#i meant it when i said i want to write bad poetry! i meant that shit!

[dearestaeneas]

Deja Vu

Do you ever remember something important

And grasp at it like straws

So desperately

But the problem is that there’s nothing to grab hold of?

Nothing tangible, at least.

There’s a feeling.

You’re remembering a feeling.

A thought.

You’ve never had.

And it makes you so desperate.

If I could grab this, it would all make sense.

If I could grab this, it would all be okay.

If I could grab this, I’d be normal.

But instead you’re left with a feeling.

That you’ve never had.

It’s orange.

It’s warm colors, this feeling you’ve never had.

It’s bittersweet and happy

And you want to grab it so badly

But there’s nothing to grab.

So you write.

You write, and you hope it’ll come out, that it’s an itch you can scratch if you just get close enough.

So you write faster.

It’s there.

That feeling you’ve never had.

It’s about happiness.

It’s about moving on.

If I could grab this, it would all make sense.

It’s like a memory that you look back on and say, “Thank god I survived that.”

If I could grab this, it would all be okay.

But not enough time’s passed. It’s not a memory.

It’s here.

It’s here, and it’s now, and you can’t reach it.

You can’t look back because there’s nothing to look back to.

Yet.

If I could grab this, I’d be normal.

It’s orange.

And warm.

It’s about happiness.

And being loved.

I think.

And you reminded me of it.

[onceuponastory]

one single word - bucky barnes x reader

Plot: In a world where the first thing your soulmate says to you is somewhere on your body, Y/N soon realises that hers is not what she expected... or what she wants. (Soulmate!AU). Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader Warnings: Just some swearing and reader worrying she's going to end up alone. As always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know. Notes: This is my piece for @lunarbuck's Soulmate AU writing challenge! Congrats on 2k! Also can't believe it took me so long to use a pic of Seb from this day because he looked SO GOOD. Not beta’d, so any mistakes are my own.

“Has your word shown up yet? Just got mine!” Wanda’s text comes in. Groaning, Y/N types back a reply.

“Yup.” Immediately, Wanda sends another.

“It’s that bad? I’ll be straight over.” She promises, and Y/N goes back to staring at herself in the mirror, unable to tear her gaze away from the word which is now on her side. From a young age, Y/N and everyone else in this world were told that when they got older, the first words their soulmate said to them would soon appear on their body somewhere, disappearing only when they met the soulmate in question. And of course, it led to a lot of excitement and nervous apprehension as people wondered what words would be there, and imagined what scenario they’d meet their soulmate in. 

None more so than Y/N. As she grew up, she became an author, which meant that writing loving words about others became her job, and something she now has a huge amount of experience in. All day every day, she writes paragraph after paragraph of people describing how beautiful their partners are, how much their heart beats whenever they’re around, and how they want to spend the rest of eternity with them. And the entire time, Y/N’s own soulmate is in the back of her mind, as well as her hope that their first meeting is as romantic as her stories. So obviously, Y/N had grown to expect that the words - her words - that her soulmate would end up having on their skin would be something beautiful, like poetry.

Unfortunately for Y/N, though, it seems her soulmate didn’t have the same consideration for her.

Because there, on her side, emblazoned in huge letters is one single word. “Fuck.” “It’s not that bad.” Wanda soothes as she studies the word. Thankfully, she showed up soon after receiving Y/N’s text for moral support. 

“Yes, it is! Today I wrote someone saying their lover’s eyes are as bright as the stars, and with them they feel whole. And do I get that? No, I get ‘Fuck!’”

“Maybe he’s saying ‘Fuck.�� but then he says ‘you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen’?”

“Or it could be ‘fuck’ because they stepped on my toes. Or maybe they dropped coffee on me? Or-” Y/N shakes her head, trying to shake herself out of her panic. Yet, it only intensifies. “And besides, it’s such a general word! What if I get confused and think someone else is my soulmate?”

“That isn’t going to happen. Personally, I think we have a strong, intense emotional bond with them, so we’ll just know it’s them when we see them.���

“You’re such a romantic, Wanda.”

“Says you.” She rolls her eyes. When Y/N freaks out a little again, Wanda shushes her with a gentle: “Calm down. You’re going to give me a headache at this rate. And besides, it could be worse! Mine is ‘Hello there’. What even is that?!” she groans, taking another sip from her drink.

“Oh please, yours is suave and sophisticated.” Y/N argues. “Maybe it’s a ‘Hello there.’” She mimes a smirk, looking Wanda up and down. “And then he says, ‘may I just say that you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?’”

“Either that or they’re doing a horrendously bad Obi-Wan Kenobi impression.” Wanda counters, making her and Y/N dissolve into fits of giggles. “But seriously. You don’t know what causes him to say that. Nobody does. That’s the beauty of soulmates.” She grins reassuringly. “And besides, I’m sure it’ll be a funny story to tell your kids one day.” 

And for a while, her reassuring words worked, and Y/N's feelings about the word permanently inked onto her side improved slightly. But the longer time went on without meeting her soulmate, Y/N started to think they don’t exist at all. And what’s worse, she’d be stuck with this single word on her side for the rest of her life, an enduring reminder of her failure to find her true love.

A few months later,

Y/N walks down the street, preoccupied by her phone call. Her publisher has been ringing her almost every day this week, desperate to know when they can expect her next manuscript. The same manuscript that’s been sitting incomplete on her laptop for the last several months. Understandably, love hasn’t been high on the list of Y/N’s priorities ever since she realised what her soulmate’s first word to her was. 

When she catches sight of herself in a shop window, noticing the hem of her sweater has ridden up, exposing the k and most of the c of the word on her side, it makes her feel worse. Of course, she still hasn’t found her soulmate. Nothing like yet another reminder of how you’re failing in life. Quickly rolling down her sweater, covering the word that seems to be burned into her skin by this point, Y/N keeps walking. In a last-ditch attempt to find some productivity and get this fucking manuscript finished, she’s decided to visit her favourite coffee shop. That and she just really wants an iced coffee. 

“When…if I ever find my soulmate, I’m going to give them a piece of my mind.” She huffs, reaching out to grab the door handle to the coffee shop. Before she can open it, the door slams open, almost hitting her in the face. Luckily, Y/N manages to dodge the figure that almost crashes into her. This is the last fucking thing she needs right now. She rounds on the man, ready to give him a piece of her mind, to ask him, no, demand that he looks where he’s going next time, and be careful!

That’s what she wanted to say. What she should’ve said.

The beautiful pair of blue eyes she suddenly finds herself staring into stops her. As blue as the sky on a gorgeous summer's day, as blue as the ocean, inviting her into their depths. This man is gorgeous. His muscles bulge out through the blue shirt (the same colour as his eyes) he has opened over a vest top. His brunette hair is pulled into a man bun, a few loose tendrils sticking out. The man’s eyes widen as he takes her all in, realising how close he came to spilling his coffee all over her. 

And then he speaks.

“Fuck.” He murmurs, his voice just loud enough for her and only her to hear. Immediately, Y/N registers her heartbeat stop.

“What did you just say?” She gasps. Instead of repeating his words, the man’s eyes widen even more, almost bulging out of his head. He rolls down the sleeve of his shirt, displaying the slowly fading words printed on his shoulder. 

“What did you just say?”

“Does yours say ‘fuck’, by any chance?” The man chuckles, still clearly in shock, and wordlessly, Y/N nods, lifting her sweater to show him.

“Oh, my god.” They both speak at the same time. The man holds a hand out, which Y/N shakes. “I’m Bucky. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.” Nervously he rubs the back of his neck, and Y/N notices a burst of pink spreading across his cheeks. “Can I just say you look absolutely gorgeous?” He stammers a little. “Sorry, I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to say right now. It’s not everyday you meet your soulmate.”

“We have a strong, intense emotional bond with them, so we’ll just know it’s them when we see them.” Wanda’s words echo in her mind, and Y/N’s shock turns into a smile, all thoughts of giving her soulmate a piece of her mind gone as quickly as the word on her side. At first she brushed Wanda’s words aside, but she’s actually totally right. Being with Bucky, it finally feels right. Like the missing pieces she’s spent so long looking for are finally in place.

“I know.” Y/N nods. “But it’s completely understandable. To be honest, I’m still in shock too. I’m Y/N by the way.” 

"Y/N." Bucky smiles.“I am sorry for almost spilling my coffee over you.” He chuckles, and Y/N giggles. 

“Already forgotten about.”

“I, um, I need to head off, but how about we grab some dinner tonight?” Bucky grins. “We have a lifetime to catch up on.” 

“Sounds wonderful.” Y/N smiles.

It may not have been the most perfect meeting… at least, not compared to her romance novels, but Y/N doesn’t care. Because it turned out to be perfect for her.

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[gingerlee-holds]

I feel bad for popping a request in ☠ anyway

If you're feeling up to it, perhaps ler Todoroki x lee Reader (bc me and reader insert are inseparable /j) from MHA? Length, perhaps 900+ words if possible? But I'll be grateful for anything haha, I also don't want to force you to write more if you're not feeling inspired i'm gonna be honest here I haven't watched MHA in a long time ☠ and I have no idea what scenarios would be realistic because he's,, Todoroki,,

Personally i'm a sucker for evil/more intense tickles because I wish I was ticklish but if that makes you uncomfy do feel free to ignore :)

oh hush, you!!! i love requests, so thank you so so much!! i just hope this is somewhat what you wanted heehee- enjoy!!! i have a huge crush on this dork so that creeps in- also the reader's quirk is whatever you want it to be, cuz its not mentioned- also also!! im really really sorry if i fuck the names up cuz from what i know of the show, Todoroki is the family name, so Shoto is the given name but i could be totally wrong

i just wanna say that i really really like writing the rambly bits from Shoto about the book-

the reader is sorta a brat lol

Like Poetry

Words: 2,334 Pairing: Ler!Shoto, Lee!Reader Warnings: lotta fluff!!! not proofread!!!

You groaned as you entered the common room. Mr. Aizawa’s personal training was brutal today, and you were not looking forward to feeling how sore your muscles would be tomorrow morning. Sighing, you grabbed one of Sato’s cupcakes from the counter and flopped onto the sofa, confident it would be unoccupied. It was about seven in the evening on a Friday, which meant everyone was either in their rooms or somewhere around town. 

You huffed into the mattress before gasping at the sound of a page being turned. Looking up, you saw you were about a foot away from, in your mind, the strongest student in your class. He was sitting with perfect posture, reading a book with yellowed pages. On the coffee table sat a mug filled with tea.

Shoto Todoroki didn’t look up from his book at you. If he knew you were there, he didn’t show it. He silently read, seemingly fully absorbed. You sat upright, shaking off the embarrassment of almost landing on him, of all people. 

You cleared your throat and gobbled up your cupcake in one bite, setting the wrapper down next to his tea. Still, he didn’t move. Raising an eyebrow, you poked him in the side to get his attention, and the surprised gasp he gave made you giggle. Shoto looked at you, brow furrowed in annoyance, but his face soon softened when you smiled and waved.

“Hi!” you said chipperly. 

He nodded politely in return. “Hello, Y/N. I’m sorry I didn’t hear you.”

With a chuckle, you shoved his shoulder. “No worries! Whatcha reading, bookworm?”

Shoto tilted his head. “I’m not a worm.”

You sighed and repeated your question without the tease. You loved that your classmate was so adorably literal. 

“I’m reading this book of old poetry. I don’t remember where I got it - it feels like my family’s always had it lying around. I decided to read it today since everyone’s out.” His voice was calm as he spoke.

You were somewhat interested in the subject but mostly just wanted to hear him talk some more. It was so rare that he spoke. “Anything good in there?”

“I found this one that I liked,” Shoto said before flipping back a few pages. “Rain on lemongrass. / Ash trees weep o’er their lost sun: / Their light and love, gone.”

The poem made you hum in thought. “What’s it about?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” he asked. Taken on its face, it was an insulting question, but you knew Shoto was genuinely unsure whether to explain it. You shook your head in reply. “The poem is about heartbreak. A woman falls in love with someone, and suddenly, that person has to leave. The woman feels like she has nothing left as she cries into a world that has bigger concerns than her. Soon, perhaps, her love shall return, the sun re-emerging from the clouds, but there’s also the possibility that she doesn’t last until then, and the wind blows her over. Ash trees symbolize grief, so perhaps they may never meet again. The lemongrass, evoking a cheerful memory, is smothered under the rains that hide her beloved.” Suddenly, he looked up from the page. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was rambling.”

You scratched your head. “How did you get all that from just three lines?” You didn’t mind, of course. He was cute when he rambled. To your great surprise, he let out a soft and sheepish smile. 

“Well, I suppose I have too much time on my hands,” he said, looking away. You smirked and poked his side again, giggling at his surprised reaction. Shoto let out a muffled yelp and jumped, glaring at you suspiciously and rubbing his side. “Quit that.” 

“Sorry, Icy-hot! Can’t be helped!” You held up both your hands in mock surrender.

“Hm,” Shoto mumbled, looking back to the book. “This book was written entirely by hand. See? This character is slightly different here, here, and here,” he continued, pointing at different parts of the page. “And from what I can tell, its publication predates quirks, hence why they are not mentioned. If they had quirks, you would think there’d be a suggestion of their existence, no? Yet there’s nothing. For all intents and purposes, it seems like this book is a remnant of a simpler world.” His expression looked distant as if his mind were a hundred miles and years away. 

You leaned back, folding your arms behind your head. “Sounds dorky. Maybe you should tell Deku! I’m sure he’d be all too interested,” you chuckled, then looked over. If he heard your comment, he gave no sign. He must still be lost in thought. Looking down at his side, you saw it was perfectly exposed. You were pushing your luck. Then again, what is a hero if not someone who tries their luck? You pursed your lips together and quickly extended your hand to poke Shoto’s side again. 

But he was faster. As if expecting your reckless act, he set his book down and grabbed your hand before it made contact in one fluid movement. “You don’t listen, do you?”

“I do my utmost to avoid doing that, yes,” you said, giggling nervously. His grip was firm, giving you no delusions of escape. His hand was chilly, as if Shoto was threatening to encase your whole arm in ice at any moment. You tugged slightly.

He didn’t let go. “No, you need to learn this lesson.” Somehow, that was among the scariest things you’ve ever heard, right alongside the speech of the hero killer and Mr. Aizawa announcing an extra homework assignment before the summer break. Shoto pushed your legs toward the end of the couch, pinning you to his chest with both hands held behind you. You shuddered as Shoto said, “Now, learn well.”

Since both your hands were stuck behind you against his torso, you couldn’t defend yourself whatsoever when he descended both hands onto your stomach. You erupted into bright, bubbly laughter and kicked your feet like that would do anything to help. All that went through your head was repeated, ‘Oh, fuck, that tickles!’ 

You heard Shoto’s hum of approval from behind you as he clawed his fingers over the thin fabric of your shirt. “Interesting,” he mumbled to himself. 

“ShIhihihihIt! ShohOhOHohotoHoHoho!” You shook your head and thrashed all you could, but it didn’t matter. Shoto was stronger, and he would make sure you knew it. 

“Yes, Y/N?” he asked casually.

“STohohoHOAhaap!!” It didn’t have a chance of working, but it didn’t hurt to try.

“No.” Shoto’s clawed hands squeezed around your stomach in circles, taking a moment to dwell on your extra-ticklish lower stomach, which he took delight in exploiting. If you didn’t know any better, you would even say he enjoyed it as much as you were. 

“NohOHoHOhoHT TheheHEherre!” you pleaded helplessly, throwing your head back to give your torturer the best puppy eyes you could… although they were far less effective than you had hoped since they were quickly squeezed shut in uproarious laughter. 

“Here? Right here, yes?” Shoto released a flurry of pokes on your lower stomach as if he wanted confirmation.

You nodded and hiccupped, doing all you could to contain the blush that bloomed on your face at the sound of his cooing hum. Mercifully, he gave you a break, and you panted for breath against him. “Shihihitt…” you giggled, squirming in his grasp to get the ghost tickles off your tummy. 

“Here,” Shoto said, and you turned to see he was holding up his mug for you. Gratefully, you took a big sip of the refreshing tea, smiling a little at the warmth of it. It was strangely sweet; you had expected Shoto to only like the bitter teas, but surprisingly, the flavor was somewhat sugary. As if reading your mind, Shoto said, “It’s chamomile. It helps me relax.” He took the mug from your mouth and set it back on the table. 

Shoto cleared his throat. “Now,” he began, “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Is my release dependent on how I answer that?”

“Yes.”

“Then… Never!” You madly giggled as you attempted to escape his grasp before quickly regretting it. He had you suitably pinned, and to further reinforce his lesson, you realized with terror that he was rolling up your shirt to your ribs. “Wait, Shoto-!”

Your tormentor didn’t give you time to finish. Without fanfare, his hands descended onto your exposed tummy. Instead of clawing around, as he had done before, he was using quick scribbles, which, coupled with his cold fingers on your bare skin, was maddening. 

“SHohOhoHOTO!” You had no idea you were so ticklish! By the looks of things, it seemed like he had been in tickle fights before, and from how badly he was wrecking you, he was used to winning them. 

He hummed in thought as your thrashing weakened. “Your belly button is incredibly ticklish,” he observed. It was, to your dismay, very accurate. It didn’t help that his cold finger was heightening the feeling!

“PLehEHehEHHEase! MeheHEheheercyy!” you squealed out, kicking and bucking like a horse.

“Goodness, you’re dramatic. It’s only tickling, Y/N. If anything, this should build your endurance. What if the League captured you? I doubt you’d last a minute before you spill everything you know if they knew this weakness of yours.”

Why did he have to be so monotone with his teasing? He sounded so casual as if he were still explaining the history of that old book - only he was speaking over your hysterical cackling. He was a fast learner, too: he was pretty adept at locating the spots that got an especially wild reaction out of you and cruel in punishing them.

Shoto’s fingers increased in pace while always keeping one wiggling about in your navel. “I know,” he said, “I get it; you’re very, very ticklish. Now calm down.” You could hear the smile in his voice. He was having fun! “I wonder… you’ve inspired me to write my own poetry! Let’s see…” He paused to think, unfortunately not slowing down the tickles, making you yelp and shriek. “Ticklish cutie / Squealing on the couch with glee / With a cute tummy,” he slowly said as if writing it down. With a gasp, you felt him do just that, writing down the poem on your belly with the tip of his fingernail. 

