about fire, because of the Pyre of Denethor. Frodo has a Thing about water, because his parents drowned. Bri has since told me that she headcanons Merry has a Thing about air, specifically cold air, after his encounters with the Black Breath. And that leaves Earth to Sam.

The good news is that this is a really fun headcanon; and when you look at LotR through this lens, it's actually kind of staggering how well it fits with the events of the book.

The bad news is that Tolkien did not write LotR with this idea in mind; and the whole thing with Old Man Willow, and the subsequent nightmares that the hobbits have in Tom Bombadil's house, make that abundantly clear.

After all, what does Old Man Willow do to Frodo? Lulls him to sleep and then tips him face-first into the water. He almost drowns. He almost drowns. Sam finds him face-down in the water, unconscious, held down by a root and not struggling; there's water in his nose and his mouth and his eyes and ears and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he nearly goes out the same way his parents did, in a river that connects to the one where they died. If Tolkien was writing Frodo with hydrophobia, this probably would've gotten a bit more attention than it did. But no; in Tom's house, Frodo dreams of Gandalf and Black Riders, because he's the protagonist and Tolkien needed an efficient way to foreshadow things a bit.

What does Old Man Willow do to Merry? Closes its roots over him, so that only his legs are sticking out; and when Frodo and Sam set fire to the tree, Merry screams, and begs them to put it out. "He'll squeeze me in two, if you don't. He says so!" He could feel the roots of the tree clamping like a vice under his ribs, squeezing, crushing, bruising; he could hear the voice of the tree in his head, demanding he communicate the ransom message. And as our beloved former anon, Meg, pointed out: Could he breathe in there? Was it dry and stuffy and stifling inside the tree? How much air could he even draw in, when his lungs were being crushed and had no space to expand? He screams with what little breath he has left, but can they hear him? He's going to die. He can't breathe. He's going to die.

But, ironically, he's the one who dreams about nearly drowning, and his dream-brain convinces him he's lying in a "soft slimy bog" before he wakes up and finds himself in Tom's house again. He's not the one who got tipped into the water, but go off Tolkien I guess.

What does Old Man Willow do to Pippin? Closes its roots over him completely, with a click like a lock snapping into place; and when Frodo and Sam set fire to the bark, and Old Man Willow gets angry, they can hear Pippin's "muffled yell" from deep inside the tree. Fire. Smoke and ash and anger. Could Pippin smell the burning wood around him? Could he feel any heat or sting? Did he hear Old Man Willow's voice, the same way Merry did, cursing the flames and threatening to smother him if it wasn't put out?

His nightmare, out of the three of them, is the only one that makes sense to me; he dreams that he is again inside the willow, hearing the wood creak as it sways in the breeze over him, and hearing the voice of the tree laughing at him again. But, sadly, no mention of fire.

All of that to say, if I wrote Lord of the Rings—which I realize is a terribly presumptuous thing to say given that I am, unlike Tolkien, Not A Genius, but hear me out—I definitely would have Frodo's nightmare be about drowning, Merry's be about suffocation, and Pippin's be about burning alive. This would then be foreshadowing for the later horrific stuff they're going to encounter concerning water, air, and fire respectively.

I dunno. It just seems like a missed opportunity is all. Which is probably why, despite how much I adore the “nightmares revealing inner turmoil and then characters waking up in safety and comfort” trope, I never really liked this sequence in the book all that much.

Sam, meanwhile, is welcome to continue sleeping “in deep content, if logs are contented". Good for him. 10/10, no notes.

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #289 - Twenty-Minute Tuesday #34

Brain Curds are lightly edited daily writing - usually flash fiction and sometimes terrible on purpose. This is not fiction.

So this is how it ends?

A year like 2024 comes too often for one lifetime. “The Year of Change,” as I declared it in January, has changed me like only time could. It has changed my circumstances, it has changed my body, it has changed my mind, but what is perhaps most striking is what hasn’t changed.

I thought I’d have gotten my “adult life” started by now. A new apartment, a new job, maybe even married. I thought I’d be able to look back from December to December and see a completely unrecognizable scenario for myself, and look in the mirror to see someone self-actualized and finally happy.

Instead, I look in the water-spotted mirror I keep forgetting to clean and I see my scars. I see the bags under my eyes, sleep-deprived from the dreams of what might have been. I don’t have a new apartment; I’m still living in this room, a place I have now lived longer than any other dwelling in my life. Dust is caked into the corners where I piled temporary stashes four-and-a-half years ago.

Not only did my plan to move evaporate, but I gave up on applying to jobs in the aftermath of my birthday and haven’t looked at listings since. There was a time, however brief, that I felt confident in my abilities enough to apply to positions I was clearly not qualified for - which I have found out is what you are supposed to do, apparently. The mind boggles.

My engagement was the first ending of the year. Unceremoniously treated like an afterthought on my own birthday and dumped like a sack of moldy potatoes for daring to exercise autonomy, I cried my way through two hard ciders the following evening and needed help getting back to the car.

Then, there was the culmination of two years of buildup: that’s right, bottom surgery, too, felt like more of an ending than a beginning, a feeling only now beginning to fade as the angry red turns pink.

Only last month did I learn the final ending to come from this year: my best friend is moving away. As I scramble to make use of the few remaining weeks, I feel seconds slip through my fingers, desiccating them like salt and silica, leaving dry skin to crack and bleed in the cold air. There was still so much to do. There still is.I don’t know what will happen after all the endings. That’s where beginnings come from, as I’ve been told. So I close my eyes, then, and fall backwards off the diving board. Welcome, new master, 2025 - where will you take me?

Please comment, reblog, like, and follow if you enjoyed - I'd love to know what you think! See you again next year.

[kate-the1975]

Meet Cute 🧡🍁 // Matty Healy

A/N: I'm using promptober as a lil mini series. So, the same characters/female love interest will be used for each prompt. I hope that's okay with everyone ♡

CW: Maybe some mature language, but that's it ♡

WC: 1,936 words

🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁

The streets of Dublin were completely frost bitten. The roads were icy and damp, the leaves soggy and totally mushed into the ground and the sky crying heavily.

Amy's dream season was that period between winter and spring, but this. This was not it for her.

Amy loved it when the sky was nearly bronze, the leaves so crisp that they'd crunch under her feet as she walked to work, and when the air was dry, but the kind of dry that everyone loves at this time of year where it makes your cheeks and the tip of your nose rosy, and gives you an excuse to wrap up in an overwhelming amount of layers.

This, though, this wasn't the kind of season that she loved.

The bell above the door of her bakery and coffee shop jingled lightly as she pulled open the door, letting a loud and exaggerated sigh while she removed her fluffy red scarf, hat, and the rest of her body warming attire.

"You're here early!" The cheerful voice of her best friend, Eve, echoed from the kitchen in the back.

"Nope! You're the one who's early for once instead of being late. I'm just perfectly on time, my love." Amy skipped playfully into the kitchen, wrapping her arms around Eve's shoulders in a tight squeeze.

"Hey! You're distracting me. Stop it!" Eve chuckled as she tried to shake her best friend off her back, but her efforts were pointless.

"Just act like I'm not here. Go on, continue what you're doing." Amy placed a quick kiss on Eve's temple before leaving her alone to continue prepping the freshly made Croissants to go into the oven while she herself pottered around the kitchen, collecting all the squeaky clean dishes from the dishwasher.

"Evie?"

"Yes, Amy?"

"Do you know what date it is?"

Eve knew this was a trick question. Of course, she knew what day it was. It was the day of the new year that Amy hadn't stopped talking about for months now.

"Umm....nope! I have no clue. Tell me." Eve teased, huffing as she rubbed her hands together to clear off the access flour from her hands.

"It's January 29th, which means we-"

Amy was cut off by the bell above the door, ringing in a way that felt rather obnoxious.

"Did you flip the sign to open?" Eve looked at her with confusion.

"No, it still says we're closed. I'm too fucking cold and tired to deal with it, you go."

"Me!? Why me!? I have to keep an eye on the pastries." Eve argued, starting to become visibly bothered by the thought of having to deal with a not very welcomed costumer.

"Fine, I'll go! But these pastries better be your best yet, or you're paying for the drinks at the concert tonight."

Amy flung the damp cloth she was using to dry the dishes at Eve's face, making her squeal in disgust and making Amy laugh embarrassingly loud.

"Hi, I'm sorry to say this, but we aren't open yet. If you come back at 9am we'll be open for business."

Amy put on her best customer service voice as she spoke to the back of this man physique.

His tall frame slightly hunched over as he analysed the large bookcase filled with classical and also more modern vinyls.

"Sorry, love. I didn't even notice you were closed. I saw the vinyls, and I just walked in. I truly apologise, my mistake."

As he turned around and his thick accent echoed throughout the shop, her heart stopped beating. Any words she could possibly form were caught in the back of her throat.

"I-uhhh-well-.....please, don't be sorry! I'm sorry. I actually completely forgot that we're open earlier today because of how terrible the weather is. Please, take a seat or have a look around!" Amy rushed her speech. Word after word coming out in a stutter filled with obvious nerves.

"Oh, alright, so. Thank you, darlin." The curly headed man smiled warmly, sending a flutter of warmth into Amy's own heart.

With a friendly tip of her head and a sheepish smile, Amy made a quick turnaround back into the kitchen, practically hyperventilating to Eve as she tried her best to explain who walked into their shop.

"Seriously? Ams, I'm not falling for that. Don't be so fucking- OH! Shit, he's right there!" Eve gasped as she poked her head out around the door. Gawking at the man who was tapping his fingers awkwardly against the table he was sitting at.

"Yes, Eve. Yes. THE Matty Healy is sitting in OUR shop when we're supposed to be going to HIS bands show tonight."

"Well, just....talk to him." Eve shrugged her shoulders like it was no big deal.

For Amy, this was a big fucking deal.

"HA! No."

"HA! Yes. Now, here's a raspberry muffin, go up to him and say it's on the house. I'd say his ego would fucking love that!"

Eve gave Amy a shit eating grin as she passed the muffin to her on a beautiful vintage lavender rose China plate that Amy's grandmother owned.

"Fuck off." Amy grumbled as she put on a smile and walked back out to the front of the shop. Only to find him out of his seat and pondering around the vinyls again.

Amy took a deep breath before speaking. Wanting to sound proper instead of sounding like a total dumbass.

"If you'd like, you can pick out a record and put it on. We normally let customers pick a record if they feel like it." She spoke in a more toned down version of her Dublin accent, standing a few feet away from him to give him space.

"Ah! You see, this one right here is an excellent one. I'd like to put this one on, if you don't mind, of course." Matty turned on his heal to face Amy, smirking slightly as he watched her face turn a Ruby red when she noticed he was holding his bands latest album in his hands.

"Ehm, sure. Why not! They're a good band. Have you ever heard of them?" She quipped.

"I know a few songs. Wouldn't know the lyrics to their songs off by heart or anything, but they're tolerable."

Matty went along with the banter. Something in his heart feeding off of this interaction with the beautiful brunette girl in front of him.

"Well, while you put that on, can I get you anything to drink? I have a raspberry muffin on the table for you over there, but if you'd like something different, don't be afraid to -"

"The raspberry muffin is perfect. I appreciate it. Oh, and, just a simple Americano. Please, love."

Love.

Amy liked the way it came out of his mouth, and the way it sounded like her favourite song.

She was quick to go behind the counter and make his coffee. Trying to hide from him as the intense redness in her cheeks reappeared rapidly.

