#reading this post the first thing to come to mind was wuthering heights

[neonacidtrip]

[text ID: Black image with purple text showing the tags from Tumblr user lyriumrain. The tags read as follows: #i’ve been thinking a lot about how you really can just tell whatever story you want #there are components that your story *can* include if you want to #but you don’t have to #there’s a billion trillion stories out there #might as well tell the one you want to tell how you want to tell it. End ID]

Every 21st century piece of writing advice: Make us CARE about the character from page 1! Make us empathize with them! Make them interesting and different but still relatable and likable!

Every piece of classic literature: Hi. It's me. The bland everyman whose only purpose is to tell you this story. I have no actual personality. Here's the story of the time I encountered the worst people I ever met in my life. But first, ten pages of description about the place in which I met them.

[huramuna]

the calico bastard - chapter 2.

 aemond targaryen x strong bastard oc (series) previous part | next part

summary: After his takeover of Harrenhal, Aemond encounters a dreamy-eyed, wistful bastard of House Strong, who piques his interest and changes the course of Westerosi history.

 warnings: smut (eventually), angst, canon typical violence, canon typical misogyny. will add more as I go through each chapter. 

wordcount: 2.3k

a/n: alys rivers doesn’t exist in this universe, alysanne takes her place somewhat. a/n 2: this is my first fic, i got the courage to post it -- please be nice n' leave a like if this interests you!

wuthering heights - kate bush • leave me for dead - GAYLE

Ser Daunton knocked on the door, “Your grace, your… serving girl is ready.” 

Alysanne shuffled next to him, settling down the errant puff of her dress. Once, twice, thrice. 

“Enter,” Aemond’s voice rang out from behind the chamber door, “Only her— thank you, Ser Daunton.” 

The grizzled soldier gave an almost imperceptible sigh, looking at Alysanne. “Good luck, lass.” he spoke quietly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in almost an apology. 

She took a deep inhale of air, nodding her head. She pushed in the heavy oak door, struggling slightly. The old hinges shrieked, begging to be oiled or tended to— it's how most things in Harrenhal fared. Screaming for care, for more than desolation and decay. 

But that was a part of the curse of the castle, wasn’t it?

She closed it behind her, not daring yet to look in the room. It was warm, the soft crackling of a fire were the only sounds in the room— besides a tapping. An errant drumming, as if in impatience. 

It was Aemond, knocking his forefinger and middle on the wooden arm of the chair facing the fire. The taps seemed to time with the rising beat of Alysanne’s heart. 

“Well? Are you going to stand there all eve, girl? Or mayhaps, do your job.” he said, a tinge of agitation. 

She hummed a nervous agreement, walking to the armoire, where she grabbed a decanter of wine and a goblet. 

The red liquid poured and poured until it reached the rim of the goblet, to which she presented to Aemond. She didn’t dare look at his face, her eyes downcast at some imperceptible point, wide and unfocused. 

Despite her best efforts to not look directly at him, she saw the corners of his mouth, which usually rested in a smug grin— not out of happiness or glee, but perhaps superiority— twist into something of amusement. 

Amusement— amusement? Why was he amused? Surely nothing was funny. Mayhaps she looked humorous to him. 

“Have you ever poured wine before?” he asked then, taking the goblet from her with one swift movement, sipping from it. 

She shook her head, looking at the cup— it was practically overflowing. “No.” she answered, squeezing her hands together, the nail of her thumb sinking into the soft flesh of her palm. 

“That is quite obvious— you should never fill it to the top,” he said, perking a brow, “Unless, you’re my brother, of course.” he added, almost as an afterthought. Something that earned a half-hearted sniff from him, as if he couldn’t even laugh at his own joke. 

Alysanne’s eyes came up further now, landing on the soft curve of his lips and the cleft of his chin— she didn’t make eye contact, but was coming increasingly closer to doing so. 

“I will keep that in mind, my grace,” she murmured. 

He stopped, putting the goblet aside, “It's ‘your grace��,” he corrected. 

“… your grace,” she parroted, sinking her nails deeper into her palm. She felt her chest heat up in a familiar feeling— embarrassment. 

“I can’t fault you— your father must’ve not taught you a thing,” he continued, leaning back in the chair, “Do you even know how to read, hm?” 

She puffed out her lip indignantly, “Yes— I know how to read,” her voice taking a dangerous edge. She caught herself, biting down on her cheek, “your grace.” 

Aemond shifted, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, “Look at me.” he asked, commanded, rather. 

Alysanne bit into her cheek until she tasted blood, lifting her head shakily. She hated looking people in the eyes— it was too vulnerable, as if she were a sheep showing the soft of their belly to a wolf. It felt as if they could read her thoughts and use them against her, as if her own sight was weaponized against her.

Their gazes finally met, violet eye to violet eye— Alysanne felt her heart stop, clenching as if an icy fist was closing around it. But then it stopped, her chest stilling as she zeroed in on his lone eye– she thought it quite curious, they had the same shade of violet. It was the color of a sun bleached lavender flower, piercing. 

He had put his eyepatch back on, as well, his sapphire gem eye no longer on display like it had been in the courtyard. Her eyes glazed over the jagged scar jutting above and down his otherwise smooth face. She felt her eyebrows knit in a slight confusion. 

“I don’t wish to scare you— or any lady, for that matter,” he said then, his voice taking on a softer tone– a soft voiced dragon is still a dragon, the fire quelled to ashes for a moment or two– the right corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

She caught that, too. People may think her to be simpleminded and dimwitted, and mayhaps she was in some ways, but she noticed things that other people did not. She knew when to watch without being watched herself. 

“You shan’t scare me,” she replied, her hands finally unclasping, “I’ve seen much and more horrid things than a sapphire eye.” 

Another twitch of his mouth, and an impalpable, brief knit of his brow, “Hm.” he hummed, taking another sip of the overfilled wine glass with one hand, his other resuming its tapping on the arm of the chair. 

She looked away for a moment, taking in the decor and surroundings of the room– this was Lord Simon’s room previously– but his things had been cleared out quickly. But she still felt his ghost, wheezing and coughing as he usually did.

When she turned back to Aemond, his hand was extended– he was offering her… the wine glass? Her brow furrowed.

“I won’t drink this by myself, you poured enough for two people– so you shall reap the consequences of your mistake, hm?” he hummed again, “It isn’t bad wine, I will give the Strong lord that much.”

She stepped backwards, as if remembering that she was too close. “I don’t drink wine– it's an unfit… privilege for someone like me,” she grumbled, giving a half-hearted excuse. The truth was, she had never had even a drop before. As far as vices went, she was more inclined to consume sugary treats rather than alcohol, which to her experience, made people act like moldering fools. 

“Come, drink. Drink to the health of the King, or mayhaps the memory of Ser Simon, your kin, was he not?” 

Alysanne ground her teeth together, staring an indignant stare right into Aemond’s remaining eye. She took the goblet, moreso, snatched it– and took a sip, a rather big one. She had expected it to taste like the juice of sweet fruits, perhaps like the runny filling of a cherry pie, or a compote of blueberry and raspberry. She regret her choice right away, her body screaming at her to expel the disgustingly tart and acrid liquid.

This seemed to amuse the prince, the corner of his eye crinkling in mirth, “You want to spit it out, don’t you?” 

She nodded vehemently, begging for silent permission to retch the imbibement from her mouth.