You turned beet-red as you threw your head back, your laughter turning silent. You had long since begun crying with delight, and tears rolled down your cheeks in rivers, but he didn’t stop until you started coughing. With a chuckle, he released you, and you panted for breath. You didn’t move from his lap, and Shoto didn’t seem to mind. He gently placed a hand on your forehead, tilting it toward him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked gently. You nodded with a smile, which he returned. His smile was inviting, like a sunbeam on a winter’s day. He slowly helped you sit back up and handed you his mug again. You eagerly gulped it down. The tea was warm and sweet, and when you finished it and set it back on the table, you realized that Shoto wasn’t too different. 

“Thank you, Shoto,” you said softly.

“For the tea?”

“Yes,” you replied, “and… for the tickles. It… helped me unwind.” You looked away and rubbed your neck shyly. 

“You’re welcome, Y/N. It was fun for me, too. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh like that.” He smiled again, a small treat like candy. “It’s nice to see you so carefree. You’re usually a ball of nerves,” Shoto admitted bluntly, making you sigh and nod in agreement. 

You basked in the silence for a bit before both of you suddenly looked up. That was the unmistakable sound of… And right on cue, the word ‘mumble’ began to figuratively float across your field of view. At its origin, you and Shoto saw Izuku madly scribbling in his notebook and mumbling about something. You swore you caught the words “ticklish,” “stomach,” and “squeals.” 

Behind Izuku, standing in the hallway, were Ochaco, Denki, Tsuyu, Mina, Eijiro, and Kyoka. The first two desperately attempted to quiet Izuku, to no avail. You sat bolt upright, glaring at the unwelcome audience. 

Eijiro broke the silence with a playful swat to the back of Izuku’s head. “You got us caught with your nerd shit, Deku,” he joked, making the green-haired hero look away backfully. 

“That was adorable!” Mina grinned, pointing at you. “You made a bunch of noise, so we wanted to check it out!” 

“You’d better erase what you wrote, Deku.” You spoke calmly but in a way that gave no misapprehensions about your seriousness. 

Ochaco looked over Izuku’s shoulder. “Doesn’t look like he’s gonna do that.”

“Midoriya,” Shoto spoke up. “Be sure to write that they couldn’t use their quirk while being tickled.”

You gasped at the betrayal. “Don’t you fucking dare write that, Deku!”

With a glance, Denki, Kyoka, and Tsuyu replied simultaneously, “Oh, he’s already writing it.”

With a growl, you shot from the couch. “You’re fucking dead, Deku!” Your classmates yelped with shock and ran down the hall from you, stifling their giggles. 

Eijiro, egging you on, tossed back over his shoulder a snide, “Now you’re sounding like Katsuki!”

“Oh, I’ll make Katsuki look like a fucking bag of pop rocks when I’m done with you idiots!” Your threat carried no heat since it was filled with giggles. You couldn’t help but laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation, smiling fondly at how much you loved your friends.

And behind you, on the couch, Shoto grinned with pride as he picked up his book to continue reading. He was glad he had been allowed to be so affectionate with someone for a chance. Absent-mindedly, he picked up his mug of tea for a sip but sighed disappointingly at the lack of tea inside. Maybe he needed bigger mugs. 

[yaut-jaknowit]

Hi! I like you, you seem so cool. Such a vibe.

So, i might end up writing this eventually BUT the writers block has locked barricaded and blown up any entrance to writing anything beyond poetry for the past numerous months and, honestly, I don't think she (gn) is willing to open up. We've gone to therapy. But she just says she needs time. 🙄 . ANYWAYS, I had this idea, right? Reader and a Yautja who are mates/soulmates, and he is NOT for it. Big no no time. Shuts them down and pushes them away. Thing is, while the pull towards them is intense for him, he doesn't realize that for humans it's, like, a painful experience. They can go a bit without being near their soulmate once they find them, but months? *years*?? Eventually he goes back to earth and something pulls him to go check in them and finds them an absolute wreck. Chronic pain, maybe some of that ✨️classic substance abuse✨️, and absolutely heartbroken because their *soulmate* didn't even want them.

And... that's where the little writer part of my brain walks away.

Anyways, maybe one day I'll write this, but the ADHD part of my brain wants the gratification my writer part just isn't interested in entertaining.

I'd love to see your twist on it, if you'd be interested! If not, I get it (not every request peaks our interest and that's valid, but thought I'd share).

P.S. I just heard an owl for the first time in AGES. Really cool.

Are We Meant to be?

Pairing: Yautja x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2031

Summary: On a walk home from work in a city that wasn't friendly, you stupidly decide to take a shortcut. A shortcut that could cost you your life...

Author Note: Thank you! I'm glad I have good vibes! I might be falling into writers block... Towards the end, it was hard to figure out what to write but I hope this is good for you! I wanted to give you a start so you can finish it yourself!

Masterlist

Ao3

Part 2

When you find your soulmate, it’s said that fireworks go off in your stomach. Then, life is a happy fairytale afterwards. Both souls are drawn to each other by an invisible string. Over time, they’ll be pulled to one another until they meet. From there, life is filled with happiness and complete. You are at height of your life with your soulmate.

So why was the universe cruel to you?

In the concrete jungle that made up your city filled to the brim of people and constant death, you raced back to your little apartment. The minute place you’ve carved out for yourself in a city like this. Something told you to be here, to stay here, no matter what happens. Just a tiny feeling in your cold, hope-filled heart. Maybe, just maybe your soulmate was here. So you endured the life you’ve created here and waited.

Waited for that faithful day they would stumble across your path and boom! Fireworks.

This was a bad idea, your brain shouted as you turned into a dark ally. It was a short cut that would shave off about five minutes. Five minutes closer to your studio apartment. Or lose your life.

A dark figure stepped out from the shadows. In the limited light, you see the way a blade reflects. Shit. Cursing internally, you skid to a stop and started to walk backwards towards the safety of the public street. But footsteps behind you had you pausing where you stood. More curses flew around in your brain as any logical thought.

Nothing needed to be said as you stared down the figure before you. This wasn’t unusual for a city like this. They wanted money, your money. Yet, you didn’t have much on you to offer. Probably only two dollars and nineteen cents in your pocket. Definitely not enough to quell them.

Before you had a chance to even inhale and speak, the person before you collapsed to the ground with nothing but little more than a squeak. A hunking form towering over his crumbled body. Your jaw dropped at the size of this figure. Your heart stutter in its bony cage as you were pinned to the spot like your shoes were welded there.

The string in your chest yanked hard directly in front of you. Your eyes couldn’t expand anymore at the feeling.

With nothing more but a breeze, the shadow zipped past you. You spun around to keep an eye on whatever had attacked your own attackers. Now that it was closer to the street lamps, you were able to pick up flashes of what it looked like. Yet, your brain couldn’t comprehend who this figure that moved in a blink of an eye was. You’ve never seen anyone move like that before. It couldn’t be possible.

A sick snapping echoed through the alleyway that had you tensing. The second attacker fell to the ground, unmoving. Finally, your shoes unpolarized from the dirty concrete but stepped away from the towering form that casted a long shadow. The head barely touching the tips of your toes. You swallow thickly and ignored the way your heart pounded heavily. It wanted freedom, wanted to rip out and go towards it.

He lifted his head. What could you see were long, thick… dreads? swaying as he shook his head. Metal, shining ornaments were attached to them. His form, larger than any man you’ve met before stood there. Only one arm moving, bending at the elbow. You couldn’t see what he was doing. You felt a fluttering feeling in your chest.

The figure whipped around with a snarl that echoed back at you. All you could see was emotionless eyes before it was upon you.

Your back slammed into the brick wall but a hand cushioned the back of your head. A gasp tore from your throat then your vision settled to take in the sight. He had pounced on you, pinned you to the alleyway wall, all the while breathing heavily. A hand had captured your neck, to ensure you stayed there, trapped.

Even with the knowledge this unknown figure might had just killed two people, your body was warm, lax underneath him. Your brain should’ve been screaming danger of the situation but all it sung was safety. A melody you couldn’t tell was true or not from the logical side of your brain. Yet, you couldn’t dispute the hot flash of an connection that struck you deep in your stomach at just his touch.

“Y-you…” he forced out in a guttural, gravely voice. This close to him, you realize he was wearing a mask, metal by the looks of it. “Not po-possible.” Your brows furrowed at his barely audible words. What did he mean?

Timidly, you reached out and rested your palm on his chest. He was incredibly hot, temperature wise. You felt a sort of netting there. He hissed, like a cat, and slipped the hand behind your head to snatch your wrist. It was pinned above your head. “No.” It was hard to understand what he was saying.

Not an ounce of fear entered your body as he continues to pin you there. Yet, your voice was caught behind a lump. So many questions fluttered around inside of your head but all you could do was stare into the emotionless eyes of his mask.

As if you had burned him, he ripped himself away from you within a blink of any eye. It left you feeling unsteady and almost falling to the ground. You saw for a moment he reached out to help you before letting the limb fall to his side.

Then, he was gone. In a small flash of blue, his form disappeared completely. Yet, you could feel him standing there, like a ghost to haunt you.

The walk home was confusing.

…

Blaring noises, inundated scents. Everything that a newly blooded would not be able to handle. Through the thick of it, the hunter waited in the shadows for the perfect moment. His ears picking up every little noise yet filtering them until he felt a pull. This pique his interest. A feeling he’s never felt before. His eyes closed as it persisted inside of him, his chest tightening.

A huff sounded from his mask he stood up, long legs stretching after being in a crouch position for so long. The Yautja cracked his neck a couple of times before beginning his trek through the concrete jungle. He allowed the tug to guide him over buildings as if he back on his home planet. It took him from one side of the city hundreds of thousands of oomans resided in all the way to the other side.

All of his moves were smooth, agile. He knew where and how to land before he was going to. His body going through the motion like a thousand times beforehand. His feet never making a sound. His breaths steady, confident. He loved this, the movement, the rise of adrenaline. That extra energy that filled his system.

The pads of his feet let him land silently on the edge of a building. The pull taking his straight down. He stopped and peered over the edge… to find three measly oomans. The heavy scent of fear permeated the air. He drank in the smell and watched the scene unfold before his bright eyes.

At the sight of ooman between the two male had his quills bristling at the sight. With his cloak deactivated, the Yautja stepped off from the edge. His entire body landed on top of one ooman, simply crushing it underneath his feet like the scum it was. Its frame making a sickening sound he could care less about to think of.

He launched himself at the other ooman. No mercy. A hand wrapped around the ooman’s throat while the other wrapped around its head. Only an ounce of his strength was extruded as he snapped the neck of this low life. Its body dropped to the dirty floor of this noisy, death filled city.

Beneath the thick scales that covered his chest, a strange feeling bloomed. It was the same notion from before. Pulling him backwards. He raised a hand to graze over the spot, deep in thought.

A snarl ripped at his throat. He whipped around to face the only other living thing in this dark path. The biomask that covered his face scanned over the little ooman left in his presence. Weapons, nonthreatening, adorn its small body. He wasn’t intimidated by them. He could scoff at how unprotected it was in a place like this.

He was upon the ooman in a second, ramming them into a brick. One hand coming around to cradle the back of its head while the other swiftly encased your neck. The Yautja gave it no room for escape.

His entire body tensed as the feeling tenfolded, eyes widening behind his mask. He didn’t know what was happening. Unlike any other time he’s had a ooman in his grasp, you didn’t move, you were like water in his grasp.

Tales as old as time sprung to life in his mind. “Y-you,” he grumbled in the ooman’s dialect. It hurt his throat to speak the language but he wasn’t going to waste a translator on you. He couldn’t… couldn’t. His heart, his mighty heart pulled, fluttered even, at your proximity and touch. “Not po-possible.” He hated the ooman languages.

The ooman’s face turned sour with confusion. He watched as you raised a hand to his chest, where his heart beats. A hiss surged past his mandibles. With a hand, he snatched your wrist and pinned it above your head harshly. Hopefully, you would learn a lesson. Not a single waft of terror rolled from your tiny, fragile body.

It jerked at his heart harder. In an instant, the Yautja yanked himself away from you with disgust. Yet, the way you stumbled from the lack of a steady body to protect you, he moved to help you. Halfway through the motion, he paused, arms falling to his sides. He needed to leave. Now.

A simple button had his cloak reactivating and gone from your sight. His feet were cemented in place right before you. You could still feel him, standing there. He observed you after you finally ripped yourself from the wall and began the trek of wherever you were heading.

Like your shadow, he followed you. All the way, even as you opened a door to a dingey old building and up the stairs. The Yautja followed your every move even as you prepared for bed and laid down. He watched you struggle to find comfort, kicking, squirming, and shivering. The distress clearly evident. Strangely enough, he wanted nothing more to march into your room and comfort you. But, the Yautja stayed.

When he knew it was time to become homebound, the Yautja gave you one last look. Days in, days out, he’s been your shadow, observing your every move. For the fifteen rotations of your planet, he’s been there. He didn’t allow himself to be seen, by anyone. Including yourself. He was there though.

.

Sleeping was difficult. A struggle to find peace within the storm raging inside of you now. It felt a door had been opened and couldn’t be shut. You felt incomplete now. A distraught noise escaped your lips as you fulfilled your worthless job. You leaned heavily on the counter with a sigh, eyes shutting. All you saw through the darkness was flashes of that night.

The night were everything changed.

On the day afterwards, you took an unfortunate day off from work. As much as you needed the money, research was needed to be done. For the entire day, you searched through every article possible about soulmates. Everything. You also dug into anything that was close to whatever had… saved you. It had saved you then disappeared. But it left behind a feeling that was consuming you every thought.

Was this what it felt like to be abandoned? You whined at the thought and opened your eyes. Work needed to be done. If only you knew the consequences.

[adventuringblind]

Drive With You Forever

Chapter Three: showing you me

Summary: The reader has been used by her father for many things, resulting in some interesting quirks. When her father ends up under house arrest, she finds herself tangled in a world of fast cars, love, and inhuman abilities.

Chapter summary: Max and our clueless reader finally explore their feelings for each other.

Warnings: Jos Verstappen, mild age gap if you squint, Max and Reader have no idea what they are doing

Notes: I bad so much fun writing this chapter! I promise that next chapter, we get to see Charles.

Previous <-

Masterlist

It was an odd feeling to be on the cusp of stepping into adulthood. Seb had said that they would take things slow. He wouldn't just shove her into responsibilities she either didn't understand or didn't know about.

He'd also said countless times over the year that her feelings towards Max are completely normal. Even going as far as to reassure her that is she shows him her powers that it's up to her.

The voice in the back of her head kept saying no. The fear of him being terrified of her stopping her from telling him.

Max had figured she wanted to tell him something. He'd caught on after she litterally choked on her words. But he didn't want to push her. She'd opened up to him about some of the things she'd lived through and seen. It made sense that she may not want to talk about it.

It didn't alter their friendship. He still went to her on good days and bad days. They practically read each other like open books now.

Max had convinced her to let him plan something for her birthday. Small and comfortable, of course. She agreed hesitantly.

He'd flown to Germany to see her. The off weekend falling on her birthday is incredibly helpful.

He was greeted by Seb at the door when he arrived. He'd talked about this for months. Seb was pratically giggling at him, and Hanna had just shook her head in exasperation but smiled nonetheless.

Seb had also been talking to the now adult, but still little girl in his eyes, about the possibility of letting Max in.

She was absolutely terrified about it but wanted to show him. She had told herself she'd do it soon. Now was probably the best chance she would have.

Max drove them up to a field. One shed been to plenty of times with Seb. She used it as her safe place when things got overwhelming. It was open, and there always seemed to be a breeze.

It was sunset now. Her nerves settled in her stomach as soon as she woke up this morning. She'd been careful not to let vision in since Max convinced her. She wanted to let him surprise her. However, that also meant she had no clue how he might react to her.

Max parked the car and dragged her further up the hill. Laughing as she just let him. He had his backpack slung over his shoulder and a Box in his hands.

When he found a spot on the other side, he pulled off his backpack and unzipped it. He pulls out a blanket and makes quick work spreading it out for them to sit on.

He pulls her down onto it. Her body practically collapsed at the unexpected force.

The sun was filled with the beautiful hues of the fall sky. Oranges and reds line the sky in a gradient. The warmth settled on their faces and the breeze ruffling through their hair.

It was perfect.

"Happy birthday." Says Max., pulling her body closer to his. He hands the box over to her.

She opens up the cardboard to reveal a notebook. Similar to the one she used to communicate when they first met. This one, though, was filled with Max's writing. Pictures, notes, ticket stubs, and poorly written poetry littered every page.

"I won't lie, I definitely had help from Victoria... and possibly Daniel." He admits. His hand reaches for the back of his neck.

She loses her words. Three years' worth of memories in one book. The emotions overwhelm her. So she does the only thing that might be able to express her thanks. She kisses his cheek.

She's done it before. Quick and sweet. Something Max got addicted to faster than he would have liked.

He can feel the fear rise back into her for a moment. The way her body seems to barely shake and the slight change in her breathing.

"I want to show you something." She not looking at him. For a moment, his mind goes to every terrible possibility. "Dobyou trust me?"

"Always."

She pulls out her pocket knife. The same one everyone had tried to keep away from her. She always seemed to get it back somehow.

She rolls up her sleeve and drags the edge along her forearm. Small beads of crimson form along the thin line. The action leaves Max confused and concerned.

Then, she focuses. Her other hand manipulates the wound. Weaving the skin back together. The energy is warm as iflt flows through her. Sweet beading at the top of her head from the power she's exerting.

Then it's gone. The only proof it had been there was a faint line and dried blood.

Max is speechless. Completely and utterly stunned. His mouth had fallen open when she pulled out the knife, and it stayed like that as she looked at him for some kind of response.

It was weird, he didn't understand it, but god did he find cool.So he did something stupid in return.

"Do you trust me?" It was his turn to ask. He was grinning because he'd been wanting to do this for awhile now.

She nodded her head. Curiosity takes hold of her.

Max takes her face gently in his hands. Her eyes are swimming with confusion as he inches closer and rest his forehead against hers.

She'd seen this in some movies. But this felt much different compared to just watching it.

Then his lips are on hers. The feeling is different than cheek kisses or forehead kisses. This was derived from a deep set of emotions she'd yet to explore.

It was good. Great, even. She had no clue what she was doing, so she let Max guide them through it.

He pulled her closer. Never wanting to let go.