As the crackling of the record subsided and the album began to play, she could hear his footsteps getting closer to her, and she could feel his presence close on the other side of the counter.

"Do you get many customers coming in?" He asked casually, trying his best to keep the conversation he was so desperate for going.

"Yeah, we do actually."

"We?"

"Oh, sorry. Me and my best friend Eve own the place. We opened it straight after the last lockdown. So, around July 2021." Amy explained as she passed him his Americano, leaning against the counter right in front of him as they chatted away.

"Christ, that's amazing. I'd say it's fun working with your best friend everyday."

"It is! I'm sure you know all about it."

Her comment made Matty smirk as he sipped the hot drink.

He knew she knew who he was, and whether her and Eve knew it or not, he could hear the entire conversation they were having in the kitchen. Matty was just waiting on Amy to bring something about the band up so he could call her out on it.

"Ah! So you know who am." He spoke with a slightly cocky attitude.

"Was me having every single one of your bands albums on vinyl over there not a giveaway." Amy snickered, starting to feel more at ease and comfortable as the conversation went on.

"Right, I guess, but I was waiting for you to say something that I could call you out on it in a way that didn't make me sound like a total dickhead."

"Aren't you just a dickhead in general, though?" She was beginning to pull his leg, having some kind of new found confidence running through her.

"Wow, alright! We've only met and you're already throwing abuse my way." He placed a hand over his heart in pretend hurt, pouting at her like a lost puppy.

"Well, who said we'll ever meet again? Might as well get my assumptions out of the way while I have the opportunity to do so." She gave him what seemed to be a flirtatious wink before walking into the back of the shop and into the kitchen to check on Eve's baking progress.

If Matty had it his way, this would only be their first encounter, but Dublin was just a quick stop on the tour and then he was off again. It's not like he could visit her every morning until he finally got the courage to ask her for a drink.

But if he made the effort, he thought to himself, maybe he could make this the first encounter and not the last.

He waited until she returned to announce his departure, telling her that he'd take the muffin to go before he was late to go wherever it was he said he needed to be.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Take care of yourself. It was nice talking to you, Matty."

Matty could tell by her face that their was a slight twinge of disappointment that he was leaving so soon, but that made his heart flip. A glimpse of hope that she'd take him up on the offer he'd left her.

"It was nice talking to you too....I'm sorry, you never said you name. What is your name, love?"

"Shit, sorry. Amy, my names Amy."

Amy stuck her hand out politely over the counter for Matty to shake, which he politely and very gently took.

"Well, Amy, have a good rest of your day. And, here's a little tip. My treat." He returned the same flirtatious wink that she'd given him earlier, slipping the so-called 'tip' into her warm palm.

"Oh, and before I go, enjoy the show tonight. Be careful with what you and that best mate of yours say in the kitchen. Those walls aren't as thick as you think, gorgeous." He chuckled deeply before disappearing into the gloomy streets of Dublin, taking the warmth that Amy felt with him.

She looked down at the tip in her hand to find a piece off of one of the napkins left on the tables with his phone number on it with three delicate x's at the end of it and a simple written note saying :

Text me on this number if you're up for a drink or two after the show. On me.

Amy couldn't help but giggle as she noticed the hand drawn smiley face at the end.

And just like that, the heavens closed, the concreate began to dry up, and the ice on the roads began to melt. The winter sun belted down as the leaves seemed to appear to come back to life.

That was just the effect he had.

That was just the effect he would have on her.

(I'm very aware that as I post this, it's the 4th of October, but I promise I'll have the other two prompts I missed and the fourth one out tomorrow xx)

(Oh! Thank you to @abiiors for giving me a hobby and for doing these adorable prompts ♡♡)

[teriwrites]

2024 Writing Wrap-Up

Happy New Year!!

As per tradition, every January 1st, I go back and collect all of my writing from the previous year and collect it into one monstrous mega-document and get to review all that work (and all the words) that I've done through the previous year.

Total Wordcount: 183,611!

I anticipated hitting my annual 100K goal, due to the two novels I was working on, but I really didn't anticipate to wind up with so many words! I really felt like I did basically zero writing outside of knocking out most of Beyond Alder Creek's second draft and powering through The Blind Oracle's first, and those two do make up the majority of those words, but still! So many words!

While that feels like a huge accomplishment, I will say that I feel like my relationship with writing and other creative work has felt a bit off the past year or two. The kind of 'off' that could simply be growing pains, as my ability to critique my own stuff surpasses my ability to make it, but also probably due to other aspects of my life right now bleeding through. I'm sure that, as I'm working harder to tackle said other aspects in the coming year, eventually that'll settle the frustrations here, too.

But that's not to say that I'm not both so excited and so proud of how much I've gotten done this year. I made it a goal to push myself to be more honest, more cringey, more 'weird' with my writing this year. And in some ways, I think I'm actually starting to see that peeking through. There are some projects I literally can't even share highlights from this go round because they're a bit too personal for public consumption lol

But hey, I wrote over 180,000 words this year. There's still plenty left to share!

So here ya go! Some highlights for 2024!

Mae Vodo wasn't a hero, yet. That would come in time. A time when her name would be known across Lore, when her robes would be spun of magical silk and adorned with medals of achievement, when even sovereigns would bow in deep respect. But for now, the only folk who knew her name were the stablehands of the keep, and the only magic she spun was the dancing lights to entertain herself after dark. (Tales of Lore)

“If the Undernell knows the Warden wants us away from their manor, we’ll have to outsmart their aversion in order to find it.” Winnie closed her eyes. She might’ve counted to ten, tried taking in a deep breath, anything to settle the coil in her chest. But her patience was spent. “How, exactly, do we outsmart a cave?” Edea piped in, “If we convince it that we are not aiming for the manor, perhaps it will let us through.” That made about as much sense to Winnie as anything would’ve, she supposed. Although it conjured up the image of three dimwits marching through caves, talking loudly about how much they didn’t want to find the Warden’s estate. Not exactly subtle. (Beyond Alder Creek)

The innocent ignorance of the kingdom's most powerful, their authority a facade in the horrible knowledge he'd been cursed with. Fate cast him from their comfort like a shadow from the light. He saw death in their pleasure; even skulls appeared to smile. (The Blind Oracle)

Nicotine steeped in her veins, its soothing poison filtering her flyaway thoughts, blunting their sharp edges. Not a cure for the insomnia, more likely an instigator, but if Juniper was going to lie awake staring at the ceiling all night, she’d have rather done so without a hurricane for a brain. She’d take the artificial stimulant over the natural kind. (Untitled, but Don't Smoke, Kids!)

“At least grab something to drink before you go. The library is such a dry part of the Halls.” “I think that’s intentional,” Madoc fired back jokingly. “For all the paper?” “Great for parchment,” Fin agreed, “terrible for hair. I prefer to do my reading in the courtyard.” He pulled at one of his curls, extending it to its end before letting it go. It sprung back towards his face, regaining its shape. (The Blind Oracle)

Do they have any secrets? A pretty big one, yeah. It’s called The Plot. (in which Teri fills out a character sheet for TBO)

Shiloh could've been the first to enter the sanctum in a century, and nothing around them would've appeared any more abandoned. Few people worshipped the god of Death, they reasoned. Especially during such times when They kept so busy that to live felt like open rebellion. (A Conversation with Death)

“I would request assistance in my quest for vengeance.” He said it with the nonchalance of asking for directions. The Oracle answered with the same casual tone. “And what would best assist you in your quest?” “Knowledge.” “And what do you have to trade?” Taliesin didn’t so much as flinch. Winnie studied his back, wondering if he’d hidden anything of use on him, or if he was truly showing up to this powerful fae empty-handed. “All-Knowing, what would you request of me in return?” The porcelain face’s expression shifted into one of amusement. The Oracle was fond of Taliesin, Winnie realized. She knew him, and found him endearing. Winnie would be shocked at nothing after this. (Beyond Alder Creek)

- Boys will be boys, if by that you mean being inducted into secret societies, having existential crises, breaking into historic sites, crying a Lot, and going on a little vacay~ (Badly explained wips: Castle on the Hill)

Every vision they'd seen, every glance into the future. As he'd suspected, or maybe as he'd feared, all overlooked the danger they faced. Whatever power granted the Oracles their sight, it singled out Madoc alone for its cruelest glimpses. Visionary or not, coming forwards with Brevorn's betrayal would cast enough doubt over his intuition. Augurs of old had been killed for less. Staring at the surface of the table, he weighed his options. Death being hailed as a traitor, or death knowing himself to be a coward. "Some choices," he muttered. (The Blind Oracle)

Despite their obviously being overheard, Taliesin continued his attempt to convince Winnie to make a deal. To his credit, he spoke in hushed tones. Not as much to his credit, the Dawn guards snorted derisively with each attempt. (Beyond Alder Creek)

"The categorization of intellect as a superpower is constantly subject to debate," Henry Weldt said, pushing the registration packet back across the table. "And I object to mandatory labor on the grounds of a genetic mutation, regardless." Henry's father slid the papers over again, forcefully. "We've been over this. Your guidance counselor confirmed with the local defense league recruitment. Your IQ alone classifies you as a power holder under the current regulations. Like it or not, it's your civic duty to register at the age of 18." Crossing his arms, Henry stared down at the Department of Superhuman Ability's logo in disdain. He said nothing. His father sighed, running a hand through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. "What will it take to get you to sign the damn paper?" "Nothing." Henry shrugged. "I'm not signing it." (Villain Origins: Doctor Illusion)

Just before Madoc thought he’d never be able to twist his face out of its smothering, plastered-on smile, a familiar face looked down at him. “Gareth!” Madoc blinked back his surprise. Overcoming his shock, he blanked. “I didn’t realize they allowed guards to attend the ceremonies.” Madoc’s little brother — though ‘little’ was relative, he’d been forced to admit once, begrudgingly — pressed a finger to his lips with a chuckle as he extended his hand. “‘Guard’ nonsense! That’s actually Syr Gareth of the Bright Blade.” With a quirk of his eyebrow, Madoc looked pointedly at the borrowed, embroidered doublet constricting Gareth’s wide shoulders. “According to?” “The Master of Ceremonies.” “And who, exactly, told him to call you that?” Gareth pulled away, clapping his hand to Madoc’s shoulder. “Can’t take up too much of your time! Wouldn’t be fair to the other Seers.” “Oracles, Gareth.” “Them, too!” With a curtsy, Gareth dashed to congratulate the other boys on their accomplishment. (The Blind Oracle)

Curiosity was a daytime sentiment. Under the midnight pitch, Juniper’s innards coiled in apprehension. (Untitled)

When she had first learned that the fae were required to be entirely truthful, Winnie had taken it as a good sign that she could trust their word. But the longer she traveled in these strange lands, the more she realized that there was a lot of space to manipulate truth without ever coming close to honesty. (Beyond Alder Creek)

Madoc pondered over what he’d seen as he made his way to the quietest wing of the Halls. The court, with its unbridled rage. The stoic guards, silently allowing the onlookers to take the stand. The terror of the man. His innocence. Guilt twisted in his midsection. What had the man been accused of to earn his fate at the hands of such ire? What had Madoc done? Was it his rightful punishment that the man endured on his behalf? Were the screams torn raw from his throat a mere mockery of the justice they sought? What had Madoc done? What act could have drawn the line from rioting mob to legitimized vigilantes? Why had the guards looked on? What would he do? Madoc stopped in the center of a hallway, suddenly breathing very hard. (The Blind Oracle)