“Swallow.” was all he said.

She glared at him, feeling as if her eyes were bulging out of her head, her throat was burning from keeping it in her mouth, the sting of the alcohol worming its way into any nook and crevice it could find. She shook her head in disagreement.

“Swallow.” he said again, standing up now. His form towered over her, even more so than before, their difference in height about a foot.

Reluctantly, she did so– the soft of her throat bobbing as she swallowed the wine. She felt sick to her stomach, backing up farther away from him. “Y-you suffocate me, too close, too close,” she grumbled under her breath, inhaling and exhaling to try to quell the unease rising in her body.

And yet, he didn’t relent– he stepped closer, until her heels were being warmed by the flames in the hearth, her back pressed to the chiseled stone. He loomed over her like an oppressive force, stealing the oxygen from her lungs, growing his own fire by stamping hers out. “Do I scare you, bastard?” he asked then, his breath warm and tinged with the scent of the wine, as was hers. His arms boxed her in against the fireplace.

“You’re too close, dragon– do not touch me,” she hissed, “Why do you insist on snuffing out my flame?” 

Then, his hand went to her face, encapsulating her chin and jaw with just one palm. He was speaking– something garbled and unintelligible. Her eyes glazed over as the sounds of the fire faded, the blood rushing to her ears. The sides of her vision blackened for a few moments– before flashing images came over her.

“You’ve lived too long, uncle.” Aemond spoke, mounting Vhagar with practiced ease.

“On that, we agree.” Daemon responded, already saddled on his bloodwyrm, the ancestral sword Dark Sister strapped at his side. 

It was all gnashing teeth and flames spewing, the cries of dragon, both human and not, echoing. They were in the sky, over the expanse of the God’s Eye, locked in a battle of claws and scales.

The straps, the straps– Aemond, Aemond, the straps– Alysanne felt herself screaming– why was she screaming? Why was she here? Why did she care about their fate? Why– Aemond, unstrap yourself– 

Her cries felt like wails into the void, like shrieking underwater and not hearing a thing– Daemon was already unstrapped from the saddle, he was ready, positioning himself for a strike. 

Aemond saw what Alysanne saw, too late– he was fumbling with his own rigging, undoing the leather bindings of the saddle, and when realizing that wouldn’t work, he reached for his sword– too late. Too late.

Dark Sister plunged through his eye– his sapphire eye, the sharp tip of the blade coming out of the back of his head, his sickly screams snapping to an end, in a synchronization with his dragon, the mighty and ancient Vhagar, named after a God– all four of them plunged into the depths of the God’s Eye, sinking down, down… 

Alysanne closed her eyes, opening them in succession once more, blinking once, twice, thrice– she was back in Harrenhal, back against the hearth. Aemond, who was still very much alive and not skewered through the head, was looking at her, or through her– his brow furrowed in concern. Concern? Yes, surely, concern– and not the concern of a dragon– but mayhaps a person.

A person who had seen something before like this. He was murmuring something, not realizing that she had regained consciousness. 

“Helaena… Helaena…” he whispered, “I’m sorry, Helaena.” 

Helaena? His queen sister, Helaena? Alysanne had heard of her before– of course, how could she not– The eccentric and odd queen, a fascination with bugs– now grief stricken and unresponsive after witnessing the murder of her son, Jaehaerys. They say that Helaena always muttered to herself, incomprehensible rhythms, poems– it did sound quite familiar, didn’t it?

Alysanne forced herself to let out an audible sigh, as if to snap out the prince from his reverie– to act as if she had just woken up. She felt like she had witnessed something she shouldn’t have– a moment of vulnerability from him when he thought no one was looking.

She felt his posture go stiff and rigid, his breath blowing atop her head through flared nostrils. “Can you stand?” he asked, his steelheart grip on her not relenting just yet.

“... think so,” she murmured, looking to that far-off point once again, trying to detach herself from the situation. 

He then let her go, slowly, steadying her for a moment to make sure she wouldn’t fall over like a broken doll– before stepping back, back, back to the far end of the room.

His hand was at his chin, the other at the side of his head, the scarred side. His fingers were looped under the strap of his eyepatch. His jaw was set in a rigid line, his knuckles turning white from exertion, a vein popping at the side of his head– the unmistakable image of pain.

Not just an emotional pain, but a physical pain.

“... you’re in pain.” Alysanne murmured, forgetting herself, forgetting the situation– forgetting who she was– all she could see was his pain, not just now, but in her vision– or mayhaps, her delusion– the heartwrenching, stomach churning wail of Aemond as Dark Sister pierced his skull–

A small fraction of that affliction haunted him now. At her voice, he turned to her, his lip twitching more, just like before. He looked like the cornered animal now– even though she wasn’t in closer proximity– his violet eye narrowed to what looked like a slit. He was the very image of an animal with a broken leg, snapping and gnashing at those who got close.

 “Leave. Now.” he grit out, his hand now clawing at his eyepatch to take it off, “LEAVE.”

Alysanne didn’t wish to test him any longer– a cornered animal would bite, and he was on that verge. She picked up her skirts and promptly left, bursting through the heavy wooden door and slamming it behind her, most likely waking the ghosts that flitted through the halls.

Only when she reached her room– her closet– she took a breath, ripping the corset and kirtle from her body, leaving her in the silken shift. Her hands worked doubletime to unbraid her hair and let it flow down in waves before her fingers sank into the tresses at her scalp, gripping tightly, attempting to ground herself in reality and not spin out of control.

What had just happened? What exactly did she see? When would this happen?

And what could she do to stop it?

[bittersweetresilience]

sunny's year half year in review

because i am all about that self celebration 👏

achievements

🏅 joined a fandom 🏅 got married (🌖) 🏅 made friends (🏮🌺🌋🍜🍀🕊️🦌🧬💤🦎🦭☄️✍️🪨🪶🦚💝🎞️🪄🍞) 🏅 learned new things (📸🪡📑) 🏅 sunnyscrambles

creations

an ongoing amélie dissertation in sentitwin soulmate au. next chapter will be posted on new year's day and will feature art from @moonieratty!

félix and amélie webweaves. my favorites that i've made! all literature is from my graham de vanily reading lists.

ladynoir amv. so many episodes in this. my storage space...

multifandom webweave. the first one i made and still very important to me!

i entered a feverish haze after @nemaliwrites's remixes introduced me to a softer world and the result was Feelings.

my favorite fic i wrote this year. mind the trigger warnings.

recommendations

running in the shadow

i cannot describe how much this fic means to me. i left hundreds of messages during my liveread and i wept all through my comment and my reblog and still it's not nearly enough. it's one of my favorite gifts, one of my favorite fics, and one of my favorite works of art i've ever seen. thank you to @wackus-bonkus-maximus for being a role model, an inspiration, and my first fandom friend.

i love you (for senti-mental reasons)

as the head of the as time goes by pr team, i would be remiss not to recommend something from this series! félix in this universe makes me turn into dynamite. second recommendation is betcha on land (they understand). i'm a big fan of @redundant-lava, you see.

i know there's been pain this year (but it's time to let it go)

what's there not to like about @ninadove's sentitwins? her christmas fic blew me away. i love her creative costume designs, her references to classics and video games, and her accompanying fic art. honorable mentions to la nuit, tous les chats sont gris and everything i did (i did for you).