But air is an unfortunate necessity.

He pulled away, eyes her wet lips, searching her eyes for some hint that she liked it. Nerves building the more she stayed silent.

"Pleade say something." He pleaded.

"I think I can get used to that." She laughed.

~

Max had asked her questions for days. He even ended up staying in Germany for longer then he expected.

Seb kept laughing at them. Max would ask, she would answer and show him, then roll her eyes. Seb reminded her that it was new and exciting to see something like this. She was just glad that he liked it and wasn't screaming in terror when she fixed the toaster with no tools.

It didn’t take long for the paddock to figure it out. Max had come into the Redbull hospitality practically beaming. Daniel didn’t even need to interrogate him.

They kept away from the public eye for now. She was still wary of people and nervous her father could come back at any second.

Max's dad was on another level of annoying after he found out. Seb had to step in multiple times because it was one thing to defend Max, defending herself felt entirely different.

Seb basically adopts Max after getting fed up with Jos. It didn't matter what place he came in, Seb was there and congratulating or consoling. He made sure to show Jos what parenting should look like.

Max and her didn't fight often. More like arguments about small things that were just a matter of communication. It took Christian and Seb to get them through the first few.

It was nice knowing they weren't alone and had people they trusted to go to. Something neither had grown up with.

They’re creating their own little family.

~

Next ->

Tags: @styles-sunflower @purplephantomwolf @boiohboii @reblog-princess-blog @jjsprobablywrong @Ipab @jayda12 (comment if you want to be added)

[pinehutch]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤

Thank you for tagging me!

I should be honest: I am not much of a fic writer. This isn't self-effacing; I've been reading fic since the early aughts but only have 10 works on ao3. One of them is a poem. One of them is a few hundred words of something I've never finished.

That said, fic is important to me for a lot of reasons, but one is that in 2016 I started following a tumblr for a Dragon Age fic exchange, and in 2017 I wrote the first fiction I'd written in almost 20 years. I had been struggling to write poetry for about 10 years before that, too, and fic writing was part of my path back to writing at all.

This isn't to say that I think fanfic is valueless unless it results in 'original' writing; every story happens in context, and we all know how the lines between fanwork and original work blur, both in fan spaces and in commercial ones. But my particular, personal fondness for fic is because it gave me a path back to the first best thing of my life, which was language, and what we do with it.

With that said, my personal top five (links in titles):

Fundamental Forces (or, Root Causes)

Literally my first fic. This was when I remembered that writing can be fun. It's Dragon Age fic, femHawke/Varric. It's also written with a focus on Hawke's POV, a thing I think I pulled off quite well and have never attempted again. It's very silly. It features a 40-year-old and a 35-year-old being profoundly bad at emotional honesty. I riff on turnips for a while. It has a happy ending, which should surprise no one.

She breathed in through her nose and her eyes fluttered shut. “Kiss me, you idiot. Before they think I’m horrified.” Their first kiss. Quick and mostly chaste and part of a joke. She thought it was fitting.

Chapter Last

This is also T-rated Hawke/Varric, written for the same exchange, a year later. It's about near-misses, and trying again, and not being able to pick up where you left off, and it's stumbling back onto the path later, unexpectedly, and after having found another way. It is about stories, and why we do them.

It's fic of the games, of course, but in a way it's also fic-of-fic: there's a novella that's both a tie-in novel and a diegetic book in the Dragon Age setting, and it was printed irl the summer before I wrote this fic.

What I'm proud of, with this story, is character voice. Whenever I share any Varric-voice writing, even years later, people always say very generous things. Varric's also a writer, canonically, and I had fun mimicking 'his' style in passages of this, and trying to keep in mind how his writing and his inner narration would align and diverge. (Lots of Dragon Age fans are understandably thirsty about Varric; I think I've always found him relatable, in many ways, and it didn't occur to me to thirst. But I love him.)

I don't love the structure; I chaptered this, and way more than I needed to. I'd love to rewrite it, someday, but I also think it's good for me to sit with the awareness of its imperfections and the knowledge that people have loved it anyway.

Afterimage (there are two colours)

The Magnus Archives fic, E-rated. Basira/Daisy. This was meant to be a single installment in a series - I think I have a 20,000 word 'outline' in my gdocs, still, but I'm unlikely to ever finish it. The point of this story is self-indulgent, purple-prose, dreamy smut. Wanting the thing and having it, but not keeping it.

This was baby's first E-rated fic ever written. I have no explanation for this, either.

Transformative Work

Written for the 2022 OFMD Big Bang with @mia-ugly. Mostly Frenchie/Jim, a bit Jim/Oluwande, a bit Frenchie/Oluwande, a light sprinkling of polycule potential.

Transformative Work is my favourite thing I've posted to ao3 for three reasons.

It's 40k! I never finish longer works, so 40k is a big deal to me.

I think it's actually brilliant. Clever as hell, at minimum. But mostly brilliant.

It's collaborative!

Writing has always been a solitary thing for me; one of the things I love about Mia is how we can get on a wavelength about a story. (This is mostly a them trick: they're an excellent collaborator and instigator, in general.) I wasn't at my best when we were writing this, dealing with undiagnosed health issues and workplace burnout and an accumulation of grief, but it was beautiful and joyful work, in the end.

Also, I think it is almost exactly what we wanted it to be, and that is such a high.

Number 5 is a bit of a cop-out but still:

Remember when I said "we all know how the lines between fanwork and original work blur"? This is a poem I started writing when Succession 4.3, "Connor's Wedding" aired. I was in a worst spot than I had been the previous year, health-wise, grief-wise.

The title of this poem, "My Father's Dead and I Feel Old," comes out of Connor Roy's mouth in the episode. I had to pause the episode and just get pummeled by that perfect, simple line of iambs. I was a wreck, just generally. Yeah, man, my father is dead and I do feel old! That sort of thing. (The aforementioned health issue? Still not identified or addressed when this aired in spring 2023, btw. My brain was not braining well.)

But there were words for it. I was off work on medical leave at the time. I had just made the transition from crying like it was a full-time job to sleeping like it was a full-time job. The sleep wasn't helping. The crying hadn't helped, either. It wasn't something people could help. But words, and what we do with them - that helped.

Anyway, I'm actually quite proud of this poem, both as an original piece of poetry and as fanwork. It's not on ao3 for reasons including 'I haven't gotten around to it' and 'I don't know if this is sufficiently transformative, by the invisible guidelines I've just set for myself.'

Thank you for sending this to me, it was a lovely thing to think about on my Friday eve! <3

[dr-chosenberg]

On my recent rewatch I felt the inspiration to design my headcanon for what Dr. Potterswheel's late wife might have looked like! Born Marie-Thérèse Praxineaux, her maiden name is based off of the Praxinoscope which is an animation device that came after the Zoetrope

Voice: https://youtu.be/2MaiJtecGmI?si=H6h5nLCUQsk9039K

CW: Dr Potterswheel's gore fetish, infection, death, miscarriage,

She moved to Moralton because you know The War and was shunned because of the rumors around town of her being a foreigner and France being a place of sin and lust. The librarian there gave her a job because she assumed no moralton man was going to be interested because of her reputation and took pity on her. Oh another reason the moraltons hate her lol, France is a majority Catholic country. Marie was part of the minority there that was Protestant but obviously the Moraltons didn’t care.

In comes a young Quentin.

He was studying for his medical school exams and often came in, staying the often inaccurate statesotan medical books for long hours. Sometimes when it was just the librarian and the two of them she would avoid him at all costs, not wanting to further her reputation.

He was aware of Marie-Therese, she was pretty and always helpful when she knew where to find a book he needed.

One day some kind of accident happened, not serious enough that she was in any real danger but enough that she needed medical assistance. Maybe a bookcase fell on her and she needed some stitches?

M-T was not one to speak up or make a fuss, but Quentin had a handsome deep voice and spoke with so much authority. He did his best to reassure her she would be ok and in a sense it coaxed the words right out of her. She had a way with words and could describe her pain like she was painting a picture, I like to think she enjoyed writing poetry, but you and I both know that’s not why it attracted him so intensely.

Despite the town doing its best to shun her she still attended church every Sunday and every Sunday Quentin would inquire about her wounds progress and ask to see it. One day a few weeks after her wound had healed they were conversing and Marie-Therese joked sadly that they could no longer be seen together as she didn’t have the excuse of being his practice patent.

At which point Quentin proposed. It wasn’t the most romantic affair to most, he said it matter of factly as he does most things. But that was ok, she would have the bedside manner and the way with words for them both.

Their relationship itself….well they had a foot up on many Moralton couples as they were truly in love. Many would consider Marie a fool as he was not the most romantic man. He was soft when she would fuss or worry (think about the way he spoke to Bloberta when she said her wound was bad) but when she really took issue with something he wouldn’t get more emotional, but even less, she found herself at times disheartened at the way he would dismiss her worries and talk down to her. She insisted to her newfound housewife friends that they just didn’t know him like she did, which was *sort* of true.

She honestly didn’t mind his “preferences” she assumed that taking charge was what a husband was meant to do in the bedroom, and that a “little” pain was just what a good Christian woman had to put up with after a life of chastity. When she had other wounds and he would take a bit too much of a vested interest she thought it was just his way of showing he cared. She never understood why he would discourage what he called “unnecessary” medications like, allergy meds, antacids, etc. always feeding her a line about the lord helping those who help themselves.

She tried her best to become more like the other wives of Moralton, she even took up sewing and embroidery. She made a comment once about how she was just like him, sewing up patients. He stroked her head and smiled, “How cute. You’d worry yourself sick if anything important was counting on your little stick ‘n’ pokes.”

Things got better when they got the wonderful news that Marie was pregnant. Her pregnancy was very rough, unlike anything Quentin had ever seen. He would comfort her by telling her of the many strong mothers he had seen in his career so far, if she couldn’t handle the pain of the pregnancy how could she handle the birth? The smile he would give her when she would nod in agreement was all the soothing she needed.

She was nearing the worst of it when she used the last of her energy to embroider a handkerchief for him, with his initials on it. Sometimes he would use it to clean her face when she would cough up one thing or another, or wet it to soothe her forehead.

Of course she wasn’t *just* facing pregnancy complications, she had caught a whole other sickness entirely, an infection. The days went by and Quentin got more desperate. Out of love for his wife? Out of a need to prove his abilities as a doctor? Who knows. He would never admit fault for anything let alone a patient, he sure as hell wasn’t going to take the blame for losing the woman he cares for. He tried everything, except actual medical science.

Finally he relented and began to give her painkillers. I believe it would be more in character if he didn’t tell her. Visitors from the town and a young Reverend Putty suspected it but she was none the wiser. She used to say things like, “Ma moitié having you pray for me and care for me is so healing, I am feeling better already.”

When she could form full coherent sentences.

With the way medicine was at the time while some painkillers are safe for pregnant women these probably weren’t, but they weren’t what took her. It got to the point that she wasn’t herself anymore but spent her days lying in bed in a haze, barely awake.

She swore sometimes that she could see Quentin there at her side, watching her, even feel him stroke her hand. But when she got her eyes to focus he wasn’t there anymore.

One day Quentin went in for a morning check up and the sheets were covered in blood. He had lost his wife and his child in one fell swoop.

It was a horrific scene but she looked so serene. So comfortable. She was clutching his handkerchief.

Notes:

This takes place with the assumption that Moralton is not modern day, I headcanon Quentin to be around 50

This was fun, nothing is set in stone truly as this was part of a stream of consciousness conversation with my friend @cheonsa-n I’m fully up for criticism if anything seems out of character. I’m also happy to explain the reasoning behind certain choices!

I don’t personally buy the idea that Quentin killed his wife on purpose, a man with Quentin’s disposition who actually committed a murder wouldn’t resort to almost stabbing the man who accused him of it, that’s how you get people to think you killed your wife on purpose lol.

I hope you guys enjoy what I came up with. Their relationship isn’t fully this way as he was attracted to her and subjected her to some of the same treatment we saw Bloberta go through, but their marriage in my mind had a bit of a Madonna-whore complex flavoring to it. I also believe this is somewhat of an origin story for his habit of treating everything with almost exclusively painkillers. Marie-Thérèse couldn’t be saved but she was, as Quentin puts it, very comfortable when she passed.

In the AU where she lives she still suffered a miscarriage and Clay calls Dr. Potterswheel a babykiller instead. She is still as sweet as the day she and Quentin met but she isn’t particularly keen on giving Orel the time and attention he needs either, it’s too painful. When she does give him advice she tends to advise him to wait things out and not rock the boat. She tells him that good things come to those who wait.

[topazadine]

How to elevate your writing style with 6 simple hacks

Let's go through a few simple and easy tricks to make your writing masterful! No expensive writing courses - these are all so very free.

Read and write poetry

Use Microsoft Read Aloud

Develop your theory of mind

Be vaguer (within reason)

Listen to IRL conversations

Say less to do more

Read and write poetry

I often get complimented on my poetic writing style (no wonder my entire book series is about poetry magic). Here's what a professional editor said about the sixth book in the series, Poesy:

There's no real secret to how I have developed my style: the entire start of my journey, from about age 14 to age 26, was writing poetry. I read good novels and practiced my poetry in addition to getting my Brit Lit degree and all that stuff. (I have a chapbook out called The Lucretia Cycle, which is about my sexual assault at age 25. Trigger warning, obviously.)

Why is poetry so helpful for fiction writers? The word flow. Poetry is meant to be spoken aloud, so it needs to have a certain cadence.

As an aside, this is why I hate people who think you can just take a sentence and break it up however you want and call it poetry. No! They're different forms. You can use poetry to inform your fiction writing style, but it doesn't really work the other way around.

Anyway, practicing a lot of poetry helps develop your internal voice so that you can self-edit, improving your word flow and making for a smoother reading experience.

To write good poetry, just like with writing good fiction, you need to read good poetry first. Hunt up an anthology of celebrated writers, search "100 best poems of all time," stuff like that.

As a test for if a poem is good, read it aloud. If it makes no sense and sounds weird, then it's a bad poem.

Use Microsoft Read Aloud

This goes along with the abovementioned poetry: you want to develop a good word flow. Even if your readers aren't listening to an audiobook, most people have an internal voice that reads along with them, and they're going to get annoyed if your writing has a jangly, unpleasant flow. Of course, there are times when you do want a jangly, unpleasant flow, like when you're discussing something gross, but most of the time, you don't want that.

Hearing your work read aloud not only helps you catch typos, but it also lets you notice if you use the same word too many times; the Microsoft Read Aloud voice uses the same tone for the word every time so it'll be very apparent. You can also ensure that sentences flow smoothly with one another based on the practice you've done with poetry.

The other thing that Read Aloud helps with is punctuation, something that a lot of people struggle with. See, the way that we teach punctuation in school sucks because it doesn't point out that punctuation is basically stage directions for reading aloud; that's the whole reason it was invented. It helps group words together so that we understand how they are related and how we should verbalize them. Even if your punctuation isn't grammar-school perfect, it will make sense to readers if it helps them slow down at the right points.

My ultimate goal when revising is to put my headphones on, sit with some knitting, and not have to stop the Read Aloud for several pages. Once I've hit that point, I know I'm good to go.

Develop your Theory of Mind

Theory of Mind is the ability to understand that someone else may not have the same knowledge, experience, opinions, or beliefs that you do. It is a crucial skill for writers in a variety of ways; I'll detail a few of them now.

Being aware of audience. What enraptures us as a writer is not always what our readers will care about. This is why infodumping is annoying; it often is about the writer wanting to show off how smart they are and how much they have thought about their characters. Writing in an engaging way. Going along with this, good writers understand that their readers are likely not devoting their lives to any one book; they're able to recognize that their book is one of dozens or even hundreds that the reader will consume this year. As such, they push to make their book stand out by making it as intriguing as possible. My way of standing out is going all in on characterization, and including poetry, which is designed to be memorable. Considering a reader's blind spots. A great beta reader can help you with this, but if you have good ToM, you can rectify these errors yourself by remembering what you haven't told the reader yet - and what they need to know right this instant. It also ensures that you explain things in a way that makes sense to readers, such as remembering that not everyone knows the same pop culture references and may not be familiar with certain brands or objects. Understanding characters' perspectives. When my brother started reading my first book, 9 Years Yearning, one of the first things he said was something like "ugh Orrinir is SO down bad for Uileac!! Why can't Uileac see that!!" Well, because Uileac is a teenage boy who is also down bad for Orrinir but is terrified of pushing his closest friend away by confessing. Applying Theory of Mind allowed me to write a story where both characters are practically screaming their desire, but neither is willing to take the plunge. There's no forced miscommunication, just a very human reaction: accepting one pain (keeping one's feelings hidden) to avoid another, bigger pain (ruining a close friendship). Remembering what information only one character has. Especially crucial in mysteries and thrillers, but it applies to every book in some fashion. Your characters don't know what the other does unless they are a mind reader (unlikely), they are actually told the information direct from the source, or they sniff around and find it out.

Now, I know that some neurodivergencies have issues with Theory of Mind, but recent neuroscience demonstrates that there are actually a number of ways to improve your ToM.

If you have autism, schizophrenia, or other neurodivergencies, please don't think it's impossible for you to become a good writer; it's absolutely not.

Anyone can become a great writer if they work hard and practice. No matter your neurotype, no matter your background. I'd never gatekeep this beautiful art from anyone.

I've found some resources about improving theory of mind here and here, but there are many more out there. I'd also argue that dialectical behavioral therapy, targeted toward developing theory of mind, would be helpful too.

Be vaguer (within reason)

Keeping some mystery in your works is important for a few reasons.

Invites further reflection. When everything is spelled out for your readers, there's little room for them to come up with their own theories and perspectives on your writing. Gives readers autonomy. Readers like to take ownership of a world - that's why we have the entire genre of fanfic. Leaving some things open for interpretation helps them feel like they are part of the experience rather than a passive viewer. Helps your writing pass the sniff test. This is especially important for scifi or fantasy, but it matters in other genres too. Getting too specific gives readers a chance to go "well acktuahlly" if they happen to be more well-versed in a topic than you are. Blatant misinformation breaks their immersion. Avoids infodumps. Readers' eyes will glaze over if you throw too much information at them. Let them think. Sprinkling a few tidbits in here and there, then making the reader connect the dots, is far more enjoyable than a wall of irrelevant details.