The perpetual grin of Their skull seemed to widen. Mirth lifted the tone of Their voice into something like a smile as They said, "Child, I am Death." Shiloh had prepared a speech for their confrontation with the god of Death. They'd spent days polishing the wording, fixing turns of phrase and spinning eloquence from their plain request. Even along their walk, they'd repeated the words like a mantra, one of very few assurances that they could follow through with this. Nothing of it remained. Instead, Shiloh simply said, "No." "No?" "You can't be Death." The figure cocked Their head, gentle amusement coating Their words. "And why is that?" Later, Shiloh would blame their impudence on the shock. Frowning, they sat up still further, resting their weight back on their extended arms. "Because you're so… lively." "To the living, Death is crypt and grave." They waved a hand, turning Their head to acknowledge the sanctum's transformation. "To the dead, it is but another stage of the cycle." (A Conversation with Death)

A knock against the door startled Madoc into taking a step forwards. Even this near the edge of the balcony, the height of it swam through his head. He saw fires razing, smoke rising. With a blink, it cleared. "Sitting out here and contemplating your annihilation all alone?" Fin asked as he joined him, immediately choosing to fully rest his weight against the railing. "Thinking about theirs," Madoc said with a nudge of his chin to the people scrambling below. "How noble." (The Blind Oracle)

"If I promise not to say anything…" Natalie trailed off hopefully. A sigh escaped me before I could catch it. "That'd be breaking at least half a dozen codes, and, no offense, but I really don't know you-" A shriek interrupted my sentence, cutting me off. I barely managed to dodge the careening hourglass before it flew past, shattering glass against the wall. Natalie was already halfway to the door. She froze shortly before reaching the register lane. I crossed the store from the opposite direction. "Why'd you do that?" I asked, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in my voice. Natalie couldn't move, thanks to my immobility spell, but she could still talk. "You're going to kill me!" "I am not going to kill you!" Seriously, what was up with Typics? "Honestly, Natalie, do you even want to remember all of this?" Silence. But not the silence of contemplation. "You do?!" "It's kind of cool!" (Arcane Affinity)

Humanity tore a rift in the fabric of the Beyond. So be it. Winifred Pewitt would burn it in its entirety before she let it rob her of her brother. (Beyond Alder Creek)

You will stand in one of the washrooms of the Halls. A basin sits before you. You grip its sides as you stare into the mirror hanging above. A beast regards you from your reflection. Its eyes will be bloodshot, each red vein streaking across the white. Its hair is matted, clinging to its stricken face. You stare hollowly into your own eyes and don't recognize the wild feral creature looking back. Dazed, your sunken hazel eyes host a wildfire, your jaw slacks, agape. The sight will bring a laugh bubbling to the surface. You can't contain it, a choking, gurgling laugh. You see a flash of your throat as the hood of your robe falls to your shoulders, and a gasp tears the drowning chuckle into a sob. Tears will stream down your face. You watch them fall in the mirror, watch them slide down your cheek, drip off your chin. You don't look to see where they fall. You don't look down at the basin. But as your hand comes up to wipe the streaks from your face, it will be stained with red. Nausea will drive you to dry heave, and as you hurtle forwards, your gaze will land on the basin below. Its once-clear waters are cloudy with spilled blood. Red marks your hands, your robes, pools across the tile of the floor. You will scrub at your hands. The fresh blood has washed away, but dried stains cling more stubbornly. You scrape at the skin on your hands. Even where the red of blood fades, red from the irritation takes its place. In the low light, it's difficult to discern the two. Nobody will disturb you as you work, but you will hurry anyway. It is only a matter of time before your deed is discovered. You return your focus to the scrubbing. The robe will have to be discarded entirely, and the tiles thoroughly cleaned. You will not think of what's happened. You do not think of the body, still laying where it fell. (The Blind Oracle)

Ahead, Taliesin’s pace never shifted, his posture fixed as ever. But Taliesin would look at home walking on water. The Beyond molded to fit him, its landscape embracing him into its entirety. (Beyond Alder Creek)

So much had happened since those early days in the stables of the keep. Back when heroism meant parades and giving orders and confidence. Mae didn't have much confidence left. And with all of it stripped away, where did that leave her? The thought of a parade, of an extravagant feast catering to her every whim, left a sour taste in Mae's mouth. Images of grateful expressions made way to angry ones, grieving faces reflecting the horrors that had ravaged the countryside. Mourning deaths that Mae had failed to prevent, where her powers hadn't been enough. Where her magic clashed with the enemy's, and the fallout only ever seemed to rebound onto the innocent. (Tales of Lore)

There'd never been such dark circles engulfing someone's face. Tired hazel eyes stared back at him from the depths, any fire of hope for himself long extinguished. Where once he'd seen glimpses of fate's chosen vessel, now he only saw an empty man. He looked so alone. This was all he'd ever been. A will-less, witless fool who escaped his promises to avoid responsibility for himself. Madoc couldn't look for long. The last he saw of himself was a disgusted sneer smearing across his face. (The Blind Oracle)

[wetcatspellcaster]

Writer Interview Game

thank you so much for tagging me @eraserspiral !!!!

When did you start writing?

I wrote a lot of 'original fiction' as a teen, including a couple of TERRIBLE novels, that were essentially just a grab bag of all the books i was reading at the time. School (and in hindsight, grief) stopped this around 16-18, and then a very high pressure degree at a high profile university seemingly killed off my love of writing entirely.

I got back into writing at 26... weirdly?? just before the panini?? (january 2020, did past-me feel something in the water and know i'd need to hold onto any crumb of serotonin for dear life??) I had just finished my PhD applications, and after sinking so many hours and so many words into the most joy sucking series of forms I've ever encountered, I decided I wanted to write something fun for a change!

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

I don't write smut. I read a LOT of smut.

But in terms of themes, I tend to write in worlds/fantasy settings where we can all pretend that capitalism doesn't exist, or that if it does exist, the protagonist is winning at it. I really like speculative fiction (sf and fantasy) that tackles capitalistic themes/poverty well - this has been on my mind recently bc of an arc in a D&D game I've been playing, where my wonderful DM has essentially gone 'capitalism bad' but then let us do something about it <3

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

I find it hard to know what my writing 'is like'... not bc it's wildly unique or anything, but just bc I don't think I can see my own influences that clearly (if anyone wants to drop me some comparisons in the askbox, go for it, I'm curious!)

But in terms of writers I want to emulate, at the chatty/colloquial end it's T Kingfisher and Sarah Rees Brennan, who have a good handle on when to hit emotionally or on high fantasy register, and then when to have really grounded/human moments that make their characters incredibly relatable (and often very funny). At the high fantasy end, it's Shannon Chakraborty, Ann Leckie, Nghi Vo, Silvia Moreno Garcia. They write haunting and engaging narratives!

And, of course, I'm always trying to muster an ounce of whatever the fuck Howl/Sophie had going on.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I use my desk for work/thesis and want to exclusively keep it that way, so my writing space is actually just on the corner of the sofa in my living room, with my legs crossed, a blanket, and a cup of tea. No music, pure autistic silence (but also bc my laptop speaker is broken). Scotland gets dark for a long time in the winter, so it's usually pretty cosy vibes. It's probably not good for me, as I get a LOT of leg cramp.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Honestly, not to be tsundere about it... but maybe ignore the muse a little? If you've burned out or you're trying to brute force a scene, all you're doing is guilting yourself into being productive. With fic writing, especially, you should be doing it to have fun, not bc you feel like you have to. So if the words aren't coming, do other things for a bit. Go on a day trip, hang out with friends, do chores or read something. In my experience, my brain doesn't stay quiet for long, and ideas for my current project will come to me when i'm not trying to squeeze them out of myself like toothpaste.

Sometimes the well runs dry! Rather than feel terrible about it, be kind to yourself, and wait for rain x

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Hahahahaha, let's not talk about how I keep placing people into the worst versions of themselves and then have them improve and earn love anyway, regardless of if they deserve it. Or how I'm interested in characters who feel a wealth of emotion they hide from everyone behind a mask of either performed indifference, wilful charm, or simply bc they can't articulate it in the socially correct way. Or women who think 'if I cannot be beautiful or loveable, I will be competent', and the men who-

Anyway, introvert x extrovert pairings, amirite? Everything else is shown to me in a vision (my therapist reaches a dead end in my session as I insist nothing is wrong, asks me about my fanfic, and then delivers me a laundry list of the stuff I'm currently coping with. Lowest point: being told im IDing through the fucking DARKLING, on one project. That man is a war criminal, and I dont look like Ben Barnes).

What is your reason for writing?

In the beginning, I think it was pure comfort. I'd just come out of a period of extreme depression, and wanted to hallucinate some characters in love.

But recently, and going forward, I think it is a genuine exercise in proficiency. I thought my writing was so terrible that I said 'I couldn't write', for so fucking long. I now genuinely think this is something I'm good at, and that is something it has taken me so very long to believe, and even longer to say. I am a very self-deprecating person. I have so few things I feel good at, or that I think bring something worthwhile to the table. As academia delivers me blow after blow and the world leaves me feeling worthless, I am going to cling to this until my hands bleed.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

focusing on the 'motivation' part of this question... I think the comments that happen to land on the one specific thing that matters to me, those are the ones that hit hardest. It happens rarer than you'd think. part of the joy of fanfiction comments is the wealth of different reader interpretations, with people seeing things in your own work that you've never noticed. All interpretations are amazing, especially the ones that show you a blindspot you never considered. But when a reader hits the nail fucking on the head (gets a 'gold star in reading comprehension'), that's the most motivating, and makes me want to open my document and write the next chapter. Because I know then that at least one person out there 'gets it', and is fully on board with the story I want to tell.

But that is a very selfish, specific feeling. All comments are motivation, and all reader interpretations have value!

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Idk if this seems weird or a disingenuous answer but... as a person?? Writing a story for fun? Pieces was a very cool and special experience, but it was very unexpected. I wasn't and never considered myself to be a 'big name fan'. I never want to enter any kind of popularity contest, and I never want to be beholden to people who are reading a story I am writing for fun. Very funny to have a story blow up when you have weird feelings about attention lmfao. Like don't get me wrong, absolutely amazing to ride such a huge tide of support, but this was meant to be my silly introvert hobby :')

I also hope they think my writing is good!! obviously!! i know it can't be everything everyone wants all the time, but you know!! i think it's neat!! I hope y'all think it's neat!! plz and thank!!!

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

lmao eraserspiral's reply to this question was a fucking mood. (just deleted it in my template to make space).

I guess... I know how to flesh out a character, and a character voice. I think I can establish a character's personality, their strengths and their flaws, and have them consistently become the vehicle for both progression and some very real, understandable mistakes. I think chapters from different perspectives feel distinct, and that when development in either direction (bad or good) happens, it feels earned.

idk man, this is a hard one to answer when depressed :')

How do you feel about your own writing?

At the end of the day, it's a lifeline. Sometimes I keep very much to myself and I protect it fiercely, because it's one of the only things that kept me going at certain points in the last few years. At my lowest, I've often wondered for what, if anything, I'll be remembered for or what I'll leave behind... and now I actually have things! 12 whole stories, where once there was nothing! Sure, it's fanfic! But some people's favourite fanfic. None of it is perfect, but it all matters to me, and we're now at the point (4 years in) where I am starting to slowly realise how it has changed me as a person, and will continue to change me going forward.