bon voyage

one of the original highlights of my summer. the dream sequence in chapter four blew my mind. the way this fic was planned to end drives me nuts in the best way.

bell the cat

the single most amazing fantasy au i've read. i'm regularly awed by how incredible it is, and awed by @heartfulselkie's writing, art, and person in general. if i learned how to bind books, this would be at the top of my list. i keep saying it because it's true.

thirteen

our monthly dosage of pain, exquisite backstory exploration, and gorgeous @anna-scribbles prose. i'm always a sucker for pre-canon and this is The fic for adrien pre-canon fans. christmas félix will make me explode.

a rose by any other name

i love everything @asukiess makes but shoutout to loveybug au for being such a fun and creative time for the lovesquare fandom. this fic also comes with the loveyvelours art of all time. the other day i started thinking about kuro neko unprompted. autumn is in my brain...

phoenix félix

this isn't a fic, but i'll never miss a chance to scream about art by @luckychatons. phoenix félix is immortalized in my discord profile picture. i'm blessed to receive secret félix doodles and catsona designs on the down low!

moonie

just scroll through their entire art account. everything they make is an eye feast, and they haven't even posted the half of it. my partner and creative inspiration. the moon to my sun. buy them a coffee for always supporting dead girls club.

[positively--speculative]

Hi, I’ve read through of your posts on iwtv and media literacy and saw you mention the gothic story telling and genre. I’d please like to know your definition of these words if it’s not a problem?

I am actually quite tickled to get this ask. This will probably get long and it may get sloppy.

First, let's talk about the surface level of the genre, because this is what draws a lot of people in.

We have dark settings--think castles, haunted mansions with attics and/or basements where weird things might be happening. These places might be old or have some sort of dark history surrounding them. For example, think of the house in Henry James's Turn of the Screw. A more recognizable symbol might be Dracula's castle in various forms of media.

We have the paranormal--vampires, ghosts, etc.

We sometimes have romance--Some examples of this are seen in novels like Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. A more recent example in film is Guillermo del Toro's Crimson Peak.

Mystery--As seen in some of my previously named examples.

These are only a few of the surface-level elements we find in these stories.

Personally, I believe that the difference between a good gothic story and a not-so-good gothic story, whether that be written or visual, is how these things are used to explore uncomfortable topics outside of the story. If you fail to use these themes and symbols effectively, you get either a shocking but sometimes silly horror story (which I think there is a place for) or "shock porn" which I would argue Anne Rice's work leans more towards, but I'll get more into that later.

Is the ghost there to just be scary or is the ghost being used as a metaphor for the guilt or regret that haunts the protagonist? Do the zombies exist just to chase the protagonist or are they there to remind both the protagonist and the readers of their own mortality? Are the vampires just "sexy" or do they confront us with the type of sexuality we are not supposed to want to explore--Think Twilight vs. different versions of Dracula, Carmilla, The Lost Boys, and to a certain extent, The Vampire Chronicles. And if the vampires in these stories confront us with this sexuality, what is being SAID about it? Is the media encouraging us to explore it? Shaming us? How is it being framed?

I think some of the strongest horror stories (not all gothic stories are necessarily horror, but I just happen to like horror movies) embrace elements of the gothic genre. Some that come to mind are The Ring, Candyman, and Get Out.

In The Ring, our supernatural entity is Samara Morgan, a vengeful spirit trapped in a well. Part of the film takes place in Seattle, Washington and an old cabin resort outside of the city. This by itself creates the rainy, gloomy atmosphere known in the gothic genre. The other part takes place on an island that's even gloomier. An island itself is very symbolic of feelings of being "trapped" or isolated. One of my favorite lines from the movie comes from Samara's doctor--"When you live on an island and someone catches a cold, it's everyone's cold." A very clever idiom to describe how Samara's ability to imprint disturbing images in her mother's mind became everyone's problem when she sought help. And that's scary--what loving mother wouldn't seek help for her child even if said child was hurting them? But how terrifying is it to be on an island with said little girl with these kinds of abilities? No one on the island asked to be victims, but it's not like any of them can just move away. And Samara's mother certainly didn't *know* that trying to get help for her child would come at the expense of everyone else's mental health. It's not that easy. There's also an uncomfortable truth about love. Samara loves her mother. Samara is also evil. Both are true and both can be true in the reality outside of the film. She's a "bad kid" who no one can "help," because she doesn't *want* to be helped. She's also the island's secret. A secret that haunts the community but one that cannot be contained forever. Secrets *are* like ghosts. They haunt us and we fear them, because what do our secrets say about us? How long until our secrets get out and spread like Samara's VHS?

Get Out is another good horror story containing the gothic elements of mystery, secrets, dread, and entrapment. The claustrophobic feeling comes in the form of the "sunken place." The feeling of being conscious of our interactions and surroundings but not being in *control* of them is frightening, *but* the sunken place is also a metaphor for the racial sociopolitics in our society. How many Black Americans are burdened with the feeling of having to play "respectability politics" to survive? And what does that cost the Black community as a whole? I should also add that the story mostly takes place on a secluded property in the woods which adds to the "trapped" feeling.

I think Candyman is a very interesting horror/gothic to talk about because this one is very much catering to the white "female gaze." Candyman is very much like a classical vampire. He's handsome but very, VERY dangerous. But he's also BLACK which adds another layer to this. He pursues the white protagonist, Helen, in a very similar way we often see Dracula pursue Mina. In Helen's first, real encounter with this vengeful spirit, she is very much in a trance-like state and very helpless. This kind of thing where the woman protagonist is *helpless* to the handsome villain is very common in gothic stories. It allows the reader/viewer to kind of escape into a situation where they are helpless to the things they aren't "allowed" to pursue in the real world--'Oh, no! Whatever am I to do? This handsome man is also evil, but is also in love with me, and I am *weak* to his charms!' As taboo as interracial relationships are today, I'd say they very much were in the 90's--and I am speaking from the perspective of a biracial woman who grew up in that time and *rarely* met other biracial kids or saw interracial families represented in media. Now, as much as I *love* Candyman as a film, the framing of the story does put Black men in a compromising position, as the idea of Black men being a danger to white women has long been one that has been weaponized by white supremacists. This is an unfortunate and likely unintended feature of this movie.

My problem with Anne Rice and her fandom is that her writing is made out to be the epitome of gothic storytelling when she mostly just incorporates gothic elements but says nothing with them. And her fandom, both those who like the show and those who hate on it, have a nasty habit of talking down to people who criticize her work and who suggest that the show does a lot of things better than she did. They do this especially to Black fans.

One thing that has stood out to me when it comes to the book fandom is the way they have insulted Black people's intelligence when we've expressed discomfort with the racism in her books. I've seen it said among them, 'The book is *challenging* you to have sympathy towards awful people' in regard to Louis owning slaves. But none of them have ever answered a question I put out there in response--*How?* How am I being challenged? Because Anne Rice frames Louis's racism as a simple detail of his character, but there is never any pushback for it. There is no confronting the reader in the writing. There is nothing there to give us conflicting emotions about relating to this guy in *any* way. And Daniel never pauses when Louis's racism pops out, which I think would be a reasonable thing to do in the 1970s even for a white dude. And one thing that has always made me uncomfortable around white fans of Rice is they almost *never* brought up the topic of race when it came to her books. It didn't seem to phase them, and if it didn't phase them, how exactly was it a challenge for them to relate to Louis?