The funny thing is that what I remember from texts is always the small and charming details rather than the big important plot points and explanations of the world mechanics. For example, it has been literally 20 years since I picked up a Redwall book, but I remember the sumptuous discussions of the feasts, with all the yummy cheeses and so on. I remember the discussions of the tapestries and the abbey's tall ceilings. Those are the memorable details, not the exact plot points.

What can you be vague about? Well, it really depends on what type of book you have - there's no one-size-fits-all rule. Make a hierarchy of things that are most important for readers to understand, and let everything else be background info.

In general, though, avoid specific measurements. Time, distance, weight, height, and so on, unless they are absolutely critical to the plot for some reason (unlikely). If you're wrong, readers will be very annoyed.

Listen to IRL conversations

I have a more in-depth guide to dialogue planned, so I'll leave this pretty short.

One of my favorite ways to improve dialogue is to watch interrogation videos. You have access to hours of unscripted conversations from a variety of people in all sorts of situations.

But, at the same time, you are not trying to figure out what to say in response to anything because you've not having a conversation. It can be challenging to notice verbal tics when you're working to digest and respond to someone else.

Another popular method is to just plop yourself down at a cafe, or bus, or whatever else, and quietly listen to others without seeming weird.

The important thing about both of these is to choose something where you are passively listening to someone speak without needing to contribute anything.

Do not rely on movies, or other books, or podcasts, or whatever, to build your dialogue skills. These are edited down and agonized over; they are not going to teach you how to sound natural. You need real-life examples.

Say less to do more

Good writing can do a lot of work without extra fluff because the writer is targeting multiple things at once. Excellent authors can build foreshadowing, demonstrate personality, worldbuild, and infuse themes just by having a character walk across a room, moving the plot forward without separating every single thing into its own point.

Sentences can be pretty short, less than two lines, and still powerful. For example, I'm proud of this part from my upcoming book, Pride Before a Fall.

As if a world-fever had broken: Orrinir woke feeling sluggish, mind full of marbles that rolled every time he moved. His first thought was of Uileac lain beside him, eyes closed and hair stiff with sweat. A bath would be in order, but later. Assuming the cavalryman even let him.

Clearly Orrinir had a rough night full of unexpected problems, and now he has a mental hangover. He's tired and has many disconnected thoughts rattling around in his head.

From the "world-fever" part and the fact that Uileac is covered in sweat, we can sense that Uileac was sick but the danger has now passed.

Uileac and Orrinir clearly had some sort of argument, and now Orrinir's not sure whether his partner will accept his care. We also guess that Orrinir desperately wants to help his partner and is kind of obsessed with him but also scared of rejection. He seems a bit snippy and resentful, too.

Each of these sentences is less than two lines, but they all get a lot done very quickly.

Note also that while I use two unique phrases in the first line, the rest of it is pretty plain. The reader can enjoy the interesting metaphor in the first line, then get back to more straightforward discussions afterward. It's not a 24/7 purple prose fest.

This is a very hard skill to learn; even after over 15 years of writing regularly, I'm still working on it. However, you can get to that point by just revising over and over again.

Write your draft in as much detail as possible, unconcerned with if it's wordy or messy. Then, figure out how you can say the same thing more concisely without losing the meaning. Go back in and do this again, and again, until every single word has a reason to be there.

I've created a masterlist of writing resources that you can peruse at your leisure, all for free.

The posts I write can sometimes take me hours - they're always intricate, always thoughtful.

I do this as a labor of love for the writing community, sharing what I have learned from almost 15 years of creative writing.

However, if you'd like to support me, maybe you'll consider buying my book?

At $0.99, that's about 7 cents for each minute you spent reading this post.

9 Years Yearning is a gay coming-of-age romance set in a fantasy world. It follows Uileac Korviridi, a young soldier training at the War Academy. His primary motivations are honoring the memory of his late parents, protecting his little sister Cerie, and becoming a top-notch soldier.

However, there's a problem: Orrinir Relickim, a rough and tough fellow pupil who just can't seem to leave Uileac alone.

The book features poetry, descriptions of a beautiful country inspired by Mongolia, and a whole lot of tsundere vibes.

You can also check it out on Goodreads for a list of expanded distribution. If you loved it, be sure to preorder Pride Before a Fall, arriving January 1, 2025!

If you do purchase my book, don't forget to leave a review!

Reviews are vital for visibility on Amazon and help to support indie authors like me. Whenever you love a book, be sure to let the author know! It's much appreciated.

[hannahhook7744]

Poetversary;

Summary: Mariano is struggling to write a poem for his and Dolores' sixteenth wedding anniversary. And that's where the kids come in. Encantober 2024: Poetry. Trigger Warnings: self deprecating thoughts, guilt, anxiety, and mention of the flu.

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“Oh, my sweet Dolores,

Your voice is such a lovely chorus,

And there is no one I adore-as

Much as I adore-us—”

Mariano was stuck.

More than stuck, actually. 

He was suffering from a complete and utter stagnant of writer’s block where he could hardly get the words together in his head, let alone write them down on paper.

Which, normally wouldn’t be a problem because normally Mariano would have all the time in the world to step back and take a break, and come back to it later after taking a siesta and getting a bocadillo (like Señora Julieta’s Guava and Cheese Mini-Bites or Home Sweet Home Rice Pudding). But normally, it wasn’t a week from his and Dolores’ wedding anniversary. 

And normally on their anniversaries, Mariano had more than enough gifts and a lovely date night planned to excuse not being able to have a poem done on the rare occasions where he couldn’t write one in time for his and his querida musa’s special nights. 

But this time Mariano didn’t.

This time Mariano had dropped the ball.

At least, in his own opinion.

He didn’t have a gift bought for her (yet anyway).

Didn’t have the time to make her something more than a poem (paper mache or crocheted flowers and stuffed animals were timely to make if you wanted them right).

There was no way he’d be able to book a reservation for any of the good restaurants that Dolores liked (and that wouldn’t hurt her ears) in time for the event and he was a terrible cook so making her favorites himself was out of the question and there was no way he was going to be putting any more work on his beloved’s aunt. 

And well, as bad of a cook as he was, he was an even worse dancer so taking her out to dance (especially after last time) was also no.

Which just left him with the option of writing her a wonderful poem that was better than all of the ones that came before it to buy him time to make it up to his encantadora esposa—which he was now apparently incapable of doing. Great.

Just great. 

Dios, Mariano Guzmán era el idiota más grande de todo Auradon.

What kind of husband didn’t remember the sixteenth anniversary of their wedding?

Bubo, Mariano’s best friend and cuñado, said that he was being too hard on himself and that “Dios, amigo, of course you forgot! You have six kids and all of them had la gripe, you and Dolores and the familia have been exhausted for weeks. Calm down and we’ll figure something out—”but the guard and poet wasn’t having it. He knew that his mejor amigo would be just as stressed and would feel just as guilty in his shoes if he was the one who had forgotten his and Isabela’s anniversary. 

So, his words were an empty comfort for once and now Mariano had to fix the mess before it became an even bigger mess and careened into a disaster without alerting Dolores. 

Now, if only he could find something that rhymed with Dolores. 

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Of course, being a parent meant that Mariano didn’t get much alone time. And being an uncle as well, that meant his alone time was even more scarce. 

Which meant it didn’t really surprise him when not only his seven year old son, Oscar, interrupted him but one of Isabela and Bubo’s eight year olds, Miguel Jr (or Smiley or MJ as everyone called him) as well. Both peaking over his shoulder to see what he was working on, like usual. 

“Papi, ¿en qué estás trabajando?” Oscar rested his chin on Mariano’s shoulder, squinting at the parchment with a furrowed brow and a small frown. Noodles the snake wrapped around him as usual. 

“A poem for your Mami, cariño.”

Miguel Jr leaned even further over Mariano’s shoulder and probably would have knocked him over if the man wasn’t used to his sobrino’s lack of personal space awareness, already. “Can we help, Tío.”

Mariano paused in his writing. He seriously doubted that they’d be able to help with this particular problem of his, but if he’d  learned anything from being a padre, tío, and cuñado mayor, it was to never underestimate what children—Madrigal children, especially. So he decided to bite the bullet. “¡Claro! Know anything that rhymes with Dolores?”

There was a moment of silence. 

Then another. 

Then—

“Laurice?”

“Norris?”

“Dorris?”

“Horace?”

Mariano sighed. Not sure what he was expecting. “Very good, niños. Gracias.”

“You’re welcome!”

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Madrigals, even the children, could not keep a secret for the life of them. 

Which is how Mariano found himself being bombarded by nearly every child in the house, all of which had suggestions. Some more helpful than others. 

“Boris” Cornel, Bruno's sixteen year old son, had suggested. 

To which his brother, Cesare—nineteen years old—, had immediately protested. “Boris? Boris? Absolutely not, that sounds too close to Bore-us.”

“Well I don't see you coming up with any ideas—”

“There's plenty, like forest and tourist—”

Which caused their brother Cyriacus, fourteen, to snort. “Oh sure, call Prima Dolores a tourist. That's very romantic and I'm sure it'll go over well.”

Mariano regretted not locking his door. 

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“Does Acorn rhyme with Dolores, Papi?” Leta, his three year old, asked yawning as she rested her head on his knee. 

“No, temeraria. No, it doesn't.” Mariano ran his hand through her hair. 

He was never going to finish this poem.

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“Why did you decide to make everything rhyme with Mama’s name anyway?” Princesa, his lovely eldest, asked. Judging him with a scrutinizing stare and all the tact of a ten year old. 

But…

Mariano had to agree that picking to end every line with something that rhymed with Dolores wasn't his brightest move. 

“I thought it'd be romantic.”

“But it's not very practical is it?”

Elmira, Princesa’s twin, squeaked quietly at that—in agreement with her sister but clearly not comfortable enough to voice these thoughts.

Mariano found himself sighing again. 

He had a feeling that it wouldn't be the last time he found himself doing so this week.

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“Pour-us? Poorest? Poorest rhymes with Dolores!” Ligera, his five year old, pointed out excitedly. Happy to be helpful.

And well, it did…. Kinda?....depending on who you asked, anyway, but Mariano wasn't sure how to include poorest in his poem. He also wasn't sure Dolores would be pleased if he did. 

“Fairest rhymes with Mami!” Fuega chimed in, very confidently.

It didn't but Mariano didn't have the heart to correct her. 

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Mariano did end up getting the poem done and done on time. 

Dolores loved it. 

She also loved the dinner ‘he'd’ apparently helped Bubo make and the flowers with musical notes that ‘he'd’ given Isabela the idea of making and the dress he'd bought her months ago that he'd forgotten about.

(Okay, so maybe Mariano had been a bit worried over nothing after all.)

[learningsanctum]

May 8th, 2024

DISCLAIMER: This is not meant to offend anyone, this is only my complex and conflicting journey to connect myself to my culture.

Why am I ashamed?

What am I ashamed of?

Growing up my parents ultimate goal was to move to the USA, they told me "the green card makes your life easier". All they wanted was to make more money so they could afford a better education for me.

I went to private schools for as long as they could pay it for me and they still couldn't put Brazilian private schools on the same level of USA public schools.

They had me having English lessons for years. "English is the most spoken language in the world" my father said "you have to know English to be successful". And I was an impressionable child with corporate dreams to pursue, so I committed to the bit.

Soon enough I started writing in English.

Then, one of our acquaintances made it to the USA. He made the dream real, solid, reachable. We had hopes for a better life.

In one of our Skype calls he told me the weirdest - and most wonderful - part was the "dreaming in English", as he put it, when after a long day speaking the language you couldn't help but dream on it too.

In my mind, then, it clicked: the more English I consume the more native I become.

A though.

Everything always starts with a thought.

One damn thought.

It was what it took to put me on the road to self-hatred and to make me detach myself from my culture. All it took for me to segregate all the culture available to me- to categorize and "villainize" my culture as a whole. Music, poetry, movies, soap operas, everything was inferior if compared to the big nation.

My cellphone settings were changed to English and I proudly carried around the fact I spoke the language as a badge. I was over the moon when I first read USA texts and could understand them.

For long - too long in my opinion - I was the "English girl" I knew about stuff kids from my country around my age didn't because I would spend a lot of time on forums and alike consuming media like I was about to move to there any moment. I molded my personality to fit their standards so I wouldn't be a fish out of water once I got there.

I found friends who spoke English and taught the ones who didn't so we would speak it in school. A way to talk bad about someone in front of them. A way to mock teachers at the same time they would compliment us for being - god help me, this one will always haunt me - "way ahead of the other children our age". If I could go back and make they take it back...

American high school was the dream to be achieved.

So long being superior, knowing more, quoting Edgar Alan Poe.

"The higher you step, the bigger is the fall".

I didn't go to the USA.

Never even traveled by plane 'till this day.

And in no time, the lack of knowledge of my culture started to catch up with me.

High school took a tool on me. Of all the problems I had probably the frustration of being in Brazil was the biggest of them. Classes weren't interesting because they weren't in English. I didn't have to change classrooms every period and I wouldn't get my driver's license by sixteen. I didn't have a locker. There are no lockers on Brazilian high school.

I was devastated and fought furiously with my - this guy is a saint, I swear, watch it - Portuguese teacher. Professor, actually, he had a doctorate if I remember correctly. Me, a fifteen years or something old fighting a doctor on how Joaquim Machado de Assis is not "good literature". In my head, back then, it wasn't even literature worthy.

God, if I knew back then.

I wasn't "the prodigy" anymore. I was just rebellious. At everything. Closed in the trap I designed to myself and unable to connect with other teenager.

It wasn't until lockdown that I started to feel a certain need to be a proud Brazilian citizen. Not for politics, economy or raising poverty rates. Those are always present and I was never aware to them. There wasn't time to pay attention to my country's situation if my dream was a white picket fence house instead of a big terrain with a gate or bars and electronic security system.

With TikTok came the trends, and even in my self spite I couldn't help but keep my social medias American.

Call it irony if you will but it was an USA trend with a Russian song that brought me back to my roots. Or at least helped me question my actions towards my country.

"I'm just a simple Russian girl, I've got vodka in my veins, so I dance with brown bears and my soul is torn apart."

I stopped and then thought "after everything I have done and I am still not American enough. I will never be a USA citizen" and then "but I am American" and I was in shock. Because I always have been American. Not USA but Brazilian. Sharing the same America with them. Living on the same America they do.

Such a line of thought, however controversial, made me think that if I were to make an edit to this trend what could I use to refer to Brazil?

Making me follow all the way to the question I dreaded the most: "what do I love about Brazil? what is it that even makes me Brazilian after so long hiding from my nationality?"

To be completely honest I was stupefied by how quick the culture flowed in my blood and I realized:

I don't need Little Red Riding Hood. I have the Saci.

We don't have the big white house but we have a fucking palace in our capital.

I want to play games with Narizinho, Pedrinho and Emília at the Yellow Woodpecker farm.

I want to draw in any sheet a yellow sun burning bright.

I can read Capitães de Areia instead of Lord of Flies.

And I should study more about the anti-asylum movement and read about Barbacena's tragedy documented by Daniela Arbex in her GENIUS book Brazilian Holocaust instead of hearing more and more about the USA "gun problem" or "cameras on police officers' clothes".

I don't mean it as disrespectful or unimportant but I had spent so many time trying to reach the outside, the exterior, that I never once looked around to see the wonderful culture surrounding me.

The soccer, the music, the dance- God, I want to try capoeira before I die, I want to travel to see the Cataratas do Iguaçu and I want to truly understand my ancestors and the explosion of ethnics and cultures my country has to share.

And as the thoughts came and went I realized that I love being Brazilian.

"Festa de Ipanema, meu amor" - Movie: Rio, 2011.

Carnival, axé, samba, pagode, I want to dance.

Mônica, Cebolinha, Cascão, Magali, Chico Bento, I want to live at Limoeiro street.

O Auto da Compadecida (A Dog's Will), - and even Minha mãe é uma peça - it's a comedy I can laugh to with no effort, I can understand the accent and from which region of my country it comes from and I can relate to the joke.

Carolina Maria de Jesus is my Anne Frank.

Coconut, avocado, passion fruit, lime, mango, melon, cashew are not "exotic" foods, those are natural fruits I find with "seu" João at the small vending at the end of the block.

My fruits, my music, my tragedies, my country.

I still accepting this reality. But I don't want to be ashamed to put, even if under a username, in my bio, description or whatever that I am Brazilian.

It's part of who I am.

It's reality is not perfect but it's mine.

I'm not ever giving it up again without a fight.

[talkingtomattyaboutit]

Bad Decisions

A/N: this is my first fic so pls be nice haha. it’s been probably 5 years since i’ve written anything other than poetry so i would appreciate constructive criticism!! also, i got the ideas for this after getting high and had a dream about being with matty lol. and if you like this and have an idea for a request let me know!! i love writing and i struggle with ideas sometimes. i also am experimenting with different povs so the next one might be different.

warnings: smut (18+), cheating, drugs, spanking, choking, degradation, bit of cnc i guess?, littlest bit of exhibitionism, violence, blood

prompt: Y/N is dating George, she gets high with Matty and cheats on George. “You’re a dirty fucking girl,” and “Tell me I’m better than him.” Also inspired by the video of Matty yelling “FUCKING SAY IT!!

5,586 words

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I couldn't help but feel anxious in this situation. I often struggled with anxiety, but this felt different. There I was, sitting alone in the living room of my boyfriend's house. George must have been running late from his 'errands' he had to complete after school. I wasn't stupid, I knew that George always stole some money from his parents to buy coke and weed before they went on a trip. Though sweet, George had little to no self-control or responsibility.

His parents had gone out of town for the week on an anniversary vacation, leaving George by himself. They knew he was capable of surviving on his own for a week, even if that meant eating frozen pizzas every day while they were gone. I always made fun of him for his lack of 'adult skills' that most 17-year-olds have. The boy couldn't even do his own laundry, yet he insisted on moving in with Matty after graduation. I couldn't imagine that duo living together.

The anxiety returned to my chest as I heard a noise come from upstairs of the house. I quickly rose from the couch, walking slowly towards the front door. Did someone break in? I heard heavy but slow footsteps making their way closer to the staircase. I couldn't see the figure, but I heard their low mumbles.

"Who's there?" I questioned, the fear evident in my tone. I knew George's parents would be furious if their house got broken into. I held my breath in, hoping that would mask my fear.

I soon saw two tattooed feet step down the staircase. They were followed by the shadow of long legs, a bare torso, and a mop of curly hair. Matty. Of course.