I want to start on some original ideas once my thesis is over, vivaed and done, but I don't currently see my writing as anything something I can make into a career, bc I need to keep the joy in it as the joy literally keeps me alive :')

tagging: @imscissorbladez, @pricemarshfield, @blarfshnorgull, @violacae, @dededrabbles, @brabblesblog - no pressure, just trying to share this tag game to more groups/social circles! :) x

[s-tephaniethorne]

𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒾𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓃𝑒

Pronouns: She/Her Birthday: 27th January 1994 (23) Species: Vampire & Psychic - Empath Turned: June 2013 (physically 18) by Jace Ryder Alliance: Neutral - Unaffiliated Occupation: tbd Location: Inside the dome

So What Happened?

Stephanie Thorne had known she was an Empath long before she was ever turned into a vampire. Technically, she’s a Psychic and while it’s volatile magic-- sometimes when Psychics are turned into vampires, it terribly enhances their powers. That was the case for Stephanie, who, once able to cope with feeling the emotions of others, was overwhelmed by her heightened vampire senses and by the feelings of others. It was crippling.

She was starting to get things under control with the help of hunter Blake Huang. Only then tragedy struck for Blake and he kinda went off the rails... Which meant he didn’t have time for Stephanie anymore and at the time, vampires at all. Her bloodlust, her cravings, were getting out of control when she ran into Jessica and Lua Harvelle’s dad. She didn’t mean to, but she drained Mr Harvelle dry.

Stephanie fled the scene, little did she know Jess was right around the corner to cover it up. With no humanity, she didn’t care at all, seeing only the potential for leverage. Stephanie tried to act as normal as possible! She went to prom with Steven Beaumont and had a nice time (kinda!). She hung out with her football team at the after party, broke up that embarrassing as hell fight between Tyler Manning and Jesse McArthur. She even had a few laughs about Joey Savatore announcing that he was in love with Isabel Valentine.

When Founder’s Festival happened... Stephanie screamed. Being an Empath on that day was unbearable. It was just like the massacre she survived when Jace Ryder turned her into a vampire. She thought that day would never end. Against her wishes, Stephanie was protected by Jace’s clan-- by Piper Renderos. They want her to join their messed up family, but she won’t. She never will.

Stephanie has a family of her own. Her 7-year-old little sister? Well, she’s really her daughter and Stephanie would do anything to keep her safe. But what’s more, she needs to keep her safe from herself. Stephanie is terrified of accidentally hurting her loved ones-- again.

If one good thing came out of all this pain, Stephanie and Blake’s alliance was rekindled. They’re both on a road to redemption together. They only meet above ground and Stephanie refuses to be looped in on anything to do with the Resistance-- she doesn’t trust herself.

After the ‘AU’ dream-- now known to be a spell that was cast on the town-- she feels a connection to Nina Jones. She knows it was only a dream, but they were a family.

Wanted Connections

tba

[sasquatchwalker]

The Nothingness I Live in Now

11/26/25

This Friday I turn 29. My golden birthday. It doesn't feel very golden, not with me being unemployed, single, living with my parents and -$64.38 in my bank account. But it will happen nonetheless. I will turn 29 years old. 29 and at the lowest point in my life.

I recently got back into drinking tea every morning, because it's cheaper than coffee, and as I was drinking it one morning I couldn't help but be reminded of high school. Back then I too would drink copious amounts of tea, partly because of my grandma and partly because I was obsessed with all things British. I was struck by the fact that I was much the same then as I am now; jobless, penniless, and with a vague plan for the future. Except when you're in high school that's acceptable. At nearly 29 years old, it feels like failure.

I keep thinking things like, I should've saved more, I shouldn't have moved to Southern California, I should've been more proactive at work. Maybe they would've seen how valuable I was as an employee and not laid me off. But I didn't save and I did move and they did lay me off. And there's nothing I can do about it besides apply for job after job and hope one sticks. So far, nothing has.

People keep telling me they'll keep an eye out for jobs for me or they'll be sending positive vibes my way. I am grateful for the optimism but it also makes me feel so much more miserable. "You'll find something," they say, "You're qualified for so much." But it seems that “qualified” just isn't good enough these days. Or maybe it's too much. Either way, qualified or not, I am still nearly 29, jobless and living with my parents. Three months of no work and no money and too much guilt welling up inside of me.

The other week I cried in the shower. No, not cried. Sobbed. Bent over, wailing, clutching my chest sobbing. If the water hadn't been washing it away I would have had tears and snot running down my face. A small, inconsequential thing set me off and it was the hardest I had cried in literal years. I'm not saying I don't cry. I cry at least once a week for one reason or another. No, this was like the dam of my heart burst open and out poured every miserable thought I had ever had about myself. You're a terrible friend, you're selfish, you're a leech, you're ugly, you're useless, you're a failure, you're unlovable. Over and over again these thoughts whipped at me like those spinny brushes in a car wash until the water started to get cold and the realization that my dad would be home soon hit me and I didn't want him to find me sobbing in the shower. And then afterwards, hair wet and skin dry and cold, I laid in bed and let tears silently stream down my face.

The day after "The Big Sob" was election day. I hung out with friends, we played games and ate food and tried not to think about what was happening. I drove home from their house around midnight and the entire 45 minute drive felt like the night of the 2017 fires. The wind whipped violently, debris being thrown everywhere, a feeling of foreboding in the air. I hadn't brought my glasses so the road felt extra hazardous. And when I got home, I felt so empty and too full all at the same time. My dreams were not memorable but I woke up with a deep aching sadness in my chest and tears began falling from my eyes. Unemployed, single, no money, living at home, and starting in January, living under a fascist. The tears didn’t stop for a while and the ache never fully went away.

On top of all this, I've been struggling with a mysterious foot injury for nearly the entire month of November. Weeks of pain and discomfort that have finally subsided somewhat but flare up if I stand for too long. I keep finding myself in this miserable cycle of feeling sorry for myself and then feeling childish for feeling sorry for myself. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of hurting, I'm frustrated with myself for being out of shape, which is likely the cause of my injury. My sedentary lifestyle biting me in the ass yet again. I'm tired of this endless nothing, this endless waiting. Waiting to hear back from jobs, waiting for my foot to get better, waiting to find just the right motivation to better myself. I'm tired of it all.

And then there is my writing. For the past week I've been stuck on the same passage of my book with little to no progress. My goal was to be finished with the first draft by the end of January of 2025, but the way progress is going now, I highly doubt that will be the case. At the end of October, I had challenged myself to write 50,000 words in the month of November. Midway through the month I abandoned that goal. Too many obligations, too little motivation, one thing or another got in the way of my writing. One would think that being unemployed would leave ample amounts of time to write a book, but oh, do I find ways to fill my time with endless nothing. A project that once brought me joy now feels like a daunting chore.

But things are not all bad. As the end of November approaches, I've been focusing on my birthday party. Buying decorations, cleaning, making lists, etc. It's a good distraction to have, the planning of a party. Something joyful in the midst of misery, both self-inflicted and not. Since it is my golden birthday, the theme is gold, shockingly. I will be wearing gold pants and we will sing karaoke and play games and eat cake. I will be with my favorite people and it will be an evening filled with fun and joy. It has to be. If nothing in my life can go right at this moment in time, at the very least let this party be something that does. 

I have so many plans for 2025. But I am so scared that they will all be derailed, like many of my plans these past four years have been. 2020 was supposed to be my year. I was going to turn 25, I was going to go to concerts and get more tattoos and travel. I liked my job, I had a boyfriend, I was starting to really settle into adulthood. And then the pandemic hit. Two weeks in, my boyfriend broke up with me, claiming there was no more spark and he wanted children and I didn’t. My grandfather fell ill but because of restrictions we couldn’t see him. He died in early spring and I cannot remember the last time I had hugged him while he was still alive. I had two trips planned and had to cancel both. My job couldn’t give me enough hours so I left and started a new one in August 2020, the job that would eventually lay me off exactly four years later. 2020 was no one’s year but for me it felt like the jumping point of my gradual descent into the nothingness I live in now. 

That being said, even though I am scared of the future and what it holds, I am trying so hard to wade through the muck that is my misery and find solid ground again. My life is not all bad. I am lucky to have my family’s support, I am grateful for all my friends' love and care. I am healthy-ish, my dog is healthy and happy, and tomorrow is a new day. And even though there is pain in my heart, I am determined to enter 29 with optimism. Yes, I am jobless, single, and living with my parents, but I am also loved and alive and that is enough for me. 

Cheers to 29.

[influencermagazineuk]

Daniel Craig is ending at 56. Daniel Craig has officially closed the chapter on his long tenure as James Bond, leaving fans and media buzzing with curiosity about who will take over the iconic role. His reign as the famous British spy is the longest continuous run in the franchise's history that has captivated audiences since Ian Fleming's novels first hit the screen in 1962, starting with Dr. No featuring Sean Connery. Caroline Bonarde Ucci, CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons The actor, who first played Bond in Casino Royale (2006), followed by Quantum of Solace (2008), Skyfall (2012), and Spectre (2015), announced that No Time To Die (2021) would be his last outing as 007. Since then, there has been endless speculation about who will next embody the suave and lethal agent. The names floated around among fans and insiders have included Idris Elba, Tom Hardy, and Aaron Taylor-Johnson as potential candidates. Taylor-Johnson, who was at the top of the heap in January 2023, apparently aced a screen test that was screened by producer Barbara Broccoli. Known for such movies as Kick-Ass, Bullet Train, and Nowhere Boy, this 33-year-old has won former Bond stars, James Pryce, Pierce Brosnan, and George Lazenby, to the camp he believes he could be one promising successor. At one point, Craig said when asked in an interview by Variety who he wanted to have follow in the footsteps of the iconic role of Bond that his typically dry humour answered: "I don't care.". Such is the brutally honest comment coming from Craig, which states that he is disconnected to a good portion of the dialogue, implying that Craig is far off of a line if ever he was meant to leave his career-defining role for nearly a decade. As debates and gamblings are carried out by the public of who the next Bond could be, Craig is up to new works. His latest effort, Queer, which he stars in and has directed under the helm of Luca Guadagnino-remember his work on Challengers and Call Me By Your Name? This film, premiering at the Venice International Film Festival, has set quite the buzz with explicit gay sex scenes, according to reviews of the film so far. It's just a bit of a departure in which Craig has been allowed to take his cinematic work that much further. Having filmed love scenes with Sienna Miller, Léa Seydoux, Monica Bellucci, Eva Green, and wife Rachel Weisz throughout his career, Craig says the secret to intimate scenes is the director's approach. He recalls previous experiences, saying, "I've been in movies with terrible love scenes.". It doesn't work. He stresses the need for a director to be sensitive and adds, "You need someone who understands—put it bluntly—how to make it real. That's the job: to make it as genuine as possible." One of the reasons Craig became so popular in Hollywood was because of his directness. As he ventures into new artistic endeavors, the James Bond franchise is left waiting for the next actor to portray the legendary character – whoever that may be. Meanwhile, Craig's history as Bond will not be forgotten, and his candid responses keep the world entertained. Read the full article

[mindylichtman]

It's been a terrible last year on all fronts.

Early on, just after January 2023, a guy dropped me like a hot potato. All because of an ex from late 2022 whom I had to drop because he caused my miscarriage of my week and a half old kid. It was going to be his.

I have a forgiving nature but that took the cake. My forgiving personality was broken at that point.

The guy that he spread lies about me to, we had a history. We started seeing each other since late 2020. We didn't start seeing each other in the guy/girl way right off. We started off at platonic friends.