Sexuality is also something very present in Rice's books, but again, what is said about it? What does Rice *say* about queerness and what is the significance of vampirism as it relates to that.

There is also the issue of Claudia. Originally, in IWTV, Claudia was turned as a five-year-old and is forced to physically remain a five-year-old as she grows up and matures into a woman mentally--so, that element of feeling trapped is certainly there. But it also gets uncomfortable. Louis, who raises her with Lestat, later begins to view Claudia in a *sexual* light. And again, it's there. It's disturbing. But Rice never offers any sort of push back for it. Not even through Daniel. Sorry, but the framing of it is yucky. So, either Rice was saying that this is okay or she was saying nothing at all.

I feel as if the show serves as a response to the things neither Rice herself nor her fandom cared to address. By making Louis a Black man of the early 1900s, the issue of race can no longer be avoided. It's there at the center in a way it wasn't in any discussions about the books. It also does a better job of exploring uncomfortable topics such as Claudia's struggle with being a grown woman in an adolescent girl's body and illustrates that there are much *better* ways of going about exploring that than creating an incestuous relationship that, again, says *nothing.*

The show also does a better job at diving into the nuances of love an abuse. This is something I've seen a lot of fans struggle with, and I think there are a lot of reasons for this. One reason in particular is a very simplistic, Disneyfied idea of love. Lestat does love Louis and that's difficult for people because we are constantly told that someone cannot really love you if they hurt you, but that's just not reality. As I said when discussing The Ring, bad people can experience feelings of love while still being bad. Lestat loves Louis, but he loves him selfishly. If Louis hurts him (threaten to leave/choose their daughter over him), he will hurt him worse (physically abuse him within an inch of his life). It's an uncomfortable reality that sometimes a person can be evil but still can love, and love alone does not make them qualified to be a husband or a father. It is also an uncomfortable reality that we can love our abusers. We can forgive them. They can continue to hurt us, and we can forgive them over and over again. It's not always as simple as "just leaving" the first time they lay their hands on us.

As someone who has dealt with "emotional vampires" before, Lestat definitely fits the profile. Vampires in some of the oldest folklore are depicted as insatiable creatures who live off of the blood and energy of others, and this folklore often serves as a metaphor meant to help us be careful when choosing who we associate with. An emotionally selfish person can demand our company and drain us of our emotional and mental well-being if we're not careful. We see this with the way Lestat pursues Louis, even when Louis attempts to put space between them--even when he is mourning his brother. Lestat shows up at his brother's funeral and repeatedly invades his mind, and isolates him by killing Lily, driving Louis into a mental spiral until he finally caves when he corners him in the church.

Now, to understand the flaws of Rice's original work and the strengths of the TV adaptation when it comes to creating a good gothic story, an amount of media literacy is required. I feel like, unfortunately, a lot of Rice's fans read these books when they were probably too young and were not introduced to them with the proper guidance. Young teenagers are usually not equipped to handle the kind of book Rice wrote, especially if the highly charged subjects are rarely challenged. I feel like a lot of those who take offense to Rice being criticized were very young when they read her books and never matured intellectually as they got older. I've mentioned here before that as a teenager, I was not allowed to read Rice's books. It's a miracle I saw either film adaptation. As an adult who has now read Rice's work, I completely understand why those books were deemed inappropriate for me and am grateful I read them *after* taking a good amount of literary criticism classes.

Assuming this was asked in good faith, I thank you for your patience. This took a while for me to write. And I thank you for excusing the sloppiness.

[annbourbon]

After reading What is...? by @creativepromptsforwriting (if you haven't read her blog or follow her WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!?)

I decided to add some of my notes here too. Because it's on the little things I've been studying every night to get better at writing. So please consider this post as part/collab of "What is...?"

★Please keep in mind that this comes from someone whose first language it's not english, so, what for some might be obvious, for others it is not.

Blurb? is a short promotional description on your book. But can also be used to promote movies and other things.

Needs: Hook + Keywords (define an audience) + keep it short and leave them wanting for more.

* Remember to check for spelling and grammar mistakes.

Nowadays you can use quotes from your book as promo too. Pinterest is your best ally here. Make a bunch of attractive images with a colorful quotes and upload it on your social media! ^♡^

Honestly when it comes to promos you should exploit it all (meaning: create quotes, collage, your cover, promos, etc!) Be your own fan. Create a playlist, ambience, set the mood. Let your own world drag you into the woods, do not resist it.

If you love it, other will love it too.

W.I.P.? Means Work in Progress. So you have yet a lot to do to finish your story. it's okay, it takes time \^♡^/

Pathetic fallacy Vs Personification?

Pathetic fallacy

It's specifically about giving emotions to something non-human (objects, nature, or animals)

Writers use the pathetic fallacy to evoke a specific mood or feeling that usually reflects their own or a character's internal state. While I have seen some detractors of using this technique, think of Emily Brontë novel, Wuthering Heights, or Shakespeare in several of his works like Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Othello, King Lear and Macbeth. Or Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. So study it and use it carefully and you should be fine. Times change but you should write however you want too.

Personification

On the other hand, is giving any human attribute to an object.

Think of The Beauty and the Beast, Alice in Wonderland, and Toy Story as great examples of what personification is.

Atmosphere?  is the way an author uses setting, objects, or internal thoughts of characters to create emotion, mood, or experiences for the reader.

For me Mary Shelley with Frankenstein is one of the most accurate examples I can give, but when I think about it, Robinson Crusoe, and Moby Dick, both feel tremendously claustrophobic and desperate to the reader, full of details, the time passes slowly and it's insufferable. Which in theory is not okay because the reader can drop the book but guess what? They're classic because you want to know what happens next. Which brings me to my next point, if you want to know more about the art of writing, you should try the following channels on YT:

Abbie Emmons

She has some interesting videos, but one crazy tip that will change your mind. It actually works. And don't worry, she keeps repeating it over and over so you learn it too. She also offers some courses and several activities like writing together (in case you're trying to write but can't, now you have a date!)

Ellie Dashwood

If you're into social dynamics, subtlety and want to get better writing period stories wether they are romantic or dramas, then she's your best bet. While she doesn't teach you how to write better she does teach you literature and history. And trust me, some of these things can be more than helpful. The way she analyzes and provides for clarification over social situations has made me understand not just Jane Austen but my own time in a different way.

Fiction Beast

This is showing me a lot of literature and making me read classics. Of course it wouldn't work if it wasn't because of Ellie but it's a must! because it does explains a lot.

Ana Neu

I just discovered her and Ellen so I can't say a lot of things but their videos have been really helpful with some of the things I've been working on especially with Fit or Die, so you should check out both of these girls.

Ellen Brock

and of course, he needs no introduction, but if you didn't know, he has several classes posted on his channel which have been helping me tremendously.

Brandon Sanderson

*Disclaimer: They're not paying me for doing promo. I just do this on my own account because I truly admire their work and effort put into it. Plus, I always do this for anyone if I truly admire the way they work. And I believe this is helpful for anyone with hopes of becoming an author. Even if it's just a hobby. Have fun~!

[yarns-and-d20s]

Fantasy, Fantasy Romance, and Language

This has been on my mind for a good long while, and I finally had the opportunity to post it as a comment on reddit. It, uh, is extremely long, probably better suited to a blog post, but with the death of LJ and birth of "socmed brevity", that's the only place for this sort of comment.