"Aw, how sweet, you came here for me? I always knew you wanted me more than George." He said with a smirk. He continued his walk down the stairs, meeting me at the bottom.

"Oh fuck off," I let go of the air I was holding in, relieved that there was no threat at all. Except for a threat to my sanity.

"Did I scare you, love?" He questioned. "No, I just didn't know anyone was here. Why are you here?" George hadn't mentioned anyone arriving early, and by the looks of it, Matty had just woken up. His hair was disheveled and the bags under his eyes made me guess that it was a long night. Every night was a long night for Matty.

"George let me stay last night. Too hungover to go home, plus I don't feel like seeing my dad. Not in the mood to deal with that prick." He sauntered over to the sofa, grabbed the television remote, and plopped down. He turned the TV on and opened the Netflix app.

I didn't know when George would get back, so I made my way to the sofa and sat across from Matty. I had only known Matty for a few months, as George introduced me to him shortly after we started dating. I thought Matty was alright. He was funny, and a bit narcissistic, but a good friend to George.

Matty opened Breaking Bad on the TV and pressed play. He reached into his pocket and pulled out what I assumed was a joint, along with a lighter. "How sweet, you saved one for me." I joked, but he rolled his eyes and lit the joint.

"Do you actually want some?" He asked, holding the joint in the corner of his mouth.

"No! I’ve never even smoked before, you know that.” I scoffed at him. I may have hung out with George and Matty’s crowd, but I definitely did not fit in with them. They threw parties often, which I attended, but I never partook in any of their activities. I sat out on most things, cigarettes, joints, alcohol, and even spin the bottle. The hard drugs I never dared to touch, and George didn’t know that I knew they did any.

“Doll, it’s about time you try some. You’ve hung out with us enough. Time to drop the innocent schoolgirl act. Besides, I know what you and George get up to,” He said with a smirk on his face. My eyes widened at his admission. There’s no way George would have told Matty what we did.

“What do you mean, ‘what you get up to’? What did he say?” I questioned, turning my body to face him.

He chuckled and took another drag of his joint. “Let’s see, titty fucking, spanking, and the story of when he took your virginity. Losing it in the backseat of a car is very dirty, Y/N.”

My face was flushed pink. I turned away, fearful that Matty would comment on it. “I can’t believe he would tell you that,” I sighed.

“Darling, don’t worry about it. We’re best mates, after all. Here, let me help you get your mind off of him,” He said, scooting closer to me.

“Matty, what are you doing?” I questioned.

“Nothing, just relax. I’m going to take a hit of this and you’re going to inhale the smoke. It’ll help you feel better, trust me,” He said with a sly grin

“O-okay? I’m not going to get high am I?”

“‘Course not, love,”

Matty’s fingers brought the joint to his lips. His cheeks hollowed, sucking the smoke into his mouth. He ushered for me to come closer, so I did. Our faces were inches apart, yet not close enough for him. He grabbed the back of my head, pulling me closer to him. His lips were almost connecting mine. It felt wrong, the ultimate betrayal to George, but it felt so exciting at the same time. I had never done a ‘wrong’ thing in my life, yet here I am with my lips inches away from the personification of the word wrong.

Matty’s thumb rested below my bottom lip, slowly pulling my lips apart. His lips parted, allowing the smoke to enter my mouth.

“Close your mouth. Hold the smoke in and then inhale,” He whispered. My heart felt like it was beating out of my chest, but I submissively followed his orders. I felt the smoke burn my throat, causing me to cough violently.

“There it is. Such a good girl,” He whispered.

“Now what do we do?” I asked.

“You’ll start to feel high in like 20 minutes.”

I jumped up from my seat on the couch. My head was already feeling lighter, but that wasn’t going to stop me. “Matty! You told me I wouldn’t get high from that!” I exclaimed.

“How stupid are you? You seriously thought inhaling smoke from a joint wouldn’t do anything to you?” He argued

“I’m out of here. I can’t fucking believe you,” I grabbed my phone from the couch and stuck it between the band of my skirt. I almost made it into the kitchen before a hand grabbed my wrist.

“Y/N, you can’t leave. I’m not letting you wander the streets while you’re high. Get back in there and sit down,” He commanded. His face showed no signs of humor, he must have been serious.

I was losing all self-control, my mind quickly became fuzzy, and threw all responsibility out the window. “Why should I? You lied to me and called me stupid.”

“Y/N, don’t make me say it again. Sit. Down.” He glared down at me, him being easily a few inches taller. Though not as tall as George, the tone in his voice certainly made him seem like it.

I kept my mouth shut, worried I would get reprimanded again. I sighed in defeat. He led me back to the couch and let go of my wrist.

I sat down again and examined the red mark on my wrist. The sight made me shiver. I shouldn’t have liked his harsh grip on me or his harsh words, but I did. George never treated me that way, other than some light spanking when he took me from behind. George was a true gentleman, a kind soul who would do anything for his girl. George treated me like a queen. Matty was the antithesis of George.

Matty was pure darkness, a true mystery. He was unpredictable to others and himself. He was impulsive, daring, and free. Matty was the type of person they teach you to stay away from in school. He truly cared about no one other than himself. Yet, at that moment, he showed a glimpse of care when I insisted on leaving.

“I feel funny,” I whispered to him, my voice now soft and quiet. I let out a giggle on accident. My brain was no longer able to control my body and I knew Matty would enjoy it.

“Good. You’re supposed to.”

“Do you feel funny?”

“Not especially. I’m used to it. But this is your first time, tell me everything you feel.”

I leaned back into the couch, watching Matty attentively. His curly brown hair was out of control, yet perfect. His brown eyes were full of mystery, yet full of passion. His arms were visible thanks to his lack of a shirt. His veins were prominent, almost coercing me towards him. He was sinful.

“I feel like I’m doing something bad,” I said truthfully

“Love, it’s just a bit of weed. It won’t hurt you.”

“No, not that. I keep thinking about you and it feels wrong,” I admitted.

He smirked and sat up from his previous laying position on the couch. “Oh yeah? What are you thinking about?” He questioned. His tone caused my body to feel warm. Matty’s voice was like a drug. I knew I should stay away, yet I kept going back for more.

“Your hands. They’re veiny and they look nice. And your lips whenever you let the smoke into my mouth,” I was hesitant with my words. Even my high brain knew this was wrong.

Matty scooted closer to me, only inches away. His hand moved to rest on my bare knee. “My hands, huh? Well, I’ve been thinking about you too. What my hands could do to you, if you’d let me,” He coaxed.

His hand slowly traveled up my thigh. His fingers rubbed small circles into my skin. My hips involuntarily rose from the couch to meet his grip. He chuckled lightly at my actions.

“Matty, w-we can’t. I’m dating George,” I protested, unsure if I was trying to convince him or myself.

“Y/N, don’t think about George right now. I can make you feel way better than he can,” He whispered into my ear. I let out a sigh mixed with a moan. My head was spinning from the weed and the tension. His fingers felt like both ice and fire at the same time. He was slowly taking over my body. It was evident that I was losing this battle. I could feel the wetness under my skirt. If his fingers moved a few more inches he would be sure to feel it.

“Okay…just a little,” I gave in.

As soon as Matty heard those words leave my mouth, he got to work. He crashed his lips into mine and pulled me into his lap. My hips ground into his slowly. His hands were woven through my hair, gripping and pulling at the strands. I moaned at his pulling, which brought a smirk onto his face.

I leaned down for more, addicted to the taste of weed and tobacco on his lips. His hands traveled quickly from my hair to my back. He slipped his hands under my shirt and gripped my waist. I wasn’t skinny by any means, so I tried to hold myself up so I wouldn’t crush him.

“Babe, just relax. Let me take care of you,” He whispered in between kisses.

“I don’t want to crush you, I’m too heavy,” I whispered back.

“Is that what George tells you? Darling, don’t be afraid to give me your body,” He says and plants a kiss on my cheek.

He resumed his attack on my lips. I let go and laid on top of him fully. My hands were gripping the back of his neck while his moved down to my skirt. One hand gripped my waist while the other traveled under my skirt. His strong hand gripped my ass so tightly that I knew it would leave bruises.

I was becoming short of breath so I parted from our aggressive kiss. He gave my ass a sharp smack, “Did I say you could stop?”

“No, sir.”

“Good fucking girl,” He growled into my ear.

He tried to resume the kiss, but I shoved him back lightly. He looked at me both confused and irritated. I leaned up to take my shirt off, leaving me only in my black skirt and sports bra.

“Let me see all of you, baby,” He said as he lifted my bra above my head. He threw the garment across the room and returned his focus to my body.

His eyes left mine, lowering to my newly exposed breasts. One hand returned to my ass underneath my skirt, while the other gripped at my breast. I let out a loud moan at the contact. It had been a few weeks since George touched me like that.

Matty’s mouth attached to my nipple, sucking and pulling on it lightly. He groped my ass and pulled me closer to him. He repeated this, allowing me to grind into him once again. I could feel his hardness poking my inner thigh. I would gladly help him out, but he seemed to be content with worshiping my body.

His lips left my breast. “Take your skirt off,” He commanded.

I did as he said. I got up from being on top of him and pulled my skirt down my legs. The only thing covering me was my light pink underwear covered in little heart decals.

“So fucking sweet and innocent. Get on your knees for me.”

I lowered myself down onto my knees. He sat up, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. I helped him push his jeans off, leaving his black boxers on.

“Can I touch you, sir?” I asked, batting my eyelashes. I don’t know what overcame me, the weed or Matty, but I became a whole different person. My sex with George was slow and sweet. With Matty, I became a complete harlot, a sinner, a fallen angel.

“Yeah baby, touch my cock for me,” He said. He palmed his hard cock through his boxers, getting it ready for me to take it.

I grabbed the waistband of his boxers and slowly pulled them down. His hard length hit his stomach, tempting me closer. He was big. Not quite as thick as George's but similar in length. I could feel my mouth watering, a mixture of cotton mouth and pure lust.

My innocent eyes looked up at him through long lashes as I gave him an experimental tug. He stared down at me with an open mouth, no sign of pleasure or discomfort. I was nervous. This was only my third time doing this to a guy. I decided to follow my instincts.

I licked from his base to his tip. He sighed, leaning his head back and looking at the ceiling. I gave his tip a few kitten licks before I fully committed. His hands flew to my hair, forming a makeshift ponytail.

I took him into my mouth, starting slow at first. I bobbed my head up and down, staring into his eyes for approval. He moaned my name almost as if he knew I was seeking approval.

“Such a good little girl taking my cock. I know you can take more,” He groaned.

I continued taking his length in my mouth before sinking down all the way, his tip reaching the back of my throat. I had his entire length in my mouth, my eyes were watering, and I was gripping his thighs tightly. He pulled me off by his grip on my hair.

“Fucking hell, Y/N, George never told me you were that good.” He smiled down at me.

Those words should’ve made me do a double-take. I should’ve stopped everything and walked out. I should have. But I didn’t.

Matty pushed my head back down onto his cock. He gripped the sides of my head and quickly thrust into my mouth. His tip was reaching the back of my throat with every thrust. The sounds coming from my mouth were unholy. My spit was running down his length and thighs. I’m sure there would be stains on this couch.

Matty pulled me off his length again. “I need to taste you, baby. It’s not fair he gets you whenever he wants.”

He lifted me up by my arms. “Jump,” He adds. I do as I’m told. He catches me, holding me up by my ass. I can feel his length resting against my ass and I let out a moan. Matty walks us over to the stairs before I interject.

“What are you doing?” I question.

“Taking you upstairs, love.”

He walks us upstairs, clearly struggling to hold my weight with his lanky arms. He kicks open the door to a room I know all too well. I’m thrown onto George’s bed. Images of my lovely boyfriend flood my head. It should be him with me right now, throwing me around and pushing me onto my knees. Matty is staring down at me like I’m his prey, not wanting to waste a second before devouring me.

“Close the door,” I add.

Matty leans down. I feel a sting on my cheek before I even hear it. Matty gripped the cheek he had just slapped. “You’re in no place to make demands.”

“Sorry, sir. What if he comes back?” I was worried about George walking in on us. I wasn’t worried much about getting caught cheating, I was more worried about not being able to finish underneath Matty.

“He’s not coming back soon. I texted him when you got here and told him to get food with Adam for the party.”

I sighed in relief. My high brain only wanted one thing; Matty. The weed made everything feel 100 times stronger, his touches, his words, even his presence. Everything went straight to my core.

Matty pushed me up further on the bed. “I wanna taste you, can I?” He asked.

I nodded, not being able to make out any words. I felt like putty in his hands. I couldn’t think or speak. All I could do was react to his touch.

He spread my legs and pulled down my pink panties. The cool air hit my core, causing me to shut my legs. “Keep them open, Y/N. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

He forged my legs open again and ran a finger down my stomach. He reached my pelvis and applied a slight amount of pressure. “You’re gonna feel me here real soon, baby. I’ll show you how a real man fucks,” He groaned.

His finger traveled slowly down to my clit. He rubbed little circles on my clit, causing my legs to jolt up and almost hit his face. He chuckled at my eagerness. His finger slipped down to gather my wetness.

“Holy fuck, you’re dripping.”

“It’s all for you, Matty.”

“It fucking better be.”

He dipped a finger into my entrance as if to test the waters. I moaned loudly, not having felt this kind of intrusion in weeks. He kept his finger still, waiting for more of a reaction. I huffed, needing more. I lowered my hips down, fucking myself slowly on his finger.

“Greedy little whore. You want me that bad? Beg for it.” He commanded. Strands of his hair were falling out of place, one stray curl was covering part of his eyebrow. He looked beautiful, gorgeous even. He and I both knew I would do anything he said.

“Please, Matty. Please, Please, Please. I’ve been so good for you. You’re so fucking hot, I want you inside of me so badly, please. Please fuck me with your fingers until I can’t walk, please baby.” I cried out.

He smiled, accepting my plea. He plunged his finger further into me, quickly thrusting in and out. He leaned down and licked a stripe up from my entrance to my clit. He began to lick in circles around my sensitive clit. I moaned, and my hand reached down to grip his dark locks.

He added another finger inside me, stretching me out enough for him. The thrusts of his fingers were quick and deliberate. His fingers were long and calloused and they hit the right spots in me. I moaned his name and pulled roughly on his hair.

He slapped my thigh, “Don’t pull my hair you fucking bitch.”

I moaned loudly, surely loud enough for the neighbors to hear. This was nothing new for them, as George and I frequently had fun over the summer. The loudness and shrillness may have been new for them, as George had never made me feel anything as pleasurable.

Matty’s fingers slipped out from inside me. I groaned at the loss of fullness. The fullness was comforting, knowing this was the closest I could possibly be to another human being. His body and mine, intertwined for a short period of time.

“Are you ready for me, baby girl?” He asked. He got on his knees, hovering over me. One hand rested on my knee, keeping my legs apart. The other hand was moving up and down on his length.

“Yes, sir, please give it to me. I want you so bad,” I said, yet it almost came out as a squeak. I was breathing hard and the weed was causing me anxiety. My fears and anxiety were silenced by Matty slowly pushing into me.

We both moaned in unison. He pinned one of my hands down, my other hand was palming my breasts. “Don’t touch yourself, that’s my job,” He grunted.

He pushed his long length into me until he finally bottomed out. He and I were both shaking from the ecstasy of sex and drugs combined. He pulled out slowly, then thrust back into me. I let out a cry, the pace being too slow.

“Faster, Matty, faster.” I cried.

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do. You want faster? I’ll give you fucking faster,” He pummeled into me harshly, forcing my head to hit the bed frame. He didn’t stop for me, he wouldn’t stop for anything. He continued his quick and deliberate thrusts. He gave my cheek a light slap and pulled on my hair.

“Ugh, I’ve wanted this so fucking badly for so long. Take it, baby.” He groaned. I knew it was probably the weed talking, but my heart still fluttered at his words.

My hand gripped the back of his neck and brought him down for a kiss. Our lips devoured each other’s, our tongues battled for dominance. My battle was short-lived, as we both knew I was just a toy for him to ruin. I was okay with that. My fantasy of finally doing something wrong was coming true. I felt like a true sinner.

“You’re a dirty fucking girl, aren’t you? Look at you all fucked out on my cock. Fucking say it, say you’re a dirty fucking girl, Y/N,” he growled. His hand came down on the sides of my throat, squeezing enough to make me even more lightheaded.

I couldn’t speak. His cock pounding into me at a harsh speed was overwhelming. His hand on my throat, his other hand pinning me down, was pushing me over the edge. I let out a small squeak, trying to warn him of my closeness.

He slapped my cheek again, “Fucking say it!” He yelled, quickening his pace. I felt my eyes roll back into my head as my body let go. I had never had an orgasm while high before. It felt unearthly. My body shook, and I felt my core clenching and unclenching around him while he continued thrusting into me. I was seeing colors and I blocked out all noise, including Matty’s grunts and moans. I felt like I was on a cloud.

I was smacked out of my orgasm, literally, by Matty. “Little slut can’t speak when she’s spoken to and she comes without permission. Little girl needs to learn her lesson.” He pulled out of me quickly and flipped me over onto all fours.

I arched my back, knowing that’s what he wanted to see. He moaned and planted a firm smack onto my ass. He pushed back inside me, not waiting for me to readjust at all.

His pace did not falter. The new angle allowed him better access to my g-spot, which he hit perfectly.

“Say you’re a dirty fucking girl,” He moaned into my ear.

“I’m a dirty fucking girl! I’m such a slut for you, Matty! You feel so good,” I moaned out.

“That’s it. You’re doing so good for me. So tight.”

“Give it to me, Matty. Make me come again please!”

My cries were silenced by his hand over my mouth. I grunted into his hand, I wanted everyone in the neighborhood to know how good Matty’s cock felt inside of me.

“Tell me I’m better,” He groans and lifts his hand from my mouth. He places his hands on my hips, slamming my hips back against his.

“What?” I question. He couldn’t be referring to George, could he?

“George, tell me I’m better than George. Has he ever made you come like this, baby?”

His hips pause. He lifts me up and pressed my back against his chest. He holds me up by my arms, his face right next to mine.

I look him directly in the eyes. “You’re so much fucking better than him.”

He moans and pounds into me once again. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna come. Where do you want me?”

“I-I’m close too. Come inside me, Matty, please. He’s never done that before,” I moan into his ear.