I remember the first night we ran across each other. Doing my return home walk after my fitness walk, my usual route. An older gentleman named Bob asked me if I needed a ride. He drove a small white van back then and something in my gut let me know that he's good, not dangerous in anyway. Halfway back to dropping me off home, we're chatting about trucks and stuff because in December 20, 2020, I attended a Facebook in person meet and greet put on by a acty group I was in. I attended and one of the companies that sells to cars and trucks was going to be there. I didn't know that beforehand. And I got to meet in person the supplier for the company, along with the salesperson.

First Global Import and Exports was the name.

Well this bob guy dropped me off and I dismissed the encounter as a one-off. Just another person doing good in the world by helping people out.

Well about two weeks later, I run across him again, this time in a motorhome he drove around. I remembered thinking that It was so cool that this guy remembered me. This though was not about his age, rather I'd figured that I was just a blip on the radar of a guy that probably had a job somewhere that he saw an interacted with loads of people. Just like my job in a grocery store; countless people come through my line.

After awhile, no more bob. He didn't really have a southern accent, kind of a mix of a north/not north accent. I told one of the workers at the gas station I always did my fitness walks to, that a guy named Bob seemingly was in town but I hadn't happened to run across him lately. I just dismissed it that he probably was a snow bird.

Well valentine's day of 2021, I had no plans. My then actual boyfriend hadn't texted me so I just decided to go out on my fitness walk, but this time, I'd done it during the day. Well I was on that one road, the second to last one before the gas station. My bf texted me just then to see if I was coming over. He didn't live far, in a neighborhood right across from the gas station. I said yes and continued my walk. I had to hurry, he had to be in Jacksonville for business soon.

Well about 10 minutes later, it started raining!! 😫😫 I had decided to try to walk more quickly, and here comes bob in his motorhome!!

He drove me to the gas station, allowed me to quickly dry my hair with one of his towels. I had him leave me there to make my way to my bfs house because my bf was the type of guy to see a girl of his in a vehicle with another man and automatically accuse the girl of cheating.

Well about a few weeks later, I was doing my fitness walk at night. A motorcyclist passed me, coming down the second to last street. I was close to the main road that would lead to the gas station.

I didn't know it but they turned around and came back and parked on the side of the road, a few feet back. They called me over, it was Bob! And I rode on the back of a motorcycle for the first time in my life, to the gas station and he rode me back home again!

A lot of other run across, here and there by coincidence. I felt like the luckiest chick in the world. A lot of times, bob was a unknown hero because the world happened to have him cross paths with me when I was feeling down because of family arguments and such. Or when I had to deal with particularly rude customers.

Eventually, I fell in love with him. There was once I had a major scare. I was in an accident Halloween night in '21. I almost didn't make it. 19 days in the hospital. January '22, I found an obit by Accident that crushed me.

I thought bob had died that past December. I was gutted, didn't want to socialize really outside of work and such. I was pretty much grieving. In middle of February, it turned out that bob didn't die. I found this out by him running across me while I was about to come to my street from my fitness walk. There he was, sitting on his motorcycle.

We started running across each other From time to time again. Each time, I truly counted those times as blessings.

Well flash forward to the here and now:

The ex I broke up with in the end of 2022, he tarnished my character by false lies against me, to the point where possibly bob got scared of me.

Now, I don't know if bob is alive or dead. Thanks to a son of a bitch who decided to try to ruin my life.

[coppeliafoxworth]

January 22nd 2023

Let's start with yesterday.

Yesterday was Saturday so I didn't have work.  I decided that I hated the way my new song sounded so I deleted it, apologies if you did like it.  I've been reworking and editing it to try and find a sound that I like.

I ended up waking up really early yesterday.  I woke up at seven a.m. due to my lover calling me.  Nothing dreadful happened, he just wanted to tell me that he loved me.  I rose from my bed and made myself breakfast, a plate with different fruits and vegetables on it, and sat in the living room watching YouTube.

After a couple of hours my father woke up and stole the remote from me.  The day seemed like a good day until my mother woke up.

She had planned a last-minute chore for my father and so he was pissed off.  Since my father was pissed off, my mother was pissed off.  

He was pissed to the point of as soon as the dryer went off, he was yelling at me to come fold the laundry.  I did as I was told, changed my attire, and left to my lover's house.

My parents already knew I was going to spend the night there, so I wasn't concerned about angering them more.

My lover hadn't been feeling the best since Friday.  His symptoms have pretty much cleared up by Saturday, but he still had a terrible migraine.  It was his first time having a migraine which caused him not to know what to do about it.

I took care of him.  I placed him in a cold room, with no lights on and the windows shut.  I gave him a damp towel for his forehead and made him take some Excedrin for his pain.  After a few hours of cuddling in this situation he felt better.

We were planning on going to a rodeo, but he was scared of his migraine coming back so we didn't.  Instead, we met up with an old friend and talked a bit before heading back home.  Like I stated before, I spent the night at his house.

This morning we cuddled for a couple of hours and then left to get Dunkin.  By the time we arrived back at his house it was time for me to go home.

When I arrived, there were packages waiting for me.  One of them was from Victoria's Secret for valentine's day, and the other was the three-faced-doll I ordered a few days ago.  The doll is a bit smaller than I expected but I still love him.  Turns out, Victoria's Secret sent me an extra item of what I ordered from them last time for free.  I'll use it as a back-up in case my other one breaks.

I started a new project today.  I was scrolling through Pinterest when I found a video detailing how to screen-print your own clothing.  I wanted to try it right away, so I went to the store and bought the materials needed.

-A picture frame

-Tights

-Modpodge

-Paint

-Fabric softener

-And paintbrushes

By the time I arrived home from Walmart I had to leave for a family friend's house.  Today we were having a little late Christmas where we would exchange gifts.  She loves my art and has it hanging all around her little apartment, I decided to draw a scene from her favorite movie this year.  Her favorite movie is, "The Abominable Dr. Phibes".  It's a Vincent Price movie.  I'll leave a photo of my art down below.

Once my dad defeated everyone in Uno my lover had to leave.  I kissed him goodbye and have been working on my screen-printing since then.  I'm only writing this now as I'm waiting for the Modpodge to dry.

[witchysolfan]

Dracul AU Human Variation Timeline plot (may add to this in later reblogs) (this turned out longer than I thought so gonna break it up into sections. Agshdjf)

(This is Part 1 to 3)

Cw: Violence, blood, death

Part 1- It all starts with a closet

(January)

Stefan Murrow (Starscream) gets jumped by a vampire who is his former student Peter Agyenim (Predaking) that is seeking to settle some scores. Except he accidentally completely drains his asshole former professor. He just wanted to scare him a bit, drain a bit of blood and go away. Instead he has a dead body in his arms and in a panic, runs to his apartment with the body and stuffs it in a closet.

Peter is panicking on what to do until Stefan wakes up in the closet and tries to sneakily leave until Peter spots him. From there Peter grabs Stefan and is shocked that he’s still alive.

He was dead. He could’ve sworn it.

He heard his heart stop beating.

Stefan is screaming and trying to get away, calling him a monster and that causes Peter to try and argue that he isn’t. It escalates more and more as Peter tried to make Stefan quiet but he’s yelling at him, throwing curses, and does not want to hear anything he has to say. It actually incites Peter’s temper, the dragon’s blood enflaming it to a crescendo.

And he’s draining Stefan again.

Draining him dry, a bloodless husk.

It’s a minute later, on the dot, that Stefan comes screaming back to life. The vampire is incensed that yet again this man just won’t stay dead. This spiteful, terrible man that ruined his chances to get a good education at a university and tarnished his reputation to where he struggled to get into one university that would accept him-the cause of it all just wouldn’t die.

Peter picks up the sobbing man and blinded by rage that burns hotter than any before. It was unearthly and inhuman, this wrath that burns so hot within his chest. He bites Stefan again, ignoring his pleas. Gasping at the venom slurring his words into a dreamy state again as the vampire drinks. He drinks and drinks until there is no more and Peter is left with a pale corpse.

The dragon’s blood roars in approval over the vengeance of his wounded pride.

Peter stares at the face of his most hated professor and all of the red hot anger starts to drain away. There is blood on his mouth, on his hands, dripping down to the floor.

He killed a man three times tonight.

He killed….

Oh god, he killed.

Stefan seizes then, returning to life and the agonizing wail ripping from his throat as his body thrashes in the arms holding him. There is too many tears it blurs his vision and he sobs. It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS IT HURTS…!

Peter wakes up from whatever disassociation that took hold of him and is horrified at the whimpering, trembling man that slips from his arms and curls up on the floor. Gasping desperately for air, for life.

Stefan begs Peter to not do it again.

To not kill him anymore.

It hurts coming back.

It hurts.

Peter backs away, falling to his knees as he watches Stefan hug himself tight. Body twitching and blood staining his neck and shirt.

This isn’t…what he wanted.

This isn’t what he wanted at all.

The deep, taunting laughter of a dead dragon fills his mind.

Part 2-The Blow Up

(February)

Stefan has been trying to sneak out of the apartment and away from the apartment several times. Each time Peter finds him and drags him back in. This is mostly due to Peter being worried over Stefan going to the nearest police station or revealing what his knows about Peter to whoever.

It was upon the 4th escape in a dark, cold, February night that Stefan had his first encounter with another supernatural entity.

Peter had just pulled Stefan away from the skinless ghoul that had already taken a part of the skin on Stefan’s arm off. The immortal screaming in pain as Peter set the ghoul ablaze with his dragon fire in his chest and picked Stefan up. The immortal cradling his bloody arm and hissed at the exposed muscle.

It was only after they returned to the apartment and Stefan’s skin grew back did they realize something over several days later. Stefan could be a new never ending supply of resources for whoever is seeking such things out. For anyone from any world, the everyday mortal lives to the higher entities that reside beyond mortal imagination.

This is emphasized when Peter goes to drink from Stefan again.

There is some arguments and issues from that.

Of whether Peter is knowingly taking advantage of such a situation and Stefan’s dubious consent with it. The immortal has tried to escape before and will try again, but after a few unfortunate encounters more with a wandering warlock group, sadistic mortals looking for an easy victim, a necromancer seeking new parts, and other entities and spirits who have come to learn a new immortal is amongst them now, Stefan reluctantly agrees to stay with Peter. No matter his own anxiety and growing unease with the man he cannot help comparing to someone he once knew as terrible reminders, Stefan feels it’s better to stay now than go.

This vampire apparently is more powerful than the others here and even if he is still adjusting to it, Peter is the lesser evil compared to the rest.

It is the one he knows.

Or at least he thinks he does.

Stefan cannot help comparing Peter to a past figure whose shadow still looms over him with memories of past abuses and degradation. He knows this situation too well and though he is afraid, he seeks out some sense of familiarity. To ground him and feel reassured that this is no different. He’s survived this. He can survive it again. So please, stop hiding it all behind a mask of concern and show him the monster that lurks beneath.

Just to get it over with.

Peter for his part does not understand how a man who is so terrified and worried, deliberately goes out of his way to antagonize him. Arguments and sarcastic insults exchanged often as they try to figure out what the other one is thinking. Peter often taking the high road and walking away when he feels his temper start to fray and a dragon’s wicked growl to punish the annoying insect speaks in his mind. No. He is not that kind of man. He refuses to be.

He doesn’t want to be that man.

He also feels guilty for what he put Stefan through. How he lost his temper and his new inhuman heightened emotions got the best of him.

He won’t ever forget how he harmed Stefan and it haunts him. It didn’t go like he wanted it to.

He only wanted to scare his formerly hated university professor.

He didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

Stefan grows more and more agitated. This is not familiar to him and he doesn’t like it. He knows Peter can he violent. He had a black eye to prove it years ago when the university incident happened. Why isn’t Peter reacting the way he should? Why isn’t he taking his anger out on him?