However, that doesn't mean it shouldn't also be a blog post, so here we are, with additional context/intro.

I know that fantasy romance fans, especially fans of the very popular writers/books (ie, the booktok famous stuff) can be very touchy. I may be yucking a yum. I feel no regrets about this. I love romance, I love fantasy, and you take those two things and smash them together, and I should love it. I don't always, and there are some reasons: much of it is targeted to an audience younger than I, and I as I age, I get increasingly uninterested in the trials and tribulations and especially love lives of people half my age. There's too many "Not Like Other Girls" FMCs and too many "Shadow Daddy 1000-Year-Old Vampire Werewolf Merman Asshole" MMCs. The worldbuilding isn't always stellar. There's so much first-person and that's not my jam—and I recognise that's very much a "me" problem with the entirety of romance, never mind fantasy romance.

But I DNF'd Fourth Wing very specifically because I read the words "for the win". Someone brought those three words up in a discussion about the book. I said that was when I DNF'd it. I was told it happened two more times.

I typed out the following:

If I can take this way too seriously for a moment: I am not a detractor of making the language, especially dialogue, in fantasy more casual/modern. The way that fantasy video games like Dragon Age, Elder Scrolls, Baldur's Gate III, etc, make the characters sound less formal, stilted, and uptight than Papa Tolkien did is good, in my opinion, even if it's just the simple trick of making them use contractions. It makes the genre more accessible and less dense. Sure, I've read all of A Song of Ice and Fire*, too, which on the scale of "For the Win" to "Papa Tolkien" is closer to Papa Tolkien, almost certainly because GRRM is older, and that's fine. Those books are doorstoppers, they take everything extremely seriously, and I still enjoy and read that end of fantasy. I also genuinely think that the genre could open itself up a lot more by taking a page (sorry) from fantasy video games, and I never think "more people like thing that I like" is bad. It's good, actually! (All that said, every time I read/hear the word "okay" come out of the mouth of a dwarf or a wizard I'm like, oh, I don't know about this. Also the word "jeez" is used in Fire Emblem: Three Houses and I struggled with that one even more, because "jeez" it's from "Jesus" and, um, [Fódlan] doesn't have one of those.)

HOWEVER.

Unless this fantastical setting is actually here, Earth, whether it be now or in a far-flung future (eg, urban fantasy or something like Gideon the Ninth, which, yes, is more the "SF" of "SFF"), I strongly, massively object to fucking memes being in this genre, set on other worlds, just once, let alone THRICE. And, okay.

Small allusions for "I understood that reference" points in perhaps description or very throwaway gags are one thing, and I'll accept those on a case-by-case basis. But a—or worse the—main character saying an internet meme like "for the win" aloud THREE TIMES is just... no. No thank you.

Genres have conventions. They do that for a reason, that's what makes them a genre. The romance genre has the the romance as the A-plot and that HEA (no matter how much people on twitter want to argue with me that despite what the RWA says, romance doesn't need an HEA and thus Wuthering Heights is a romance novel). Fantasy, except in particular circumstances, takes place on secondary worlds and bringing in something that is blatantly and drastically from 21st-century Earth, and marking the writer as probably a Millennial, is immersion-breaking to its foundations, and for SFF, immersion is foundational to the genre. I do not care if you're slapping "romance" after the word fantasy.

Fantasy romance is a tightrope walk over a pit of alligator-filled lava. I need the writers to pull off the romance A-plot and the HEA, but to also respect the conventions of the fantasy genre or I'm out.

For fantasy romance, T Kingfisher actually pulls off this balance masterfully in her Saint of Steel series.

*I need whoever reads this to know that I initially typo'd that as "A Snog of Ice and Fire" and, hey, free self-pubbed fantasy romance title right there.

[otonymous]

Memento (DC Jason Todd - NSFW) - Kinktober 2022

Description: 

(First posted on Pa*t*reon (pls see link in pinned post)! - early access Oct 6/22)

Kinktober 2022 Prompt #2: Lingerie

Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language and mature themes - reader discretion is advised.  Potential trigger warnings include: super mild knife play (no blood involved!), a faint whiff of hate sex (in that love and hate are two sides of the same coin in this particular instance lol), jealousy, one-night stands, rough intercourse, brief mention of masturbation, size kink, angst.

Word Count: ~2500 words

Author's Note:

Hello lovelies!

This second Kinktober fic was inspired by an Ask sent in by @yelenabelovasbathwater, who requested the following:

This was supposed to be an exercise in writing about lingerie.  As with most things Jason Todd related, it turned into angst.  I hope y'all enjoy the read anyways LOL! 🙈😂

-XOXO, Otonny 💕

“Why did you come here?”

Why indeed, you ask yourself, feet suddenly leaden and rooted to the concrete floor, unable to tear your gaze away from the back of Jason’s head.

Dark and low, the sound of his voice is an echo in your mind, the words a warning percolating through layers of your consciousness, meaning gradually taking root:

To take one step closer would be foolish.  

Dangerous.

But you had long since passed the point of no return, seeking out the flame at the risk of immolating yourself in his fire.

You could admit it now.  Had dug down deep into the brittle earth of your honest truth and recognized that regardless of what had happened in the past or had yet to happen in the future, as long as you were alive, the spark of him would live forever within the cradle of your heart.  For better or for worse.

And so, you came to face him: Jason Peter Todd.

Not in an act of bravery nor a show of bravado.  Jason was no charity case and the last thing you wanted to do was fix him.

There was no fixing…this.

“I don’t need your thanks, if that’s what you’re trying to do.”

Shifting in his chair, Jason speaks, not bothering to look up from the open book in his hand — a copy of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights as dog-eared and worn as the other books sprouting up in stacks from the floor around the cavernous space of his hideout.

“I-I’m not here for that.  Though I am very grateful for what you did, helping my brother out when he was cornered by those thugs—”

“Tell him to stay away from dark alleys at night, yeah?  Next time around, he may not be so lucky.”

You nod, stopping short when you realize Jason wouldn’t have seen it with his back still turned to you.

“So why are you here then?” he asks again, the sharp edge in his tone almost painful in your ears.

“I’m here…to say goodbye.  I’m leaving Gotham.”

Jason’s hand stiffens, crinkling the pages of his book.  “What about Dick?”

“Dick knows.”

“So that’s it, then.  So easy for you, isn’t it?  To just pick up and leave whenever you feel like it, not giving two shits about who gets hurt in the process?”

Finally…finally…Jason turns to face you, the book clattering to the floor as he rises to stand. 

You had forgotten.  

Forgotten how tall Jason was, rising easily two heads above the top of your own.  You had forgotten about the broad stretch of his shoulders beneath his tactical jacket, its tall collar stiff around a neck thick with muscle and sinew, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each strained swallow.

His large hands curl into fists now, the same shape they made when he ran long fingers through your hair to caress and pull that night a lifetime ago.

“This isn’t easy for me, either.  I loved Dick—"

“Yeah, like the way you loved me, right?  One night and one night only?  Or was that a mistake too?”

Words of hurt fall like rain upon your head as you stand there, watching Jason’s fists tremble with anger, rage…and the unfathomable depths of secret pain.