My brain was so fuzzy, I didn’t process the sound of the front door opening or the sound of George and Adam laughing downstairs. Matty most certainly heard them since a wide grin appeared on his face.

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna come. Tell me I’m better again,” He whines.

My tits were bouncing, my mouth was agape. Matty’s eyes burned into mine, not daring to break eye contact. It was a sinful scene. It was a sight straight out of a porn. I reached down to rub circles at my clit, bringing myself closer to the edge.

“You’re better, Matty! You’re better than George!” I screamed with one final rub of my finger. My climax washed over me for the second time that day. I fell back onto Matty’s chest and my hands reached up to grab the curls at the nape of his neck.

I couldn’t process the sounds around me once again, but I felt Matty’s thrusts slow until he pounded into me one last time. I could feel his warmth shoot through me. He grabbed onto my tits and bit into my neck. He stayed inside me and continued thrusting, slower this time, to ride our highs.

Everything came crashing down when I heard a loud, “WHAT THE FUCK?”

My eyes shot open. I turned my head to find George standing in the doorway, Adam a few feet behind him in the hallway. George’s face was red, his hands balled into fists. Adam walked closer to him and held him back by George’s shoulders.

Matty smirked and pushed me back onto all fours. The high combined with my two orgasms had completely overtaken me. I was floating in another realm and I couldn’t control my body. I knew what was happening, I just couldn’t move or say anything.

Matty pounded into me again, pushing his cum further into me. “Sorry, mate, just finishing up here.” He said with a sly smirk on his face.

“GET THE FUCK OFF OF HER” George screamed, lunging toward Matty. Adam, the saint he was, tried to keep George back but George was ultimately too strong.

Matty was ripped away from me and thrown onto the floor, completely naked. “I think you mean out of her, Georgey.” He laughed.

His attitude was sickening, but god was it hot. I was unsure of his goal, either to make George mad or to keep fucking me. He obviously had no problem with fucking in front of people. I began to wonder if he was some kind of exhibitionist or if he had done this before.

George threw punches at Matty, Matty tried to block them but was unsuccessful. Adam quickly ran over, struggling to pull George off of Matty. I was laid on the bed, covered up by one of George’s blankets.

“George, please, stop!” I cried. He didn’t listen. Tears were falling from my eyes, the high making it more intense.

Somewhere, somehow during all of this, Ross ran up the stairs and helped Adam pull away an infuriated George. George managed to get one final hit in, a kick to Matty’s side. Matty was on the floor, nose covered in blood and curled up. He was clutching onto his side and his nose.

“Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Ross asked, clearly confused about why George was beating the shit out of his best friend, but also why Matty was naked.

“Matty was fucking my girlfriend in my bed!” George shouted. I crawled up further into George’s bed as if somehow it would make me disappear.

George looked at me with venom in his eyes. He pointed at me, tears threatening to fall from his eyes, “You,”

I sobbed into his blanket. He marched towards me and ripped the blanket from my grasp. He looked down at my naked body, bruises and red marks scattered across me.

“Why the fuck would you do this to me?” He said, choking back the tears.

“I-I don’t know, George. We were high a-and,”

“Save it. Get the fuck out of my house.” George demanded.

“B-But,”

“Y/N, you both have 3 minutes to get the fuck out of my house or I will actually kill him,” George said. He wouldn’t even look at me. I looked to Adam and Ross for help, but they showed no mercy as well.

“I need my clothes. Can someone get my clothes from downstairs? A-And his,” I looked over at Matty.

Adam nodded and exited the room. George stood there with his arms crossed and his head down. Ross had his hand placed on George’s shoulder. Not much, but a sign of comfort.

Adam shortly returned with our clothes, clearly not happy about the situation. He threw the pile of clothes on the bed. The three men walked out of the room and shut the door. I could hear George’s sobs through the door.

I pulled out my bra, underwear, shirt, and skirt. I quickly slipped the garments on and gathered Matty’s clothes in my arms.

I reached down and pulled him up by his arm, helping him sit on the bed. I used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe some of the blood from his face. I helped him slip his boxers and sweatpants on, quickly realizing he didn’t have a shirt on earlier.

I looked around the room in search of a shirt that could be Matty’s. I found one on the floor by George’s desk. I grabbed the shirt and helped Matty slip it on.

“We gotta hurry up and go,” I whispered

“He’s my best friend, Y/N, I can’t lose him,” He cried and rested his head on my shoulder.

“I know, Matty, he’s my boyfriend. Or was? You wanted to get high, Matty. You started this.”

“Bullshit, Y/N, you enjoyed it just as much as I did.”

“I did, I loved it. But we can talk about this later, I can’t watch you get hurt again,” I said, standing up. I offered a hand to Matty, which he accepted.

I held onto Matty’s arm, almost for protection. I knew Matty was not capable of protecting me right now, nor would he even want to. I opened the door slowly. They weren’t standing there.

Matty and I walked down the stairs together. I was careful not to touch his side where George kicked him. “I’ll take you home and clean you up, okay?” I whispered to him.

He nodded. We were then met with the three men standing near the front door.

George walked up to me and looked directly into my eyes. “In case you didn’t figure it out, we’re over. That goes for both of you. Matty, I never want to see you again. I’m done helping you. And as for you, I can’t believe you would cheat on me. You broke my heart, Y/N.”

I hid my face in Matty’s arm. I couldn’t look at George. I couldn’t believe that I did such a thing. The high was wearing off, and I was faced with the consequences of my actions.

We walked out the door without another word. Matty and I walked a short distance away from George’s house until we found a bench by the sidewalk. We sat down. Silence.

“So…what now?” I asked, looking at Matty.

He laughed and put his arms behind his head. “Round two at my place?”

[merakiui]

me when you post a writers ask game : （ ๑✧∀✧๑ ）

can i request 9, 17, 33, and 44!

( ੭ ･ᴗ･ )੭ hehe I love yapping about writing whenever I can!!! Thank you for requesting! <3

(writer asks)

9. in an ideal world where you’re already super successful and published, would you want to see a tv or movie adaptation of your work? why or why not?

!!!!! a movie or tv adaptation would be so cool! There's always something so fascinating about written fiction becoming film, as there are some aspects and stylistic choices that can be portrayed much clearer in a visual format. >w< also,,, more than just a film or tv adaptation, it would be a dream come true to have a video essay made based on said adaptation. I always love to see how others interpret and dissect my writing, so it would be interesting to watch someone share their thoughts on the adaptation.

17. what is your favorite line you’ve ever written?

There are too many... truthfully, there are times when I read through my work again and I come across a banger line and I think to myself: "Who wrote this?????" (in a positive way). I think some of my favorite lines stem from The Most Dangerous Game. I may have gone overboard with the sugary poetry in tmdg, but this is Jade Leech in love. I had to capture the essence of a romance that is so all-consuming on both sides, and what better way to do so than use every flowery figurative in the book? (´▽`ʃƪ)♡

I could sift through the sands of my writing until I find dozens of lines I consider gems, but I'll select just one as per the question! I think one of my favorite lines would have to be this one from everything is going to be okay. The line is: Soup is what becomes of your brain when your body is too itchy. This line is just so gutting to me! In the context of the story, it's a great way to describe the reader's trauma and the tumultuous disconnect between brain and body.

33. do you start with the characters or the plot when writing?

It's a bit of both! Sometimes I craft the plot first and then see which characters would fit into it and other times I start with characters and build the plot around them. The best way I can think to describe it is that it's like putting a puzzle together. Sometimes you start with the border pieces so that you can fill in the whole picture and other times you do it in reverse.

44. any writing advice you want to share?

The best advice I hold onto (for all kinds of writing) is that every first draft will be terrible/awkward/imperfect, and this is normal. I often remind myself that all great statues and busts began as chunks of stone and that it took lots of continuous work to shape them into the way they are today. That is to say, it's okay to cringe at a bad first draft because, in most cases, it is meant to be this way so that you can return to it and continue sculpting it into something that suits your vision! forgive my unusual metaphor. I hope it's not confusing,, ;;;;

In other words, don't be so harsh in the first draft stage. This is a time to simply put words on the page. The rough edges will always be smoothed out in later stages! ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

[junipersmunkey]

CHERRY WINE

REMUS LUPIN

Summary: Remus follows his crush into the room on requirement

Remus lupin one shot, hozier, fluff, angst, Remus being in love, he falls first and harder, just fun little romanticizing

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.

    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Remus nimbled on his already abused fingertips. The orange beams of light hitting him in the golden affair of the day. The outside corridors inhabited by a group of boys settled on the ledges on the piazza of Hogwarts. I should say this to her, write her something. No. A grind of his teeth and locked tight fist. Bitter trepidation of his mind, battles with the perturbation of his heart.

Anastasia on the other hand was not spending her Thursday contemplating and romanticizing sonnets. She was livid and drawn with a vexed attitude. Storming her way through the open-aired corridor with a miffed expression and shoulders pulled close to her body.

“Is it that time of the month Fox?” Sirius teased watching her come down the hall towards the four boys. Anastasia snapped her head in the direction of the cocky boy she hadn't noticed before. Halting her journey in front of the four and pointing her finger in the direction of the insolent teen.

“I am gonna take a knife and gut you like a fish. Huh, did you here that I fucking gut you and those bloody Hufflepuffs.” And with that threatening comment she continued her driven route into the school.

Anastasia had offered her help to the overwhelmed Lily the week before. The redhead had been juggling taking extra classes, doing all of the prefect duties because of her less than contributive partner, and with the head boy and girl of that year who had put all the tasks on the younger ones. She was troubled beyond belief. In one of her agitated rants to the girls she had mentioned having to plan a mural that the first year Gryffindors were meant to paint along with the other houses. Anastasia had kindly taken the task from Lily.

She was only now regretting it on today of all days. A day she just wanted to get through to keep herself busy to ward off the forlorn thoughts warping her mind. The Hufflepuff prefects had taken all of the yellow paint provided to Gryffindor for the mural. Now she was left to figure out how to help the eleven year olds paint a red lion next to the already finished house murals and then face Lily’s wrath when she sees it.

“Is it weird that kind of did something to me, got a full semi right now.” Sirius asked, watching his friends turn to him with disgusted expressions.

Remus took himself off the perched position of the railing standing tall, using the thin poetry book and smacking Sirius in the head, not bothering to hold on to it. Letting the book fall onto the flinched boy's chest. He rushed off in the direction of Anastasia.

“What, so I'm the bad guy? I can't help that. It's a natural bodily reaction.” Sirius yelled out only to be ignored by Remus. Throwing his hands up and turning to James. “Am I the bad guy Prongs?”

“I still don’t know how you get girls.” James said, shaking head in disbelief and continuing on in his quidditch playthroughs.

-

The alarm and hesitation in Remus’s head was loud. He didn’t know what he was doing chasing after her, he didn’t know what he would do when he would find her. Though flexing his hands and legs staggering with his natural reaction of returning, retreating had sent in, he continued on. Telling himself he would just see if she was all right, that was all. And so he followed in suit only catching up to see her slipping through an unfamiliar door.

Anastasia’s back to the door, her body sitting in the middle of a huge trampoline inside a room equal in size to the great hall. The room was decorated in detailed architecture similar to Hogwarts' large pillars, only more embellished with lions, eagles, badgers, and snakes carved into the stone, surrounding them were rock flowers and pictures of nature. The windows, only shown on one side of the walls built with stained glass hues of reds, oranges, and blues dancing on Anastasia’s billowy white shirt. The windows painted stories of wizards Merlin and Arthur. Tales of the sacred 28 and the founders of Hogwarts.

It was a beautiful and confusing sight, one that needed to be breathed in, looked at through the microscope of a photo but Remus was only given a moment before the sight grew in beauty, her face.

“Lupin?”

“I um.” He let his confusion grow. A trampoline in Hogwarts? “I just wanted to see if you were all right.” His whispers could be heard through the silence and echo of the empty room.

Anastasia watched him, if Remus had been any closer he would have seen the surprise in her eyes. “I’m just a little miffed is all.”

He flexed his hands. “I could beat up Sirius.” He smiled. I made her laugh. Her giggles ricochet through the room into his ears.

“No, no. Sirius’s comments though stupid isn’t really the cause for my….” Her mouth opened and closed and a shrug was her answer. Depression felt dramatic, anger wasn’t the right word and frustration she crude in the subject of her feelings.

Remus nodded he understood the strife of choosing the words to describe the complexity of your feeling layers and all. There was a pause in their stares, maybe a moment to think or just to observe.

“Come here.” She whispered and so he did, moving to climb onto the trampoline. “Nooo take off your shoes first.” And he did, fumbled with the laces of the muggle sneakers placing them next to her toppled over ones and a straight line.

Anastasia leaned over stretching her arm out to help him on, though he didn’t need it. Maybe it was her way of telling him to sit closer not wanting to say it, to speak her want of his proximity into words.

They sat in silence, legs crossed. The silence was not deafening for Remus; it was more comforting the room, her presence surprisingly and the domestic feeling of it all. For Anastasia it compelled her to think to speak once more. 

“It's my fathers birthday today.” She was surprised herself she admitted it. It sounded so normal without context, a positive connotation of the words that depressed her greatly.

“Oh.” Remus was confused again. Did she miss him alot or something? 

“How are your parents?” Was this the reply he should have given he didn’t know but judging by the fast movement of Anastasia head turning to look at him it was not.

“My parents are dead, Lupin.” She said it in a way as if she felt bad for him and not herself, like she was not the victim but the bearer of bad news. Oh something.

“I’m so sor-” He looked horrified but she cut him off before he could say the words she had heard far too many times.

“It's alright. I just… thought everyone knew. Especially you.” Of course Anastasia had assumed he knew, she had seen him the day of, hell he had been a house down from it. Remus lowered his head in guilt. 

He remembered her parents well, his own stories of Anastasia’s father and him. A man he had seen in all his dazzling glory and  a shiny picture of him etched into his mind. Her mother a scary woman in her natural intimidation only to reveal her kind nature. He remembers looking at the couple and imagining himself having that kind of love, no burden son to take care of, or unspoken problems, just pure love.

“It’s kind of nice to know that's not what everyone thinks of me.” Anastasia whispered. It was nice, she knew the pitiful stares and the apologies.

 

She remembers her first year well, her scars much more striking. She remembers her eleven year old self theorizing all the possibilities into why Remus didn’t want to be her friend anymore, at first it was because he had boy friends now and was embarrassed, and then it was that he no longer recognized her because of the scars now but that was quickly ruled out in her name have been called in the hat ceremony. And then she settled on that he had known what had happened that night and feared her.

Anastasia stood up beckoning him up and holding out her hands which he took kindly. Anastasia started first but with their bound hands Remus followed in suit. The sight was childish for the tall teen and the grown girl. Flying in the air and a plunge into the fluid fabric. The room was loud now, heaving breaths, metal springs contracting, giggles from the two when they would fall into each other or slip with the smoothness of their socks, and the loudest of all their heartbeats. 

The jumping continued for how long the two didn’t know but thought of self doubt and fear of the unknown had fled. And grave thoughts of past and frustration of minuscule problems were breathed out through laughter.

And now the panting was loud. The fast rising and falling of chests layed next to one another in the now dim room, the lighting gave only blue hues on their faces. The catching of breath gave them time to indulge in the ceiling. It was painted similar to the ones of Italian churches. Angles, demons, harpies, serpents, gods and lovers.

“I found this room second year.” A pause. “I was crying and it showed me a trampoline.” There was a joking manner in her tone about how silly a trampoline is what a crying girl needs. Remus understood now too caught up to realize this was the Room of Requirements.

Her words held a serious thought in them. “You shouldn’t go exploring this room though. There's things that will just make you sad and tell lies.” She recalled her second year well also how she would sneak into this room for another reason then the play of the trampoline but an object that held her victim as well.

“I’ve only ever read about it.” Remus whispered so close to her ear.

Anastasia smiled at his words. “Well of course you have the bestest of friends, you don’t need a silly room.”

Remus didn’t understand what she had meant. “Don’t you have Lily, Mary, Marlene, Alice even?”

Anastasia pursed her lips for a moment. How was she to word this? It felt rude to the girls and the impact they have on her. “I adore the girl but we don’t talk about anything serious or at least I don’t….” He turned to look at her now, her side profile close to his own. Remus could feel the stray strands of her hair underneath his turned cheek.

“Well who do you talk to?” Remus hadn’t given himself the time to think before he spoke; his words were not meant to call her out, only curiosity plaguing his intent.

“Suppose there's a reason why this room is always open to me.” The paradox in her words was strong.

It was funny the door had stayed open for Remus as if it knew he was required in Anastasia’s need in her moment of weakness. 

The October day was one remembered by Remus well. It gave him humility to the romanticized idea he had of Anastasia in his mind. And though this a test to his feeling for her it only had them grow the once roots of their childhood and the stems of his unseen pinning and observations had now grown leaves and parts for buds of new stories. Rather than scare him of her reality not so prim and perfect but now - pure.

And when he entered his room that night with his curtains drawn he wrote her a poem addressed to her with hope that in time he would give it to her.

Her eyes and words are so icy

Oh but she burns like rum on a fire

Hot and fast and angry as she can be

I walk my days on a wire

It looks ugly but its clean 

Oh mama, dont fuss over me

 The way she tells I’m hers and she is mine

Open hand or closed fist would be fine

The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

Her fight and fury is Fiery

Oh, but she loves like sleep to the freezing

Sweet and right and merciful

I’m all but washed in the tide of her breathing

And it’s worth it, it’s divine.

GO READ SEVEN (R.L)

IF YOU LIKED IT. This is just a chapter from my fanfiction so read Seven (R.L) by freddiemercuyscat on Wattpad <—— linked

[l0v3lyr0ses]

friends to lovers w Sayori but she doesn't off herself (HCs)

Note: reader is not MC, reader is an entirely different character! And this is fem reader

Before dating

You and Sayori have been friends since childhood, and it's no secret to those around you that you both have developed feelings for each other.

You were the one who confessed your feelings to Sayori. She needed reassurance but eventually accepted your confession.

you truly meant what you said, but you understand if your sudden outburst "I LIKE YOU, SAYORI!" seemed insincere.

Sayori did feel like she wasn't good enough for you after all

Despite this, Sayori is grateful that you like her. She just needs someone to be there for her. <3

"You...like me? why?"

while in dating era (with rizz)

Sayori is usually quite affectionate and likes to be close, which is fine most of the time. However, on her bad days, she can become a bit overwhelmed.