It’s making Stefan feel more helpless and he reacts, making one last escape attempt again to gain some semblance of control. Something, anything, so he doesn’t feel like he’s falling forever.

He encounters the same necromancer again.

He loses a kidney before Peter finds him and rescues him.

They stop over by an alley way to stop Stefan’s bleeding.

Stefan has enough and finally screams.

(This part I discussed with @sketching-shark and though I would’ve cleaned it up a bit, am just wanting to get this timeline out now so here’s screenshots of an imperfect sequence)

Part 3-Sleep Paralysis Demon for a Roommate (or the Ghost Girl turned Snow White)

(March)

While things have calmed down and progressing to a more positive relationship between Peter and Stefan, there is an unexpected roommate they get just before the end of February. A shadowy person that stalks after Stefan, asking him for help but never quite elaborating with what.

She’s a ghost.

She’s intangible.

For three nights she follows after Stefan and watches him sleep.

Peter and Stefan are not amused and try various ways to get her to stop. But there’s something familiar about her to Stefan. Her voice and stature remind him of someone but not sure who.

Her voice is always slurred, as though she were half asleep, and there’s brief moments of sudden lucidity then lethargy.

One question triggers a sudden change in her demeanor.

“How did you die?”

“N-not….dead….can’t….breathe….good…not dead…”

The ghost was not really a ghost.

Stefan realizes why that voice is familiar.

“Alexis? Alexis Thi Dang?”

She was a recent student of his. She had been a subdued and quiet young woman. Always hiding her face and wearing the most ridiculous of baggy clothing.

She had asked him to help her one day after class. Stefan brushed her off, in a hurry to leave for something that seems so trivial now.

He regrets not listening to her then.

Alexis flickers, begging for him to find her. Someone is hurting her. She’s in a dark place. It’s hard to breathe.

Then she’s gone.

Peter doesn’t protest when Stefan asks for his help. Stefan thinks the university should have her student file still as Alexis had bought one of his classes for next semester. They have reason to suspect this was a recent occurrence.

“….we can break in easily I think.”

“I was thinking something different….”

“No.”

“What? Do you honestly think keeping me prisoner here still is better?!”

“It’s not going to help this girl if everyone has their eyes on a missing person showing up. We don’t have time for that. Plus, there’s still plenty of creeps after your skinny ass.”

“……fine.” Stefan begrudgingly agrees.

It’s a very quick and surprisingly easy work to get done in one night. Tracing back to Alexis’s apartment and sneaking into what they believe is her bedroom, they find the apartment is still occupied by a man. At first Peter thinks to drop in and talk, maybe go for aggressive negotiations if he has to, but stops.

“What is it?”

“He smells…”

“What? What does that have to do-?”

“He smells dead….dirt and dead…like a graveyard.”

Peter could never forget the first time he caught the strong scent of a graveyard. It was strong and reeked of decay, rot, dirt, but also flowers, trees, and life.

Peter and Stefan watch the man go about his business. There something off about him. Stefan could feel the hairs on his body stand up and a deep churning of revulsion in his stomach. Peter unconsciously bared his fangs and twitched his hands. Stefan notices pictures of Alexis and some of her with the man. Her boyfriend.

The man leaves and Peter knows immediately they should follow him. He picks up Stefan and they fly overhead, following the man on his truck to a old graveyard just at the outskirts of the city.

They tail the guy but Stefan separates from Peter who is startled by his senses going haywire. Dead. Voices. Dead voices. Underneath. Smells. The dead are speaking and he doesn’t know how to not listen. It’s overwhelming.

Stefan is following after the man, not noticing Peter is not with him, and watches as he goes up to mausoleum and is opening up one of the broken stones housing a coffin. He is creeping closer, grabbing a nearby rock just in case and watches in sudden horror as the man brings out the coffin and there is an gaunt woman lying in it. It was Alexis.

Stefan moves slowly from behind the man who was kneeling over and getting out a needle. Muttering about keeping her a bit longer and making her perfect. Stefan heard enough and swings as hard as he could with the rock on the man’s head. It hits him and he is stunned, falling to the ground but flailing. Stefan goes to check if Alexis is still breathing and starts to take her out of the coffin when the man lunges at him and they roll away in a struggle. Stefan manages to claw and get a few hits in but the man is hitting him harder and starting to choke him.

That is when Peter, still on sensory overload, stumbles over and gives in to the anger that takes hold of him and yanks the man off of Stefan. Roaring in the other’s screaming face as he flies up, up, up.

Coughing and crawling back to the coffin, Stefan holds a stirring Alexis up.

“Professor?”

“You’re okay now…I’ve got you…”

Alexis heard screaming and looks up and there’s a shadow taking a familiar figure high into the air. Then he drops him.

There is screaming from the falling man and then a sickening splat.

It takes her a moment to realize he is dead.

He is well and truly dead.

She is glad.

Alexis is startled when the shadow flies down and there is another man there talking with Stefan. He has gigantic bat wings and gold eyes. Alexis is still weak but she fights to keep awake. Holding onto Stefan as the only familiar figure here while the cops and ambulance are called from her former boyfriend’s cellphone.

Peter is becoming distressed the longer they stay in the graveyard. Holding his head as he sits down, hunched over, and growling, wanting the voices to stop. Shut up.

Stefan places a hand on his head and it seems to help. Alexis at his side as they wait for the arrival of professionals. Stefan and Peter will make their quick sneaky exit once certain Alexis is safe. However, she pleas for Stefan to see her again.

She has no one else.

She is alone here.

He is the only person she knows.

Stefan tells her he will before Peter takes them away and watches at a distance Alexis being loaded up into the ambulance.

They saved her.

They saved a person.

[cutethingstolove]

First Day Back… in Diapers

Photo From @little-stephanies-diary​, Part 6

Stephanie was having the best night’s sleep she had experienced in a long time. Maybe it was because of how close she felt to her dad from the night before, maybe it was because of the damp diaper she was wearing. Whatever it was, she didn’t want it to end. Alas, her alarm clock didn’t care how well she was sleeping and began ringing at 6:30 as it did on every school day. Reaching out to turn it off, her eyes still not quite open, she felt the urge to go to the bathroom. She really didn’t want to crawl out of her comfy bed yet, and realizing she was still wearing her diaper, she relaxed just a little and emptied her bladder right there. The feeling of her diaper absorbing every ounce brought a smile to her face, and made her feel a lot better about finally leaving her bed.

Knowing she was up on time today, Stephanie decided to enjoy her wet diaper just a little while longer and went downstairs for breakfast before changing. Walking down the stairs in in her diaper that she had wet in twice was a new experience for her. The extra bulk forced her to waddle just a little, and she could feel the weight of it pulling downward on her hips. Shockingly, she actually enjoyed the way everything felt. When she reached the kitchen she grabbed some cereal, milk, bowl, and spoon before sitting down at the table where her dad was already eating.

As she took her chair opposite her dad, her diaper made a much more subtle crinkle than she had heard before. It dawned on her that the wet diaper was a lot quieter than it was when it was dry, and she just hoped her dad didn’t notice. Without saying a word she just poured her cereal as if it were any other morning, but glanced up as her dad spoke.

“Morning princess,” he said, “How well did you sleep last night in your new diaper?”

“Really well actually,” she replied excitedly, “That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

“Good to hear,” he said smiling, “And did you manage to keep it dry all night?”

“Well no,” Steph said as she stared back down at her breakfast, “But I promise it’s not a problem daddy.”

“How is a wet diaper not a problem sweetheart?,” he inquired, “The reason I put you back in diapers was because you had an accident yesterday. Having another accident while you were asleep was exactly what I was worried about.”

“It wasn’t really an accident daddy,” she sheepishly explained, “I was so tired last night after doing homework that I thought it would just be easier to pee my diaper than take it off and have you change me again. And this morning I didn’t want to get out of bed right away, so I did the same thing. I figured it was already wet and I would be changing for school, so I thought it was ok.”

“I can understand that honey,” he said understandingly, “But that does mean that your week of potty training restarts today. Now finish up your breakfast and get ready for school.”

A little upset that she had added a day to her time in diapers, she realized it was only one day which wasn’t too terrible. She finished eating her cereal, put everything back in the kitchen, and headed upstairs to shower before putting on her school uniform. As she entered the bathroom, she pulled off her pajamas before undoing the tapes on her diaper and throwing it in the trash. She showered quickly before heading to her room to change for the day. Going about her normal routine, she was still taken aback when she went to grab a pair of underwear only to remember that they had all been replaced with Goodnites. Somewhat reluctantly grabbing a pair, she pulled them on before putting on her stockings, skirt, and white shirt that the school made her wear.

When she left her room to head back downstairs to grab her backpack, her mind was flooded with a horrifying thought; today was gym day and she would have to change in front of all the other girls! The only thing that consoled her was the fact that the school had separate gym classes for the boys and girls, so at least none of the boys would accidentally see her pullup during class. Just as she was about to leave the house to walk to her bus stop, she heard her dad’s deep voice from the other room.

“Princess,” he boomed, “I know today is going to be different now that you are back in diapers. I should also let you know that I gave the nurse a bag of bigger diapers just in case.”

“But daddy,” she exclaimed, “I won’t need those! Why did you give those to her?! I can’t wear ones those big at school!”

“They are just there as a backup,” he reassured her, “I just wanted to let you know that the nurse knows about the deal we have, and will be there just in case. I did buy you ones that have bunnies on them because I know how much you love bunnies.”

“Fine,” she moaned, “But I promise I won’t need them. These Goodnites are easy enough to take off so I can still use the bathroom. I need to go though. Love you daddy!”

Stephanie left the house quickly and made her way down to her bus stop. As she walked along, she did notice that the Goodnites weren’t nearly as puffy as the diapers she wore at school yesterday. They were a lot quieter to, and she thought that this wouldn’t be so bad because they were so much more discreet. They still felt much warmer than her regular panties, and she enjoyed that quite a bit on the cold January morning. She arrived at her bus stop right as it was pulling up, and she stepped on and made her way to her normal seat for the long ride to school.

When the bus pulled up to the school, she headed inside and to her class with Mrs. Hanson. She managed to stay  awake today during class, probably because of how well she had slept the night before. She actually managed to stay awake all the way until her lunch period, even using the bathroom once with no one noticing her pullup! After grabbing her lunch tray and taking a seat, she started to feel like she needed to pee again. This was a problem as the school had a very strict policy that once a student entered the cafeteria, they weren’t allowed to leave until the lunch period was over. This meant that she had to hold it for more than 30 minutes until she could go to the bathroom, but she thought that she could make it that long. With only five minute left before she could leave, she realized that she wasn’t going to make it. She had already been fidgeting in her seat for almost the entire time, but she just couldn’t hold any more and he Goodnite quickly filled up.

As soon as she was allowed to leave, she went as fast as she could to the nurse’s office to change. She was bright red with embarrassment when she entered the office, she paused for a moment to think about just how crazy this was. She was going to have to ask the nurse for one of the diapers her dad had dropped off, and hated the idea of admitting that she needed them. The nurse had heard Steph open the door and turned from her desk.

“Stephanie, you’re back,” she quipped, “What can I help you with?”

“Well Nurse Baker,” she timidly replied, “My dad told me that he had left some things here for me, and I think I need one.”

“I understand,” Nurse Baker calmly said, “I can hand you one behind the curtain so you can take care of it yourself again.”