And for a moment, you wondered whether you should’ve turned your back to leave, whether it was better to let sleeping dogs lie if it meant you could avoid further muddying up waters best left undisturbed. And you might have done so…had you not looked into his eyes:

Blue.

Whereas Dick Grayson’s had always been the azure shelter of a midsummer’s sky, Jason’s were dark like the colour of a tempestuous storm:

Impetuous, emotional…and honest.

Jason Todd was used to living life in hiding: secret identities maintained under a mask, cloaked beneath a red hood.  But here, now — standing face to face and breath to breath — he could not hide from you.  Nor did he try,  the glaze of moisture settling over his eyes telling you that for all the waves of anger rising off his body and squaring his jaw, Jason was…

…hurt.

And so you decide that this time, you would not run away.  Like Jason, you were done with hiding, of lying to yourself and those around you.  Thus, gathering your courage, you do the very thing you came here to do:

Be honest.  With Jason, and your own heart.

“Jason, you were never a mistake.  The only mistake I made…was being too scared to love you.  I’ve wronged you.  I’ve wronged Dick. And I’ve done myself no favours by thinking I could fool myself into loving someone else when my heart has always belonged…to you.

“So I’ve come here today to apologize.  I’m sorry for hurting you and your brother.  I know it’s little consolation, but I hope that in my leaving, the two of you can find a modicum of peace.”

“Like hell I will.”

Time seems to slow in the instant Jason moves, rushing at you and overpowering in the tidal wave frame of his body — all bulging muscles and calloused hands demanding as they angle your face to meet his.

His kiss is a punishing sting, bruising and urgent as lips meet, gnash upon teeth.  He doesn’t care about strangling your moans with probing swipes of his tongue, and you pay no mind to the taste of blood mingling with saliva, yours and his.  And when your legs begin to shake from breathlessness, Jason only deepens the kiss, wrapping strong arms around your waist to hold you in place because Jason Todd wasn’t done with you yet. 

It was far from over.

There is a fire in his eyes, burning dangerously wild and reckless in deep blue to remind you of the exact reason why you had chosen Dick in the first place, why you had to avoid Jason all this time:

It was an act of self-preservation.

Because this - this - was inevitable: the chemistry that drew the two of you together so naturally like opposing poles of a magnet, the bond binding and irreversible.  Electric.  To fall for Jason was a death sentence; you’d be helpless against the irresistible force of attraction, falling into him entirely until you ceased to know the limits of where he ended and you began.

And the thought scared you.

That enticing lull of losing yourself completely in another, of loving someone so deeply that to be without them would mean the end of the world.

No one person should have so much power over another, you had thought.  

And so, you left.  Slipped out of Jason’s arms as he slept and forced yourself to abandon the encompassing warmth of his body.  Fought off the soreness between your legs that reminded you too much of what heaven had tasted like as you told yourself, over and over again, that you’d be content with knowing Jason Todd intimately just once.

It wasn’t a one-night stand.  For you, it had never been.  Rather, it was the granting of a glimpse into a secret paradise.  At a price you didn’t think you could afford to pay. 

You were a fool.

You know that now.

The wisdom of your true heart reveals itself in the tears streaming down your face, in your fingers that hunger for the touch of him, wrapping hard around dark strands of silken hair to pull him closer and closer until he is groaning into your mouth, anchoring himself with teeth that sink into the cushion of your lower lip — relentless in its need. 

“I hate you,” Jason says, brows furrowed in frustration as he lays the grimaced confession at the corners of your kiss-swollen lips.  “I hate you so much for what you’ve done.  To me.  To Dick.  But most of all, I hate that I can’t stop loving you.”

Yes.  Yes, my love.  Love me, hate me.  But whatever you do, don’t forget about me.

Because I will never forget you.

Jason pulls away as if stunned, the stroke of white hair that grew from the crown of his head falling into his eyes and yet, it failed to mask the surprise on his face, as if he had somehow heard your innermost thoughts though you had said nothing at all.

“I won’t forget.” 

Jason tells you, low voice solemn in such a way that left absolutely no room for doubt.

Rough hands grip onto the collar of your blouse, a single rip sending tiny buttons scattering across the concrete floor like a broken strand of pearls.  And you are left exposed beneath the spotlight of Jason’s gaze, his fingertips tracing down bare skin to the small of your back while his eyes traverse the landscape of your body: neck…shoulders…collarbones…until finally coming to rest on the curved peaks of your breasts.

Red.

Sheer mesh leaving little to the imagination and dyed in a hue that matched his own colours.  Enticing in its simplicity; thin straps tracing a starburst along your shoulder blades and a teasing second-skin that begged for removal in the most savage of ways: torn by hungry teeth or ripped to shreds in impatient hands.

And yet, that wasn’t what stirred Jason Todd most of all.

His shock came from recognition; the fact that you had worn this bra the first and only time you had spent the night together.  That he kept the vision of you wearing this perfectly preserved in his mind, calling upon it whenever he faltered in strength of will and discipline — hot water beading on his skin in the shower as he reached down to grasp his engorged cock, stroking hard and fast until your name left his lips in a groan, Jason swearing that this time would be the absolute last he would ever think about you as he watched his seed circle down the drain.

To see it again, now, was torture; a punishment that he longed to endure, couldn’t help but self-inflict.  

And he hated himself for it.

So he unsheathes the blade from the holster strapped to his muscular thigh,  dying inside in the best of ways to hear you gasp at the touch of cool, smooth metal against your skin when he slides the tip beneath the strap at your shoulder and—

Snip.

—cuts, Jason stopping only when your bra had been stripped clean away, the memento falling to your feet in shreds, leaving you shaking not from fear but the violence of your utter attraction to this man before you.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” 

Jason whispers, certain and resigned in the prophecy that slips past his lips as he bends to kiss your nipples, tongue painting warm, wet swathes about greedy mouthfuls of flesh.

And the feeling…the feeling…

…defies description; could not be put into words for all the books that topple from their neatly stacked piles to collapse into a mess of open pages on the ground when Jason climbs above you, pulling free of each article of clothing that would cage his bare skin from the touch of yours.

His naked body is exactly as you remembered it; aside from a few new scars and bruises, it was perfection all the same.  Bulky muscles shaping wide shoulders and thickening biceps and triceps, Jason is defined all the way from broad chest to the six-pack running down his torso.

You trace the midline of his abdomen, fingertip smoothing down to where his hands worked to unbuckle the belt at his tapered waist.  He struggles to smother a groan at your touch, head falling back to accentuate the bulge of the Adam’s apple in his throat when you reach into his pants to feel him:

Hard flesh engorged with heat, so large it was impossible to wrap your hand around him.

And as you began to stroke, twisting your wrist as you worked your grip up and down Jason’s length, stopping now and then to savour the weight of his balls in the cup of your palm, you remember:

How incredible it had felt to have him in you; Jason’s gaze refusing to relinquish its hold on your own as his hips drove their pendulum swing, fierce and relentless as both Red Hood’s friends and foes knew him to be.

That night, when Jason took you for the very first time, there was neither anger nor rage to be found.  Just pure, overflowing passion whose unfiltered source ultimately gave rise to every other emotion because Jason Todd was a man who felt deeply. He did not do things in halves because he didn’t know how to, and so he loved like he hated: with the entirety of his being.  And right here, right now, you began to tremble, wondering — anticipating — what would become of you, someone who he loved and hated in equal measure.