Sayori has started to improve her self-care because she understands that you care about her well-being. She doesn't want you to worry, and your words have been encouraging her to have faith in her own ability to recover.

There are times when Sayori feels like you would prefer someone else over her, but she just needs some comfort, which you always provide.

At first, Sayori was hesitant to express her love with the words "I love you". However, she eventually mustered the courage to do so.

I eventually mustered the courage to have poetry dates with her. We would find a peaceful and quiet spot, just the two of us, and write poetry together.

you enjoy each other's company. Sayori's poems still reflect her internal emotions, but since you started dating, you have become a topic in her writing. Those poems are her favorites.

Sayori compliments you and treats you so well she does not want to take you for granted.

"I...i love you so much.."

[dipplinduo]

How long does it typically take you to work on a chapter of your fanfiction? In terms of drafting, getting feedback, and all of that.

Omg stop I love this question???

I'mma be real with you chief, the process is very chaotic & fell into place like this overtime organically. I've enjoyed writing prior to this, but more so of journaling and poetry. The work I post now is my first time legit trying to write storytelling, and it's all been a trial by fire kind of experience. But basically:

I've gotten into the habit of making vague outlines for chapters (or even oneshots) a few days before I sit down and actually write something. They're not really meant to be detailed at all; they're just meant to be trigger phrases that keep me on track with the events I aim to have unfold. Here's an example of what this looks like with Chapter 5 of S&S D (The Power Outage & Storm):

The outlines themselves are also very subject to change; I use them as references but often add in extra detail/scenes or remove/rearrange scenes as I'm writing. With this outline you can immediately see...

Juliana texting Drayton became Kieran snapping the cave selfie. I thought this change would be much better commentary on Kieran's unearthing feelings, as he made the active decision to take the selfie on his own. It was also a good way for Drayton to remain aware of their developing relationship (which was a secondary motive of mine given the brotherly role he eventually adopts), and it became a plot point I could refer back to later when Kieran discovers that Juliana might actually have feelings for him given what she does with the picture.

I was originally envisioning something more romantic with a shared Ribombee sighting. I changed this for a few reasons: 1) Having this scene as is would've verified that Ribombee wasn't a figment of Kieran's imagination 2) I had developed Ribombee's backstory and connection to Kieran by this point, and felt that creating a connection to Juliana this early on would diminish the storytelling with that. 3) Having Kieran see Ribombee as a more "pleasant" experience in this moment was symbolic to his healing in itself, and the extra detail of making Ribombee be a bit of a gatherer who is watching over them adds to the mystical/fairy godmother-like characterization I wanted to depict with her.

As for the actual writing itself?

This is a bit of a personality thing with me, but I am extremely bad at breaking tasks up into digestible bits. I'm more of a "I want to sit down and do all of this in one sitting no matter how long it takes me" kind of person. So 99.99% of the time I'm posting something - whether a singular chapter, a oneshot, or even a double update? It's all written in one sitting when I have a free day. I also have perfectionistic tendencies at times, so I tend to be a slow writer. Rather than write a rough draft to go back to and revise later, I hover over sentences or phrases and I will write/rewrite them when I feel stuck. I refuse to move on otherwise because leaving things unfinished apparently bothers me. So the amount of time it takes me can range but it's pretty much an all day endeavor, LOL.

The pros to this method is that I can zero in and maintain a continuous, uninterrupted flow after having an idea simmer for enough time. But as you can imagine, the cons include feeling very drained afterwards and not necessarily having a true revision process. This is why I make jokes about correcting typos immediately after publishing, lol. As much as I rather not have them there and appreciate when people (kindly) point them out, I think it's also important for me to be able to be imperfect to challenge said perfectionistic tendencies. So the proofreading drawback is actually deliberate, but it's more so for my personal development than for the writing! :P

As for the feedback?

Because of the spontaneity and intensity of my writing style, as well as my eagerness to publish after I finish something, I choose not to use betas. Instead, I actually like to do something I kind of refer to as "consulting" from time-to-time, lol? I essentially will tell a trusted person an idea I am not fully confident about or am having trouble with flushing out, and then I bounce back and forth with them. More often than not being able to verbalize my idea usually just helps me in itself.

The other core component of feedback is actually you guys. I always try to keep the reader experience in mind, and gauging your reactions helps inform me on where I wanna go next. For example...? >:)

No one (to my knowledge) has guessed the big moment that's approaching in Sweet & Sour. I kindaaaa want it to be a possible theory right before the reveal. And since we're getting much closer to it, I'm switching up my hints so they're going from more vague and gradual (beginning of story to recently) -> double entendres (last few chapters) -> more in your face (where we're going). I'm actually super excited but also very terrified for the execution of this shift LOL.

But really, even for cuter moments or smaller things or whatever? You guys are constantly inspiring and encouraging me, and your reactions and theories and fanarts and everrrythingggg all helps me tell a better story, so thank you. I do enjoy working with some of your ideas when you give me permission, and I do put in deliberate nods in fics to some of the things you are all saying/doing to express gratitude and respect back to you. I really want you to know that I am listening and I am so grateful for all of your engagement, so thank you for making my storytelling better. <3

So in sum the writing process for me is essentially:

Think about ideas in the back of my head for a few days

Create an outline a few days later, continue thinking in the back of my head

(If necessary): Consult about weak points that are making me feel stuck

Sit down and write when I have a free day and go ham. (Note: Picking out music to listen to also super helps with channeling the vibe of the writing piece.)

Publish

Wait for reactions and gauge where I wanna go from there

Maintain blog/respond to reactions during the gap; tease aspects of the fic & generate hype (mutual benefit - y'all can get excited and I can get motivated)

Repeat

If you're looking to write yourself, I would honestly tell you to do as I say and not as I do. I'm an extremely stubborn person when it comes to my personal expression (lol) and I honestly wouldn't want people to deal with the exhaustion afterwards, tbh. I'd suggest creating an outline, pacing yourself appropriately, and taking breaks as you write. Revising/proofreading before publishing would probably make your work a lot stronger, but if you're too impatient like me I see you and I feel you and we ride at dawn together LOOOLLL

This was a super fun question, I hope this answers it well enough! :)

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Sketchbook Week Day 4 - Dreaming of Bumping Into You (Chapter 1)

Summary: When Johanna is woken up in the middle of the night by a strange phone call, she knows she has to ask Kaisa what is happening. She just doesn’t know which is more concerning; whether it’s the words being said or the way her best friend sounds while she’s delivering them

Notes: Written for @sketchbookweek Day 4 - Secrets

Cw: mentions of drug/alcohol use. Nobody actually uses either, they’re just fucking stupid

Listen, with the amount of songs I make sketchbook edits to in my head, I have no idea why I decided to write fanfic inspired by Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High, but when the inspiration strikes you can’t argue with it yk

Read it on ao3

“Arch sorceress Pilqvist is a disloyal, unreasonable woman. It is beyond me how she has reached such a high standing inside our order when her skull is so thick I hardly think hurling a crystal ball at it would even hurt!”

Kaisa took a deep breath. The very woman who was being slandered right in front of her had taught her that filling your lungs with air was the best thing you could do when you wanted to lash out. Not that it made the anger go away, not at all. But at least it made it so one couldn't get any impulsive words out, at least not until after one big exhale. After which you could always inhale again and stop yourself from getting cursed, punched, fired, or in her current case, probably all at once.

“Tell me again how you think insulting my mentor is going to make me help you, Ingrid.”

Her voice had been calm. Slow. The appropriate tone for a library, which, even though her boss seemed to have forgotten, they were inside at the moment. Yet the witch immediately looked angry, the red that had been steadily rising on her neck reaching her sharp cheekbones.

“You must!” She shot, glaring at how Kaisa kept her demeanour purposefully disinterested, eyelids heavy and shoulders slumped over the library cart she was walking around with for reshelving purposes. Ingrid didn’t quite like how the librarian made her follow around while she did her duty either, but that was their bad for only hiring one person for that entire building. “Matilda is the only witch who ever managed to create a spell like that with so little side effects. With the amount of trolls walking around town these days, we need it more than ever! Witchkind’s safety is at stake!”

The librarian rolled her eyes, though she didn’t think the other witch saw it. Recent… changes brought to the town by Frida and her friends had made it increasingly easy to tell apart the bigoted ones amongst them all. No matter how little interest trolls seemed to have on witchcraft and its practitioners, there were still some witches who insisted that just because their magics didn’t mix, that they shouldn’t coexist.

Which was just as bullshit as it sounded.

The Committee had called upon Tildy one day, and she’d even showed up much to everyone’s surprise. They’d explained their worries, which meant that five minutes in it wasn’t a meeting anymore, but a sass session for the older woman to make them realise how stupid they sounded. They didn’t, of course, which only meant Tildy refused to give them her prized protection spell and they didn’t give up on their quest to secure it. Leaving Kaisa in her current position.

“It’s her spell.” Kaisa said as she parked her cart between two shelves and began looking for the correct place for an eighteenth century poetry book. Her opinions on the matter were exactly like her former master’s, of course. She hadn’t witnessed Hilda show off her shifting powers like a party trick when she dined at her house just to turn around and say that trolls were dangerous. But if Tildy hadn’t come through to them, great at turning people to her side as she was, then Kaisa wasn’t going to be the one to make them see the other side of things. Besides, she was tired. The last thing she wanted was to begin a moral argument in the final leg of her already tiring work day.

There was also the issue that she didn’t actually know that spell, but hey, she didn’t need to admit that to the people that employed her, did she?

“I’m not going to spill it if she didn’t want you to have it. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to look somewhere else.” She finished, not sorry in the least but trying to keep some semblance of politeness.

Ingrid twisted her lips like she’d tasted something sour. The truth, probably. Or her own stupidity. She ran a hand through her short blonde hair to make it fall back into place.

“Hm. Lineage secret, is it?”

Nah. It was a protection spell. Tildy would probably give it to anyone who asked her nicely, if they didn’t want it for idiotic and prejudiced reasons. She’d likely made Kaisa learn it at some point, but gods knew she’d long since forgotten it.

“Yes.” She lied. “Of the utmost secrecy.”

Ingrid hummed again, and Kaisa thought she got a chill in her spine when she did so. It got draughty in the library during that time of the day, she supposed. “I see.” She said in a whisper. “I suppose I’ll just have to find it… someplace else.”

The other woman walked away, all of Kaisa’s discomfort disappearing alongside her. She breathed a sigh of relief at no longer having Ingrid’s analysing stare locked on her face like it had been for the entire conversation, finally free to listen to her songs as she worked.

For some reason, though, she still felt eyes on her all the while until she finished for the day. No matter how many times she looked behind herself, she still saw nothing, so she figured it must be the lingering unease at having been so close to one of the Committee’s most unpleasant witches (she and her sister were almost tied in Kaisa’s listing, but Abigail still took the crown for that whole Void business). Kaisa let the music blast through her headphones, getting lost in it as an antidote for those moments of stress and whispering along to the lyrics.

”The mirror’s image tells me it’s home time…”

…......

A couple years before, when Hilda (whose name she did not know at the time, of course, but a blue haired girl is hard to miss even at such a large library) began showing up to ask for books and advice, so did her mother. It took them an embarrassingly long time to realise that Kaisa was the librarian who Hilda always talked about and that Johanna was the mother the girl mentioned when they were together, but once they did, it took the two women no time to bond over their fondness for the girl and her group of friends, over their routines, their tastes and struggles. After Johanna had made her promise to never again give her daughter any dangerous magical devices, that was.

They had become, at the very least, friends. And Kaisa thought that with no small amount of weight to that statement, because she really couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so sure she could call someone that. But there was a line, you see. Most friendships didn’t have that line, that boundary just within eyesight that they were sure that once it was crossed, it would no longer be a platonic friendship but a romance. Most friendships didn’t have it, because when friends trusted that that’s what they were, and that was how they would be free to express the extent of their love to its fullest, then all you can see, all around you, is that friendship, as far as you can reach.

Not them, though. Both of them were very aware of that border, well aware that their love for one another was extremely capable of taking another shape, one that would actually let them breathe freely and satiate the longing inside them.

There was a line. They were aware of the line. And they kept tip-toeing on it and jumping back each time. Scared of what would happen if they crossed it. Scared of what the other would think.

Personally, Kaisa would love to rip the blasted line out of the ground and use it as something more interesting. An aisle for one of them to walk towards the other on, for example. She’d had quite enough of catching herself sighing yearningly at the window on sunny days and squealing when her phone pinged with a message from her. And that was to say nothing of the embarrassing (-ly frequent) daydreams. She felt she’d had quite enough of pining being a woman almost in her thirties.

The thing was, taking the first step wasn’t something Kaisa was willing to do. Not right now, at least. Johanna might only be a couple of years older than her, but she felt like the woman was aeons ahead of her. She was mature and well resolved, independent and capable of taking care of herself, her daughter, and however many magical creatures there currently were in her house. How could Kaisa, in all sincerity, offer herself up for a woman like that in her current state, knowing she’d end up as nothing more than another source of trouble for her?

No. Kaisa was willing to wait. She rather thought Johanna was too, judging by how that line kept being played with. They’d get to crossing it, well and properly. But first, she wanted to get a little closer to being the person she thought Johanna deserved. A little braver. A little more put together. A little less worried about what people who didn’t give a single damn about her well being thought of her. And she was making progress, she really was. But until then, that uneasy friendship would be more than enough. She’d take it and be grateful it was even being offered, making sure to show her appreciation for Johanna’s presence in her life every single day.

Which was why when the woman showed up at the library that morning, wringing her hands together in anxiety and with a frown between her eyebrows, Kaisa immediately dropped what she’d been doing to go talk to her.

“Hey, Anna, good morning.” She greeted in a soft tone of voice, making her startle slightly upon noticing Kaisa’s presence. The librarian had approached her from behind, but even so she thought the behaviour was slightly off. She was never this jumpy, was she? “Everything alright?”

There were a couple of moments when Kaisa genuinely wondered if she was talking to the wrong person. Maybe there was some bizarrely accurate Johanna lookalike in town now and she just hadn’t been aware. The point was, a full twenty seconds must have passed in which Johanna said and did nothing other than stare at Kaisa with that same frown she’d walked in with.

“Johanna?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” She answered at last, but her voice didn’t sound at all certain. “I’m… it’s alright. Thank you for asking. But what about you?”

Kaisa quirked an eyebrow. As soon as Johanna had been broken out of her unexpected stupor, she’d begun leading them to the library’s break room, where the workers could go should they need some water, coffee, or just to sit down and not to interact with people for a bit. So essentially Kaisa’s personal personal winding down and chugging coffee corner. They’d been there many times before, chatting until after the library’s closing hours about anything at all. However, when Kaisa was about to sit down on one of the ancient armchairs, she turned back to see that Johanna was still standing by the doorway, looking at her feet and shifting her weight between them.

“Is it okay if we stay out here?”

Her lifted eyebrow melted into a frown as Kaisa walked out of the break room again.

“Well, sure we can, but what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Johanna said, too quickly. “We’re okay, I promise. I just popped by to ask you if you were fine.”

Kaisa’s heart did a flip inside her chest. Which was very uncomfortable, considering a structure tied to so many vases wasn’t supposed to be moving around much at all. The words sounded reassuring, but they hit her as anything but. When she saw Johanna walk in like that, she’d assumed something had happened and that she could help, even if only by listening to her. Now the thought at the forefront of her mind was that she’d messed up somehow. Because she hadn’t even considered that they might not be fine, but now she sure as hell was doing it.

“What, me? Sure I am.” She closed the break room door behind herself, figuring that if the idea of going in there made Johanna uncomfortable she should eliminate the possibility altogether. “I mean, I am normal. I woke up at the normal time and came to my normal job that I do every day. Little pissed that I just had to ask a group of teenagers to be quiet, but that’s it. I’m not sure I understand your question.”

Johanna still wouldn’t look at her, which was off putting. Kaisa was the one who liked to look away when they talked, only because it made it easier for her to concentrate on the conversation, but she could always feel Johanna’s eyes on her. This time, Kaisa actively tried to catch her gaze, wondering if looking at her eyes would give her any explanations to the way she was acting, but without success.

The woman cleared her throat. “It’s just… last night, when you called me. You sounded a little… out of it. And I wanted to check that you were fine and safe.”

Kaisa blinked. Stared at her. Continued staring at her until Johanna finally looked at her face and saw her own confusion reflected back. She looked a little embarrassed, a light pink colour painting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“I didn’t call you.”

“What?”

“Johanna, I didn’t call you. As far as I’m concerned, the last time we talked was when we went to the bake shop two days ago. When was this call?”

Now, the librarian wasn’t trying to gaslight her. She didn’t think Johanna was crazy, much less a liar. But neither was Kaisa an amnesiac, so she’d probably remember calling the woman she was head over heels for; there had to be a logical explanation for this.

“Roughly at three in the morning, I think.” Johanna answered, looking uncertain in the face of Kaisa’s conviction even though she sounded actually sure of the time she was informing. Kaisa snorted.

“Well, I have no idea who that was, but I can assure you you’re not looking at them.”

“But it was your voice.”

“Anna, I go to sleep at nine thirty and wake up at six. I do that religiously, because otherwise I become a massive bitch come morning.”

“Well-” Johanna looked like she was getting uncomfortable in a different way now, being put in the spot like that. Kaisa softened. She’d assumed that assuring her that she wasn’t responsible for whatever that was would make the situation easier on her. But come think of it, being phoned by a stranger that could pass as one of your closest friends couldn’t be too soothing either. “I thought you might not remember because, well, you sounded-”

Kaisa nodded for her to go on once she looked insecure about whether she should finish that sentence. Johanna did so with a whisper.

“Affected?”

Johanna looked at her expectantly, making Kaisa feel bad that she could offer her nothing other than even more confusion. She’d need to make herself more clear if she wanted anything out of the witch.

“Sorry, affected by…?”

“Well-” Johanna rubbed her neck, looking around them, and the ceiling, down again. Everywhere but at Kaisa. “I don’t know. Alcohol. Drugs. Something like that. Not that I’m judging!” She put her hands in front of herself immediately, and if she took the chance to really take in Kaisa’s face she’d see how that possibility was even weirder to her than it was to Johanna. “But I was just worried about how you might be. So. Yeah.”