“Actually,” Steph said, “I wouldn’t mind some help putting it on. I found they fit better that way. I’ll take care of what I’m wearing now, but I’ll take my skirt off and lay down on the bed if you can help please.”

Nurse Smith nodded understandingly and went to the cabinet to grab one of the bunny diapers Stephanie’s dad had left. Stephanie stepped behind the curtain and took off her skirt and wet Goodnite, throwing the latter in the garbage before laying down on the bed. One thing she had always loved about the nurse’s office were the warm black blankets they had, so she grabbed one and covered her upper body to stay warm. As Nurse Smith stepped through the curtain, Stephanie lifted her butt off the bed just as she had done the night before with her dad. Not nearly as afraid as she was with her dad, Steph looked on as Nurse Smith slid the diaper under her before wiping her clean and taping the diaper on.

Stephanie felt much better with a clean diaper on, but had noticed that Nurse Smith wasn’t nearly as gentle when she was wiping her as her dad was when he powdered her last night. She still enjoyed being changed by the nurse, but not nearly as much as she did when her dad had done it. She stood up and pulled her skirt and stockings back up, and then pulled back the curtain before asking the nurse for a note to explain why she was late to her next class. Once she had the note in hand, she left and quickly walked to class opening the door only a couple of minutes after the bell. She handed the note to her teacher and took her seat before it hit her; she still had gym class that afternoon and had no idea how she could hide this much bigger diaper from the other girls in the locker room. At least she had 2 full class periods to come up with something before she had gym as her last class of the day.

 To Be Continued…

[writesowhatnext]

lost in translation // george weasley

Summary: George and the reader are rather… close. Fred and Ginny are very, very suspicious as to why they weren’t informed that their best friends were together.

Request: Could you write a George Weasley imagine with the couple trope "what is personal space" with a reader who is the Golden Trio's age and friend and Ginny's best friend? Thank you!

A/N: I tried so, so hard to get George to right character-wise so I really hope I did him some justice here and I really hope you like it my love – sorry it’s essentially Christmas themed

Reader: female

Warnings: none I think – very PG! Maybe British swears? A common theme I suppose… kissing?

Anyone would’ve thought you and George Weasley were dating. It was an easy assumption to make given how absolutely inseparable you were. No one knew exactly how you got so close; only last Christmas, at the Burrow, Ginny brought you home for the holiday. Somehow you went from rolling your eyes at the pranks and the schemes and the inventions in December to smiling and laughing in January. Though, there were still eye rolls when required. Honestly, Ginny and Fred were rather put out by it.

“Hey, Gin?” Fred asked, leaning forward on the desk she’d been scribbling her Charms homework on.

“What?” Ginny said suspiciously, eyes narrowed. She smudged her words with the side of her hand. Fred wasn’t paying attention, though, he was staring at the sofa in the centre of the Gryffindor common room.

George was sat at one end, face lit up like a Christmas tree and you were, well, practically sitting on him. You were facing him, knees folding into your chest and feet tucked neatly under George’s legs. His one arm was spread along the back of the sofa whilst the other he used to gesture wildly, sending you both into hysterical laughter. Fred enjoyed seeing his twin laugh like that, his head tilted back with his whole body shaking, but this was taking the piss a little.

Ginny followed Fred’s eyes to the couch.

“What is that about?” Fred rested his head on his hand.

“Y/N and George?”

Fred nodded.

“I don’t know.” She admitted, copying her brother and smudging ink across her parchment with her elbow. “All they seem to do is spend time together.”

“I’ll say. We haven’t pranked anyone in a month.” He huffed. “A whole bloody month. We have a reputation to upkeep, you know.”

“They’re so close to each other, too.”

“Too close.”

“Last week,” Ginny said, casting a glance at the way you hit George’s leg, laughing at a joke he’d made, before turning to face her quite grumpy looking brother. “I came here after Potions and they were comparing hand sizes.”

Fred’s expression turned to one of distaste. It only worsened as George pushed you off the sofa. You grabbed his arm as you fell, pulling him next to you on the ground, both your legs tangled in the air.

“Fred, you don’t think they fancy each other, do you?”

“Fancy each other?” He looked incredulously at his brother. Experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously, he frowned. “They would’ve told us, right?”

Ginny didn’t reply.

“I think it’s time for some investigating.” Fred’s grin was wicked.

You’d got very used to George touching you. He was a very affectionate person, always with the hugs and the arms and the hands. It was hard not to enjoy it, actually, because George was tall and incredibly funny. He was a genius, too; not that he’d ever let his professors know that. His laugh was infectious and you couldn’t help but bite your lip when he rolled his sleeves up the way he did. These thoughts were ones that often distracted you in the recent weeks. You didn’t know what had started it, exactly, but you knew you were definitely a little bit lost in whatever it was you felt for him. Right now, you were lost in the middle of Charms, ignoring whatever Flitwick was saying. If you’d been paying more attention, you would’ve noticed the strange way Ginny was staring at you. It wasn’t until Flitwick set you off to practice your spells that you were even remotely aware of what was happening.

“Y/N,” Ginny said, uncharacteristically softly for her.

You hummed.

“Are you going out with my brother?”

You turned to face her then, looking at her determined expression. “George? No.”

She nodded slowly, frowning. “Why?”

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time together. The only time Fred sees him nowadays is at Quidditch practice and even that’s cancelled for the holidays.”

You couldn’t help but feel bad for hogging her brother. Fred must hate you, you thought.

“We’re not going out.”

“But you want to?”

“What?”

She sent you a dry look.

“Maybe.” You sighed, rubbing your eye with your hand. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“And why’s that?”

You smiled at her hard expression, how bold she was, how bright her eyes were. Your smile fell.

“Well it’s not like he fancies me, is it?”

Ginny got a sharp reprimand from Flitwick for how loudly she laughed.

George, on the other hand, was much less confused about the whole situation. He had been, at least, before a choice conversation with Fred.

“George, do you fancy Y/N?” Fred asked, deciding a surprise attack in the corridor after breakfast was the best line of attack. His approach returned strange results. George laughed as he reshuffled his books in his hands.

“I should hope I do, you daft sod, she’s my girlfriend.”

“Your what?” Fred stopped in the hallway, ignoring the mutterings of students unfortunate enough to have been behind him. “You prat! Why didn’t you tell me?”

He caught up to George, hitting him in the shoulder.

“Bloody hell, Fred, I thought it was quite obvious.” George rubbed his arm with a wounded expression written across his face. “What do you care, anyway?” His face turned mocking. “Jealous?”

“Oh, shut up.” Fred murmured. “I’ll have to tell Ginny.”

“Ginny doesn’t know? They’re best mates.”

“Weird, right?”

It wasn’t until class ended that Fred found Ginny again. You and her were chatting in the corner of the common room, laughing and bickering about something or other.

“Hello ladies.” George said as the twins drew closer. “Raising any hell today?”

His eyes lingered on you.

“No more than usual.” Ginny drawled, folding her arms. “I’m sure you have a miraculously terrible plan up your sleeves, though.”

“Ah, dear sister.” George said, looking to his brother who had lit up significantly since last time Ginny had seen him.

“Just you wait and see what we have in store.” Fred’s grin only grew.

“There’ll be lights,”

“Smells,”

“Sensations beyond your wildest imagination.”

“It’ll be wicked.” They said in unison, smirking at you in front of them. You and Ginny shared a dry and wordless look.

“Anyway,” George said, offering you his hand. “I owe Y/N a trip to the kitchens to thank her for her wonderful Potions expertise. See you at dinner, you two.”

You glanced at Ginny before letting yourself be dragged along, hand in George’s warm palm.

Fred waited till you were out of earshot before pouncing on the chair opposite Ginny you’d just abandoned and leaning over the table.

“They’re going out!” he said at the very time Ginny said “They’re not going out.”

“What?” they said at the same time, again.

Ginny shushed him.

“What do you mean? She said they’re not going out?”

“He said they were!”

They both paused for a moment.

“Mind you,” Fred hummed. “Do you think George ever asked her?”

Ginny mused on it. “Very like him to just assume they were an item.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Christmas dinner in the hall was no less fun that usual; full of laughing and cheer and the general merriment you get at this time of year. It wasn’t till it was time to go to bed that anything remotely notable happened. Well, other than the exploding stink jellies Fred & George had planted as dessert

“Y/N’s staying over Christmas. Ginny invited her.” George said as him and Fred packed their suitcases, at the last minute of course. Fred nodded.

“George,” he said, standing up straight. “Did you ever actually ask Y/N to be your girlfriend?”

“What?”

“Did you actually ask her or did you just assume she knew, like me?”

George quite resembled a fish, the way his mouth was opening and closing.

“I think you might want to ask her, mate.”

You were confused, to say the least, and also slightly hurt. George hadn’t so much as talked to you since you’d arrived at the Burrow. He hadn’t touched you either; which was more of an adjustment than you were prepared for. There was something obviously wrong with him because he was quiet. Even with Fred at his usual eccentric volume, the absence of George’s voice was somehow louder. You’d asked Ginny about it but she had no idea. Fred did, though, you suspected. That’s why, when George disappeared into the kitchen before bed, you followed like a somewhat lost puppy. It was almost as if he was waiting for you, leaning against the counter with a glass of water.

“Are you okay, Georgie?”

He didn’t say again as you walked closer, your hand skimming the side of his arm as you stood in front of him. He let your hand fall into his own, fingers interlocking.

“I like being close to you.” He said sombrely, completely out of character. You looked up at him, frowning slightly.

“I feel like a right prat, actually,” he barked out a laugh. “I thought we were going out.”

“What?” you asked, voice sliding up on octave. You could feel your cheeks heat up and hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Me and you?”

He lifted your hand, moving his fingers back and looking at the size of your hand compared to his. You stared at him but his eyes never left your hand.

“Would that be so bad?” he asked, finally meeting your eyes. You’d never seen him so vulnerable. A small smile pulled at your lips as you stepped in between his feet.

“George Weasley, are you asking me out?” you placed your free hand on his shoulder. “Because,” your mouth twitched “If you are,” his free hand found your waist. “You are doing a horrible job, truly.”

“Oh, is that right?” He asked, smiling now himself. He tilted his head downwards. You bit your lip as you nodded.

“Yep. A girl hopes for fireworks, roses, big grand gestures-“ You rocked your head to the side. “I get an ‘I already thought we were-“

“You are talking rubbish.” He whispered, unable to contain the way his smile lifted his cheeks.

And then he was kissing you. Slowly, softly. Your hands loosened. His dropped to your waist, pulling you closer as yours dragged up his chest, winding around his neck. You scratched the back of his neck lightly and he made an indecent noise in your mouth. He pulled away all too soon, resting his forehead on yours. Neither of you could hide your smiles. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pursing your lips.

“If you want fireworks, I’ll light you fireworks in every room of the castle.”

“Oh, I know you will.”

“One condition though.” He smirked, pulling you to his chest as you raised your eyebrows. “Be my girlfriend.”

You laughed.

“Have to get it in writing now, don’t I? Don’t want to look like a git again.”

“Oh, we are far past that.”

“You cheeky-“

You didn’t let him finish, only moving in for another kiss.

That was until you were interrupted by two very smug looking redheads.

“So,” Fred smiled, crossing his arms and leaning against the fridge.

“You two going out yet?” Ginny asked, shooting you a pointed glance, a small smile playing on her face.

“Oh, piss off.” George huffed, rolling his eyes and cupping your cheek with his hand. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss when you heard gagging noises from the doorway.

[impossible-rat-babies]

tuesday, two in the afternoon

fallen hero / 2.1k words / chargestep (nb!sidestep + m!ortega) / cw: smoking

mostly below the cut!