THRUST.

Without warning, he enters, pulling your crimson thong aside as he slides in to the hilt.  Jason seals his mouth over yours, swallowing every breathless gasp before he pulls away just to watch your eyes water from the sheer intensity of pleasure, gaze caressing over your face.

With Dick, intimacy had tended towards the gentle and leisurely; lovemaking that was sensual, meant to be savoured, not rushed.  But Jason…

…Jason fucked.

Movements orchestrated like his life — and yours — depended on it. Rough, intense.  Frenzied and wild.  Kisses peppered across your face to soothe the stretch of his sizeable cock, the decadent ache of him driving fast and deep into you before slowing to a churning grind, just to witness your eyes rolling to the back of your head, to hear your body speak to him in arousal wet and smeared between the desperate press of you and him.

Jason fucked you like an animal, fuelled by all the broken memories: a night of paradise forever lost, the bitter remembrances of your time with Dick and the ugly jealousy that could find no outlet other than his fists beating on the faces of Gotham’s criminal trash.  Jason never spoke a word about this to anyone, knowing that the day would come when he would tell you everything himself and so he does:

That he lived on your every last breath with each bruising kiss.

That you were the colour in his world when he holds you so tightly you could feel the pounding of his red, red heart in your chest.

That forever and a day wasn’t too long to wait for you with each punishing thrust.

Because for Jason Todd, you would always be the only person he loved, a memento in flesh and blood of the time he had truly understood what it meant to be…

…happy.

Thank you so much for reading and hope y'all enjoyed it!  Much love to each and every one of you! 💕 For more juicy reads, please check out my P*a*t*re-on page (please see link in pinned post)!

👀👉🏼 Feel free to peep the Masterpost here!

"Memento" is copyright 2022 Otonymous, all rights reserved.

⚠️Please do not repost or translate my work in any form. 🙅🏻‍♀️ Reblogs, however, are perfectly fine and much appreciated! 🤩💕

[thefanficmonster]

Corpse’s Girl

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Bullying, Swearing, Derogatory Terms

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Summary: Y/N’s life as a regular college student is forever stripped away from her when her relationship with the famous YouTuber Corpse Husband is accidentally revealed during an online class of hers. How will she cope with the sudden spotlight and the unwanted attention, some of which crosses into bullying?

Requested by my amazing Tumblr friend @itsminniekat 🥰 She’s been reading and liking my works since day one and I honestly couldn’t be more grateful. If you’re reading this, all I can say is thank you, darling. Thank you so much for sticking by my blog even when I posted some crappy fics. I’ll make sure this ain’t one of them. Love you with all my heart. ❤❤❤

P.S. - I named the mean character with my name so I hope no one who reads this has the same name. Wouldn’t want any of you feeling like the villain 😘

Who knew online class would be even more boring than being physically present for a lecture? Seriously, I find myself doing the weirdest of crap to entertain myself - like trying to balance a pen on the tip of my nose for example. I jot down some notes every now and then but that’s basically it. My mind can not fathom the concept on concentrating on whatever my professors are going on and on about. Well, full disclosure, I couldn’t concentrate even if I wanted to, especially with my boyfriend streaming in the other room.

He’s currently playing Among Us with his usual gaming squad. Listening to his input during the discussions, I can always tell when he’s lying. I honestly find it hilarious that his friends can’t pick up when he’s bullshitting them. I sometimes wonder if he has brainwashed them. And that’s one of the main reasons we don’t play Among Us together - he can’t lie to me. Not only do I pick up on his con with ease, but he always says he feels bad when he lies to me which is just the sweetest thing. Also, I refuse to play cause I’m shy. His friends are all well-known content creators and I’m a literal nobody. Every now and then I find myself wondering why Corpse is even with me. He’s always quick to push those thoughts out of my head and make sure they don’t return on a long notice, but they do interrupt my peace from time to time.

“Y/N, do you know?“ The sound of my professor saying my name takes me out of my eavesdropping of Corpse’s stream.

I panic, but quickly improvise, “Sorry, my internet is slow, you cut out for a second. What was the question?” I feel my face heating up, making me glad we are allowed to keep our cameras off.

“Question number 15 on page 82 in your textbook. Do you know the answer to it?“ My professor repeats himself, his tone annoyed.

I look down at the page that’s already opened in front of me. I let out a sigh of relief, seeing that the question is rather easy.

“Yeah, um, it’s...“ Suddenly, Corpse’s laugh reaches my room loud and clear. There’s no doubt my mic picked up the noise, especially since the door to my room is open.

The color drains from my face as I hurry to say the answer and remute myself. My eyes are wide as I stare at my screen, hoping no one will acknowledge that very recognizable laugh.

“OMG Y/N, are you watching a Corpse Husband stream in class?” One of the bitches in my class, Vy, speaks up, “Not a very goody-two-shoe move on your part, dear.” 

I purposely unmute my mic to mumble a quick ‘Shut up, bitch’ that somehow manages to fly under my professor’s radar and the class continues. It’s the first time something like this has happened and I’m not sure if I handled it properly or not.

The class ends shortly after, allowing me a sigh of relief as I disconnect from the meeting. 

“Fucking finally.“ I mumble to myself, leaning back in my desk chair. Tilting my head backwards, I see Corpse standing in the doorframe. I grin, not only because his presence itself makes me ten times happier, but also because he’s upside down from my viewpoint. “Well, hello there! How long have you been spying on me?“

He struts over to me, leaning his face over mine, “Long enough.” His lips linger above mine without any actual contact before he pulls away, allowing me to sit up straight and proper in the chair. “You still have classes?”

I nod my head while disappointedly rolling my eyes, “Yeah. One more. Shouldn’t be too bad since it’s English Lit. You’re done streaming?”

“Yeah, I just have some other things to do. I haven’t done a narration video in a while, I miss making that type of content.“ He plops down on my bed, running a hand through his messy black curls.

“Weren’t you recording some lines a few days ago?“ I frown as I try to recall if what I’m referring to actually happened or my brain is too fried to decipher reality from my bootleg perception of it. Online class, man - messes with your head like sleeping pills - makes you disoriented and exhausted with barely doing anything other than trying to wrap your brain around a lecture or two.

He hums affirmatively, “It’s not a finished project and I don’t even know if I’ll use those or rerecord them. I’ll have to listen to them again before I make a final decision.“

I tilt his chin upwards with my pointer finger, a gesture he has told me he finds very endearing, “I’m sure they’re great and you just refuse to be satisfied. Everything you do is great.“

He smiles a small, shy smile, his fingers gently wrapping around my wrist, holding my hand in place, “You’re biased. You like me too much to tell me when I do some bullshit.”

I scoff, “You know that isn’t true. If someone’s gonna kick your butt in formation, it’s gonna be me.“ I give him a quick kiss on the forehead before pulling away from him, “Go on, now. I have a class to attend. You distract me enough while you’re in the other room, I can only imagine how hard it’d be for me to focus if you were right by my side.“

He smirks, bowing a little as he makes his way out of the room, “You flatter me.”