Kaisa wanted to be helpful. She really did. But Johanna had just asked someone whose ideas of reckless behaviour ranged from waking up the dead to skipping dinner to eat jorts, and nowhere in that spectrum was partying hard and using any sort of substance. It was hard to even take her worry over her seriously, which was a shame, since under any other circumstances Kaisa would have been over the moon with such a treatment.

“Johanna. Look at me.” She did. “Under what circumstances can you imagine me getting high at three a.m.?”

It was her right arm instead of her neck that she rubbed in anxiety this time. “Well, none, but-”

They stared at each other, Johanna with an anxious look and Kaisa with a compassionate one. Eventually, she sighed.

“You’re right. It must have been a dream.” Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, gosh, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry, Kaisa.”

Her friend laughed, glad that apparently there wasn’t even a problem to be solved. Maybe now they could have their coffee and some regular chatting.

“Don’t stress about it. I should be flattered you’re dreaming about me.”

Kaisa walked back into the break room, heading straight to the coffee machine to brew a new batch. In doing so, she failed to notice how Johanna still lingered by the doorframe, watching her for any signs of untruthfulness or discomfort.

Through gritted teeth, the woman whispered to her own ears only. “You have no idea…”

…......

Kaisa got deja vu often. She supposed it was a mix of her brain loving to make associations and the fact that all witches had some future telling abilities, even if hers were quite weak, so she supposed there were some things in her life that she had seen before, even if at the back of her mind, a simple suggestion made by that more magical part of her consciousness.

That particular image, however, she was very sure she had seen before, and when, and where. It had been at that same place, at the same time, the very day before.

This morning, however, when Johanna spotted her, she clutched her purse strap closer to herself, making Kaisa halt her approach. She only ever did that when she was scared.

Was she scared of… Kaisa?

The thought hit her like a knife between her shoulder blades, but she still put on a smile for her. She didn’t get any closer, though. It was best to let Johanna approach her.

She didn’t. She stood there, two metres away like she was talking to a stranger. The knife twisted inside her.

“It happened again.” She said, sounding surer than she had the day before. “I was awake. I checked. Nothing happened when I pinched myself and my fingers and clocks looked normal. I wrote a note saying it was real and it was still there when I woke up this morning.”

Kaisa sighed. “Anna, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t call you. I certainly didn’t get drunk, or high. It must have been a prank of some sort.”

Johanna’s mouth twisted, like she was trying to bite something back. “Yes. It must have been.”

The witch dared to take a step forward; only one, though, because Johanna immediately tensed. Someone else might not have noticed it, but Kaisa couldn’t not.

“Are you… angry at me, Anna?”

Her voice was harsher than Kaisa had ever heard it before when she answered. “No. Why would I be angry at you for something you didn’t do?”

“I have no idea, but you sure as hell sound like it right now.”

“Why do you look tired?” Johanna snapped, shoulders squared back though the displeasure at acting like that was written clearly on her face. Kaisa gaped.

“Because I am borderline anaemic and wake up every day at six, maybe? You can’t really be mad at me right now, Anna. I know it must be weird to be prank called in the middle of the night and everything, not to mention whatever the hell they’re telling you to get you this worked up, but I didn’t do anything!”

Her stare grew harder, those brown eyes suddenly reminding her solid mountains, peaks so high one couldn’t ever hope to reach. But then moisture began to gather at the corners, and Johanna looked down quickly. Just not quickly enough for Kaisa to not have seen it.

“You never do, do you?” She whispered and walked quickly out of the library, leaving a befuddled librarian behind herself.

…......

One of the things Johanna missed the most about living out in the wilderness was the quiet. Since they’d moved to Trolberg, she’d hardly ever managed to have a single night’s sleep that was as peaceful as when the only sounds that could be heard during the night were of the owls and cicadas, the forest’s own little lullaby for its only two human inhabitants to hear. It wasn’t like Trolberg was some big metropolis where they were subjected to the noise of traffic jams and drunken yelling in the early hours of the morning, of course. But it wasn’t the same. There was always an odd motorcycle, or the footsteps of their upstairs neighbour, the sound of a television when someone in their building turned to it after having trouble sleeping.

And, for the past two nights, there had been the blasted ringing of their landline.

The first time, she’d found it beyond weird. Nobody ever called them at that time of the day (well, night). But the phone would have kept ringing had she not picked up, and she didn’t want it to disturb Hilda. So Johanna had dragged herself out of bed, mumbling and rubbing at her eyes, and walked to the kitchen to simply tell whoever was at the other side of the line that they had the wrong number and hang up.

It didn’t go like that, however. Because as soon as her ear was on the speaker, a voice she knew slurred her name.

“Kaisa?!” She’d whispered with urgency, figuring from the time of the call and from her clearly subdued voice that something was wrong. “What’s the matter?”

She hadn’t answered for a couple of seconds, but Johanna knew she was still there. She could hear her breathing.

“I’m in love with you.” Kaisa sighed eventually, in a dreamy voice. “That’s the matter.”

Since the whole point of picking that call at all was not waking Hilda up, Johanna had to make a lot of effort to be silent when she choked on air at that statement. Her face heated up immediately and she gripped the phone’s handle, looking around herself to make sure there was no one near and listening. As if that would help. If either Tontu or Alfur really wanted to listen in, there would really be nothing she’d be able to do about it.

That was not how she’d imagined this conversation going.

“What?” She whispered into the microphone. “Kaisa, that’s lovely-” She mentally slapped herself. What kind of reaction to ‘I’m in love with you’ was that? Kaisa deserved better. But then, Johanna had also thought she deserved at least a face to face confession, though she should probably consider herself lucky to be getting one at all. “- but why are you telling me this right now?”

“I can’t tell you this.” Kaisa continued, which Johanna hardly thought could be considered an answer to her question. Her voice was distant, the cadence unlike it had been in any of the times they’d been together previously. Still, Johanna knew it to be her voice. She’d recognize it anywhere. “I can’t tell you that I want you close at all times. I can’t tell you that you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I can’t even tell you I want to know everything about you. Because I’m not… not ready. You deserve someone better than me, and I’m not ready.”

Her tone wasn’t emotional. For all that she was saying, she didn’t sound like she was making a confession, but like she was listing facts. Johanna was sure her face must be completely red at that point, her heart picking up a speed she wasn’t entirely sure was healthy. She still had just enough reason to be able to tell that none of that sounded normal.

“Kaisa, love, tell me what’s going on.” She urged. They’d hung out not a full 48 hours before. Kaisa had been acting normally around her and showing no signs of wanting to confess an avalanche of deeply buried feelings. Something had to have happened.

“I know it’s selfish of me, but I want to be with you anyway.” Another string of words that sounded like they barely had any thought given to them as they were pushed out of Kaisa’s mouth. It wasn’t an answer. The witch had probably not even heard her. “I want to wake up with you and cook with you and come home to you at the end of the day-”

Oh, gods.

“I want to be someone you can call yours-”

Kaisa was high, wasn’t she?

“Kaisa, where are you?” Johanna attempted once more, even though the confessions didn’t stop coming from the other end of the line. “Do you need to be picked up? Are you safe? Are you home?”

Nothing. Well, not nothing. A lot, really, but only a lot of sappy feelings that had nothing to do with Kaisa’s current state at all.

It must have gone on for half an hour. Johanna didn’t know how to make her stop, and figured that at least she knew Kaisa was fine as long as she was speaking to her on her phone. There was of course also the fact that she’d waited for so long to hear those things that she was too selfish to hang up now, even if these were far from the circumstances she would have preferred. After she’d seemed to run out of things to say, Kaisa asked in just as distant of a voice.

“What do you think?”

Johanna took a deep breath. She’d sat down on the floor at some point, the landline’s cable extended to allow her to do so.

“I think you need to rest, my dear.” She uttered softly, still worried. “We can talk about it when you’re better.”

The line went silent. Kaisa had hung up.

Johanna still sat there, cradling the phone’s handle and looking straight ahead with an unfocused case for a few more minutes. She had no idea how to process what had just happened. Kaisa had just said everything Johanna could have asked for in her most self centred fantasies, and more. But she didn’t feel ecstatic like she should. She felt hollow. Because of the context, she felt foolish, even. That night, she’d gone to bed and her only thought had been ‘what now?’

But then she’d showed up at the library, and Kaisa had acted exactly as she would have any other day. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t gotten high as a kite and declared her undying love in the dead of night. And she’d been so sure of it too, without any signs of any unusual activities the night before, even. Johanna had let herself be convinced it was only a dream. That would have made sense, right? Only in dreams did people’s crushes confess to them like they were writing a love letter. In Johanna’s case, only in dreams did people confess to her at all. She should have known better.

Except it had happened again the night after that. Johanna had made sure to check everything that could give away that she was dreaming, but everything around her looked perfectly… real. Except for Kaisa. Her voice drifting from the phone, saying how much she craved to have her near, couldn’t possibly belong to reality. And yet, it did.

Not that any of it had helped matters when she’d come to talk to Kaisa about it. Depending on what substance she’d been on, it would have made sense for her to forget what had happened. That wasn’t the issue here; had it all been handled differently, Johanna should have been happy to wait for as long as the witch needed for her to actually admit her feelings. But all she’d been met with was vehement denial. Maybe she was ashamed, but going so far as to imply that Johanna was wrong, or lying? Implying that it could be a random prankster had her at the end of her rope. As if Johanna could ever mistake Kaisa’s voice for anyone else’s. At that point it was as entangled in her mind as the sounds of the forest or of her pencil on sheets of paper.

All of that only allowed her to arrive at one conclusion. That it was deliberate.

For the third night straight, Johanna forced her legs to take her to the kitchen. Her head hurt; it had been difficult to fall asleep again after the calls, leaving her exhausted physically as well as emotionally. She hoped it would be something different this time. That maybe Kaisa had come to her senses and would admit that she was drunk, or high, or just plain sorry.

She hoped for anything other than what she got.

“I’ve fallen for you harder than I thought I could. I didn’t know I could like someone this much.”

Johanna groaned. Groaned. Because somehow her biggest dream had turned into a nightmare in the matter of three days. Was loving her such an embarrassing thing that it could only be mentioned in the dead of night? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Kaisa would at least act coy if that was the case, give her the slightest indication that she did mean what she’d said or that she even remembered what she’d said. For her to sound like that, to say all that, and to vehemently deny it only left Johanna with one conclusion.

For two nights, she’d withstood that. It had to be some sort of joke, and a cruel one at that. To force her to hear everything she wanted, only to see that it changed nothing come daylight. It was torture. And it was clever. Clever because it hit exactly where it hurt, because it would drive Johanna insane while leaving Kaisa safe in her bubble of plausible deniability. All that was left to assume was that Kaisa had actually found out that Johanna had feelings for her and was using it to make fun of her. Maybe she wouldn’t do it when she had full control of herself, but apparently whatever she was using to make her sound like that made the allure of the prank too sweet for her. And then, come morning, she must remember it and deny ever using anything at all, either because she knew what she was capable of under the influence or because she was well aware of the game she was playing and wanted to continue at it.

It was a joke, and Johanna was at the butt of it. She had to remind herself of this. Because otherwise, she’d never have been able to finally, on that third night, hang up on Kaisa while she uttered the most lovely words Johanna had ever heard.

…......

Everything had changed since the last time they’d talked. Johanna didn’t invite her out anymore. She didn’t stop by the library to see her ‘just because’. She didn’t go anywhere Kaisa frequented at all, at least not while she was there. She didn’t even answer her texts or pick up her phone. And the worst part was, Kaisa didn’t even know what she’d done. She knew she needn’t worry for the other woman, since the trio was at the library often and that gave Kaisa a chance to ask Hilda about her mother. Given that the girl had taken to glaring at her before saying Johanna was fine, thank you very much, she was left to believe she must have screwed up somehow, even if she couldn’t figure it out.

She’d resisted all of two weeks under these circumstances before she’d caved. Her mind screamed at her that she was being stupid all the while her feet were taking her to the apartment complex where she’d spent so many enjoyable evenings drinking tea and giggling over nothing, but she ignored it. Johanna should be the one to reach out to her and tell her what she’d done to deserve being ghosted like that, should look at her in the eyes and tell her how Kaisa could be better for her. But she hadn’t done so, and Kaisa couldn’t take it anymore. She wanted her best friend. And if that meant swallowing her fear and her pride, well. She’d been the one to screw up in the first place, hadn’t she?

Probably.

At least she’d resisted the urge to buy flowers before heading there. The art of toeing the blasted line lied at the mixed messages peppered in every gesture that could be interpreted as romantic, and she rather didn’t think there’d be anything mixed or up to interpretation about giving another woman a bouquet of white roses.

Kaisa knocked on her door, knowing that the woman must be home since it was still early enough for her to have interrupted her self-imposed work hours. She’d managed to sneak away from the library earlier than usual precisely for that reason, even if Johanna didn’t go out much either way. Her voice came from the other side, a soft ‘coming!’ muffled by the wall between them. When the door was opened. Johanna was wearing a carefully crafted serene expression. Which melted away immediately at the sight of Kaisa.

To the witch’s absolute horror, Johanna stepped away from her.

“Oh.” She breathed, her voice guarded. “It’s you.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?, she wanted to scream. Instead, she frowned and nodded. “Yes. Hi, Anna.”

“What do you want?” Johanna snapped, crossing her arms. She didn’t sound or look pissed, though, only sad and even scared as she looked at Kaisa’s feet rather than her face. And tired. Very tired.

So was Kaisa, if she was honest. She hadn’t woken up feeling truly rested in weeks.

“Well-” Kaisa struggled for something to say. Johanna had always been the more well spoken between the two of them. She’d truly thought that she’d arrive here and only have to listen to her explain what was going on. Having to actually voice anything hadn’t been part of her plan. “Isn’t it obvious?”

The woman’s face snapped to her at that, anger in her eyes. Kaisa had never seen her like this. But then, she supposed, she’d never hurt the woman before either.

“If you’re going to tell me the same thing as the last times, just give up.” She stated, making sure her shoulders were set back, voice a lot less unwavering than she would have liked. “I’m not going to let you treat me like this.”

Kaisa gaped at her. “Wait.” She lifted a hand, suddenly feeling anger rise up in her own chest. “This is still about the prank calls you’ve been getting?”

No matter how strongly Kaisa felt she was the one who should be offended here, Johanna’s furrowed brows and pursed lips told her very clearly how affronted she was that Kaisa would have the gall to react the way she did.

“Stop it. I won’t hear you out if you’re only going to lie either. You should be going.”

“Yes, I really should, shouldn’t I?” Kaisa snapped, surprising both of them with the fire in her voice. She truly wasn’t able to help it in the face of Johanna’s coldness. For her friend - and calling her that now felt like a mockery to what they had - to toss her away like that without even hearing her out, she could only have been looking for a reason to fight with her. Just waiting for an excuse to get rid of the witch. Well, Kaisa wasn’t about to get in her way.

She turned her back to her and walked back the way she came with all the certainty she didn’t feel, letting the hurt drive her away. She’d thought Johanna was the better one between the two of them. She thought that she’d at least have been given a reason, an explanation, or a proper conversation instead of just being accused over nothing for the woman to justify throwing their friendship away to herself. Didn’t matter, though. Not anymore.

The sound of her shoes on the building’s staircase was loud as she stomped away. Loud enough to drown out the sound of Johanna’s sniffles.

…......

The phone rang, like it always did, at three in the morning. The headache that had been her companion for many days now screamed at the sound. Johanna was already awake, of course. Her body had developed some sort of pavlovian response and she now always woke up exactly at 2:55 a.m., anxious about her daughter being startled out of her slumber by the ringing.

She got up from the couch wearily, and picked it up. After a couple of seconds of looking at it, she actually brought it to her ears. After the third time, she’d taken to leaving it on the counter for about half an hour, before placing it back onto the hook. It wasn’t like Kaisa was ever interested in what she had to say, anyway, so it didn’t really matter, and Johanna was afraid she’d ring again if she just hung up on her. But she’d actually showed up that afternoon. Hadn’t acknowledged what she’d been doing, sure, hadn’t apologised or offered a semblance of an explanation. She’d even yelled at her, considering the standard low volume that her voice usually had. But maybe that meant she was willing to rethink, willing to maybe take a step back and undo this mess. Maybe she’d come to her senses at last, maybe she’d stopped using whatever had been making her act like that.

With foolish hope, Johanna dared to listen to her voice one last time.

“Hi, Johanna.” Said the dreamy, far away voice. So not sober, then. “I love you. Every time you smile at me I feel like I’m flying-”

She wanted to scream. Nothing had changed. Nothing would change. And Johanna was exhausted, from this dance, from this heartbreak, from not knowing when was the last time she had slept peacefully without being woken up by this blatant and cruel ridicule.

She listened. Johanna actually was pathetic enough to listen to twenty more minutes of Kaisa saying exactly how she felt every time they were together, because she wasn’t sure she’d ever hear that voice again. And when she could finally bring herself to, she put the phone handle on the kitchen counter, and opened one of the kitchen drawers.

The scissors were exactly where she always left them. They were only ever used to open up food packages, but that didn’t matter. They managed to cut the landline’s cable just fine.

…......

It had been a long time coming. Truly, what had led her to believe a woman as lovely as Johanna would want to give her the time of the day? Maybe she’d enjoyed it for a couple of months. She might have only been doing it to be charitable, making an awkward loner like Kaisa feel like she had someone to rely on. But it hadn’t lasted, because how could it? Kaisa was who she was, and nobody could stand her for long. Eventually, people realised they couldn’t change her. They realised she was too annoying, too boring, too offputting to stand. And if Johanna had chosen that way to break them off, did she really have the right to be angry? She’d probably been giving her signs she didn’t want Kaisa nearby for ages, but Kaisa never took a hint, did she?

It made sense, now. Johanna didn’t blush when Kaisa complimented her because she liked it. It was because she made her uncomfortable. Her eyes didn’t widen when Kaisa asked her out because she was pleased. She’d merely been caught without an excuse to refuse. She didn’t tease Kaisa about her quirks because she found them charming. They were either attempts at getting her to change her habits or straight up jabs, hidden behind sweet words and a honeyed voice.

There was no line. There had never been a line. Kaisa was just delusional and pushing for something she’d never have. Kaisa was unlovable. She knew she was unlovable, and had accepted that a long time ago. It was her own fault for letting gentle touches and soft spoken affirmations convince her otherwise, her own fault for being so utterly incapable of making alright decisions, her own fault for only ever having bad ideas.

Gods, she was drained.