--

“Why did you bring me down to the beach? It smells awful down here...”

Pollux kicks a rock across the barren sand, watching it roll into the lackadaisical waves lapping at the meager shoreline. The sand squishes beneath his shoes, water leaking through the crappy canvas.

It rained not long ago—almost caught the both of them in the downpour.

His head is still damp from the few fat drops that landed from between the slats in the boardwalk they used to take cover. He runs his hand across the fresh buzzcut, forgetting for a second there’s no curls to tuck behind his ears.

“I thought you liked the beach.” Ortega comes up beside him, keeping pace as they wander through sand and rock, passing by tiny tide pools refreshed by the rain. The sun will dry what the waves can reach soon, but for now they thrive under the cloudy grey sky.

“I don’t mind the beach, but it always stinks like garbage and wet dog down here after it rains.”

“At least it keeps the place private.”

“If you don’t count the seagulls.”

“They’re worse than the tourists.” 

Ortega smiles and Pollux turns to walk backwards, cocking a brow over his sunglasses. Of course Ortega is overdressed to be taking a walk on what passes for a beach these days—a fancy shirt and slacks and the watch he’s got on costs more than four months of rent on Pollux’s shitty apartment.

(Disregarding the sunglasses he’s toting around that are without a doubt the third most expensive thing he owns and even then they were a gift. From Ortega, obviously. He disregards the invading thought that the most expensive thing Ortega has won’t ever be his clothing or a watch, but his spine. Pollux thinks *if*—not *when*—he dies if they’ll pry it out and stick it inside someone else; a replacement for an accident of their own.)

Ortega is always dressed to impress, the silly man. Pollux it’s a habit, or he doesn’t have anything else to wear that isn’t something higher class or luxury, or if he genuinely enjoys silk shirts. The tailored slacks with fancy watches and Italian leather shoes. There’s no one to impress but Pollux and he hasn’t fallen for that trick in years.

“Worried about your shoes?”

“They’re...squishy.”

“You’re gonna ruin them.”

Ortega kicks another rock off towards the waves, stuffing his hands in his pocket as an answer. Pollux snorts, rolling his eyes, and he turns back around, falling into step beside him. He’s always been a fast walker--a faster runner.

Silence stretches out between them and apprehension feels like just another word for awkward, this gap between them. The few pointed inches—enough for static electricity to jump between them, for Pollux to anticipate Ortega’s touch and deftly pull away, leaving air beside his fingertips.

It’s still so hard to let him close.

“Why did you want to meet up here?” Pollux asks just to have something to say, anything to avoid Ortega looking like he’s going to throw his arm over his shoulder and pull him in to mumble something fond, or a terrible joke.

“Just to go on a walk?” Ortega tries and oh he tries so hard. More than he used to.

“Since when did you start walking for fun?”

“When you decide to come along with me. It’s fun, Lux.”

Pollux frowns—he knows this game. Ortega’s got this little tell of looking away just the right way.

“You just wanted to get me out of the house then.”

Ortega shrugs—he’s avoiding, nor is he saying no...

“Okay so I lied. I don’t have anything to talk about. But, if I just wanted to spend time with you then you would’ve said no.”

“True...” Pollux hates how he’s right more often than not. Asshole. “So you picked the beach?”

“I didn’t plan on it raining.”

Pollux sighs, tired of the sand and he wanders away--further out of reach--towards the rocks near the pillars holding up the promenade. 

It’s deserted right now, the rain and the fact that it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday keeping the crowds away. Give it a Saturday on a cool summer’s evening and it’d be packed to the gills; people screaming on the small roller coasters, the stink of fresh fried food and the lights--the dizzying array of red, blue and yellow. All the people and all the thoughts buzzing through his head; there were so many bombarding him--all of them, just as aggressive as the lights. He’s braved that terrible crowd--all because Ortega asked. 

He used to do that, do things because Ortega asked nicely. Because they were fun--he had fun. Does he still remember what that felt like? Being on that promenade, breathless and young, laughing like he knew how to laugh? 

They walked down to the very end once, away from the bright lights where it was just the ocean stretching out in front of them like a black abyss. All alone. Ortega asking him, pleading for one ride on the ferris wheel. “Come on Lux just one little ride.” Pollux calling his bluff, shoving his face away because it was all just a ploy for a kiss. Like this is some snapshot romance movie still.

It’s stupid to think about bygones.

There’s no temptation to jump into old times down here, just the water swelling against the rocks and the concrete walls. Trash hiding in the crevices, old green beer bottles that will break and turn to sea glass; left to wash up on the shores of Hawaii.

The beaches there are still nice--worthy of memories. Not this smog stained grey sand.It’s just a hop skip and a jump up onto the slick brown rocks smeared with algae and something that shines like oil. It stinks like it.

Pollux stops, shaking a cigarette out of the package and he cups his hand to protect the fragile flame, watching Ortega clamber up onto the rock beside him. He flops down on a relatively dry spot, free of the worst of the gross.

“What are you doing?” Pollux asks with a faint laugh and a cocked brow, letting his cigarette go unlit. It droops between his lips.

“What does it look like? I’m sitting down.” Ortega replies, smoothing a strand of hair back into the salt and pepper waves at his temples.

“Mr. Ralph Lauren is gonna be pissed you ruined your pants?” A raise of the brow and Ortega looks up at him with a look in those brown eyes.

“My shoes are wet, Lux.” Ortega whines and Pollux is *this close* to kicking him off their rock.

“I think you’re getting old.”

Pollux squats beside him, arms draping over top of his knees.

“Now you’re just being cruel...”

Ortega adjusts, grimacing when he inevitably puts his hand on a wet spot. He untucks his shirt, and he’s rather reminiscent of those “aged like fine wine” men on old magazine covers he found in shitty motel lobbies. He’d fit right on a sandy beach in Florida. These aren’t the right beaches for any of that anymore, still mostly rock. Their original glory immortalized in photographs on the fronts of travel brochures.

But they are healing—slowly. The sand creeps up the shoreline more and more each year.

“I’m not cruel. You just an oversized sun hat and a lounge chair. Maybe a nice hot beer.” Pollux teases and Ortega grimaces.

“It’s January.”

“That doesn’t stop people in Florida or Hawaii.”

“Have you even been to Florida?”

Ortega asks so harmlessly and Pollux pauses.

He’s been there half a dozen times before—fuzzy memories from over a decade ago. Rooftop gardens on top of high rise builds off the coast of Miami, galas with thousand dollar dresses and caked on makeup in the low light from crystal chandeliers. It was all for work, watching and scanning, nimble mental fingers coaxing and teasing truth from the mind’s eyes. He would watch, take in the sights and the sounds through other people’s minds. Take the truth and puzzle over the rest. Ask the dangerous questions: why and how?

He still believes the biggest mistake they made was allowing him to learn.

“I’ve watched movies.” He says instead of lying and he knows he isn’t getting away with it. “Besides, have you ever been to Florida? Or Hawaii even?”

“No, but I’ve watched movies before.”

Ortega grins and Pollux groans, resisting the urge to yet again so shove him off his rock and into one of the tide pools below.

“You’re an asshole.”

Pollux fishes around in his pocket and grabs out a matchbook, flipping it open and fuck he grabbed the wrong one. There’s nothing but the empty packaging in this one, uneven lines from tearing out matches without much grace. He flips it over onto the back and nothing--even the striker strip is shot to hell. Fuck. 

“Are you out?” Ortega peers over and he grumbles.

“Grabbed the wrong matchbook” Pollux huffs, about to grab his carton back out and stuff the poor cigarette back in.

“Wait, I still got--here.” Ortega pulls a small matchbox out of his shirt pocket, holding it out to him. It’s much nicer than his ten cent books he frequently gets for free from the gas station because the cashier thinks he’s cute. 

“You...still carry them around?”

His voice stalls in his chest: it’s meant to be more of questioning incredulity, but it comes out much softer. Forlorn and sticky at the front of his mouth.

Ortega sheepishly looks down at the matchbox, flipping it between his index and forefingers.

“Old habits die hard.”

He ran out of matches a lot, even the crappy little packages where the matches broke more often than actually struck. Ortega started carrying them around, little inch and a half boxes of matches tucked in his coat or shirt pocket. He doesn’t remember when the habit started. But it evolved into a habit of stealing them, seeing how easily he could sneak one away without him noticing.

Ortega protested whenever he caught him and the two of them scrambling for the box until Pollux tucked it away like magic, or Ortega tried tickling him enough times to get an elbow to the nose.

He got him back: a sufficient enough shock and Pollux complained about having a numb hand for the next week.

Pollux had a little stacked collection of them all lined up against the baseboard next to his mattress. He kept the fun ones, the brightly colored and eclectically designed ones--neon blue and mustard yellow. Held onto them until they were falling apart and he painstakingly cut them apart and glued or taped them in the pages of notebooks.

Even now, seven years later Ortega still carries them around and that tugs sharp in the back of his throat and deep in his belly—a sort of nausea that stings his eyes.

He blinks several times and fuck there’s the logo of the cigarette shop Ortega dragged him to once in a blue moon. The floor was some cheap old green motel carpeting--the windows covered in layers of advertisements and wood paneling everywhere else. But god it smelled fantastic--like a humidor stuffed to the brim with anything from cheap cigarettes to fancy and illegal cigars in glass cases. 

(Fuck, it was the best place to buy cigarettes--they still had the little machines with the tokens he’d pay five bucks for at the counter.)

“Yeah...” Pollux mumbles, tearing his eyes away. “Kinda literally, you know. Dying.” He chuckles bone dry and Ortega cringes.

“You still recognized the matchbox. I can’t call you a lost cause yet.” 

He looks over at him, salt and pepper black hair blowing in the breeze, the little white spots where the scars cut through his beard. The soft smile on chapped lips. Even with all the anger in the world rushing under his skin, he can’t be mad.

There’s just that wistful empty ache and he blinks, looking away. The distant shoreline etched on the horizon of a dark ocean and the patchy grey sky above. He lights the cigarette with a single match, the sharpness of the sulfur and the sweet menthol cloud of smoke the breeze dissolves into nothing. 

“Here...” Pollux offers the matchbox back to him.

“Keep it. You need it more than me.” Ortega says, pushing his hand back towards him and he pulls his hand away.

Pollux fixes him with a with a long look before he heaves a sigh and looks back out towards the coast and the ocean further beyond. Smoking the cigarette, filling his lungs on the menthol and tobacco until it burns out at the filter. Ortega sitting beside him, bouncing a leg but he’s quiet. And he doesn’t look over at Pollux.

The sun barely peeks in through the clouds and it looks like this is all the rain they’ll be getting.

[cellsshapedlikestars]

Hii gorgeous!! So, decided to start a new tradition for this year! And thaaat is:

To kick things off this year, and this month especially, could you do a moodboard about what you wish for january?

Hmm, a moodboard for January?

Well, now that my busy December is over, I'm going back into mostly quarantine. I have a lot of high risk people in my life and none of us need to be sick. Plus, it's winter and that means terrible weather. So my plans are to be comfy and warm, read more (which is always a goal, but hopefully I'll be successful this time), figure out a better winter plant setup (so they don't die from either the temperature or how dry it gets) and (maybe a little TMI, depending on how you feel about this kind of thing) finally get my medical marijuana card because my supply of gummies ran out and my state is stupid. I just have to, you know, push past the whole anxiety/depression thing and actually get a doctor to prescribe it to me.

In summary: I want to be healthy and cozy and happy