I playfully roll my eyes, getting my headset back on as I tap the last class for the day. We have an assignment due to the start of the class which we’ll have to present if the professor approved of it. We basically had to write a psychoanalysis of a character from any book of our choice. I chose Heathcliff from ‘Wuthering Heights’ which is one of my favorite books of all time. I’m proud of what I wrote and the way I wrote it, but I’ve always barely scraped by with a B in this class, a B+ if I’m lucky, so I’ve never gotten any major credit, even when I put my 110% in the assignments and projects.

Well, color me surprised when the professor calls on me first to read my work, complimenting it on its detailed and specific nature. I get my printed assignment out in front of me and unmute myself.

“I wrote a psychoanalysis on for Heathcliff, a character from Emily Bronte’s novel ‘Wuthering Heights’.“ Just after I say this line, Corpse’s voice booms throughout the whole apartment, no doubt being picked up by my mic. It doesn’t sound like he’s actually talking, he can’t be that loud. I put two and two together when I recognize the lines he’s saying - the ones he recorded a few days ago. They’re coming from his computer speakers. He probably didn’t check the volume before playing back the recording.

I mute myself as quickly as possible, but it’s too late. The voice dies down as Corpse probably turned down the speakers.

My professor, who is already done with this lecture, just annoyedly remarks, her words overdosed with sarcasm: “Read your assignment and you can go back to whatever it is you are watching.”

“Wow, Y/N! Again?! Are you one of those crazy obsessed fans or something? Is Corpse Husband all you watch?“ This bitch is really poking a stick at me, huh? The only crazy obsessed fan here is her, and my friends but they are allowed. Little do all of them know, I am obsessed but not simply over a YouTuber. I’m obsessed with my boyfriend who just happens to be a YouTuber.

“No commentary, please.“ The professor scolds her, “Go on, Y/N.“

I finish reading without any other disturbances. The professor compliments my essay again when I’m done, the small incident at the beginning forgotten already. Well, not by everyone. One of my friends shot me a quick text to joke about it which only earned an eye roll from me.

My friends don’t know that I’m dating Corpse either. As I said, they are simping HARD over him while I act the most indifferent on the subject. Whenever they ask my opinion on him I either say ‘he’s OK’ or just avoid answering completely. I know saying anything more enthusiastic than that would turn into a snowball rolling down a snowy hill - I’d just keep babbling about how nice, amazing, wonderful and a gift to this world Corpse is, inevitably revealing our relationship in the process.

I’m afraid of revealing my relationship with Corpse in front of these people. They are all run on jealousy and selfishness and I can only imagine how mean they’d be about it. I’m already not too fond of them, it would only be worse if any of my personal life was exposed.

When the class finally ends I remove my headset, putting my forehead down on the desk, barely missing the keyboard. I groan in frustration and anger at myself for not fighting back. I could’ve and should’ve said something - ANYTHING. But what? That’s a question I can’t find the answer to.

“Hey...“ Corpse’s hesitant voice comes from behind me, “You ok?“

I straighten my posture, turning to him with a smile. “Yeah, but these people suck.”

I get up from my chair as he approaches me, basically falling in his arms. The comfort I feel radiating off of him makes me relax, forget the past hour or so. He has always had this effect on me. Like my own personal kryptonite to my anger and anxiety.

“Did I get you in any trouble because of that?“ His voice shows clear concern and guilt. 

I wrap my arms around him tighter, burying my head in his chest. “No, don’t worry about it.“ 

And I really wasn’t in trouble. Not until now that the video is officially posted....

I can call these people dumb all I want but they sure put two and two together awfully fast. They recognized the lines they heard during class as the same ones from his new video that came out almost a week after the incident, aka two days ago. It’s safe to say I haven’t touched my phone or computer since.

“This is all my fault.“

Of all the horrible things I suspected would happen this has to be the worst - Corpse is blaming himself for it. I am prepared to take all the shit these people have to throw at me but seeing Corpse beating himself up over this is killing me. No amount of convincing can change his mind. Nothing I say helps.

“Please, stop doing this to yourself. Non of this is your fault, Corpse.“ I’ve repeated this sentence more than a thousand time these past forty eight hours, each time saying it more and more desperately.

“All of it is my fault, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I hate myself so much.“ Has been his reply single time.

 I can’t watch him be so mean to himself. It’s the most conflicting thing when the person you love most is torturing themselves. It’s easy if it’s someone else doing it, you just kick their ass. But what are you supposed to do when the person you want to protect is the same one you need to protect them from.

Corpse has shut himself away in his recording room these past few hours and though he clearly needs to be alone, he still left the door open just a crack cause he knows I’ll be worried sick otherwise.

While I’m alone in the living room, I’ve finally managed to brace myself and build enough courage to power up my laptop. Last time it was on it was going mad with notifications.

“It’s digital. Only digital. It can’t hurt you too badly if it can’t touch you, right?“ I mumble to myself, already frustrated despite not having yet seen all the horrors that await me.

And horrors there were. Everywhere. Twitter. Instagram. Facebook.

My grades. Some pictures of me no one has ever seen. My school files. People from my class tweeting Corpse to ‘expose’ me for the ‘slut’ or ‘bitch’ I really am. Corpse hasn’t touched social media either and I plan on making sure it stays that way. God only knows how much worse he’ll get if he sees these claims.

And then, like a notification sent straight from hell, an email from my professor.

Practical lectures on Friday. Be here at 9 AM. Don’t forget your mask and gloves.

Good thing I opened my laptop when I did. Friday is tomorrow and I need to prepare for this day. Not only do I need to hit the books but I need to toughen up a bit. I can’t go there looking like I feel - like a mess.

Alright, time to put the brave face on. No more wallowing in it, at least not until tomorrow afternoon.

I make a study plan and hop in the shower. I feel the need to apologize to my hair for washing it so roughly, basically yanking at my strands from frustration that has been suppressed for too long.

I get our of the boiling hot shower, red as a lobster, and change into some clean comfortable clothes and put my ass in study mode. I remove all the scary expectations of the morning to come from my mind and let the information the textbooks has to offer seep into my brain.

                                                            *  *  *

I’m about to head out and, despite my put-together composure, I am a wreck inside. I actually put effort into my appearance, I mean - I even styled my hair. A pretty façade to hide a ruin.

I saw my friends’ texts last night, all three of them ending their friendship with me because they felt betrayed. I haven’t yet decided how to feel about that. Doesn’t matter at the moment, there are more important matters at hand, aka surviving the next three hours.

My college is within ten minutes walking distance from our apartment. That ten minute walk has never been so stressful, not even during exam season. The air feels a little harder to breathe, the path a little shorter to walk. And my moment of reckoning a little too close.

I feel eyes on me the second I start walking through the park of our campus. Sure, I could just be paranoid, but the feeling is too real to be just my imagination in overdrive. I’m glad I have my hair down and a mask on so the redness of my cheeks and neck isn’t on display. That’s a sign of weakness right now.

We have two an hour and a half long classes between which we have a snack break that’s half an hour. I usually enjoy that period but I’m dreading it now. These assholes can only be so mean in the presence of a professor, but during lunch break they can increase that tenfold. 

“Well if it isn’t Corpse’s girl.“ I hear that a lot. The whispers are not so much whispers as intentionally loud enough for me to hear remarks. I’m not bothered by them, it’s the least they can do. If I let such a simple thing get to me, I’d be crumbling by the end of first period.

I hear some shuffling behind me and out of the corner of my eye I see, yeah you guessed it, THAT bitch. She’s standing as close to me as she can without violating Covid regulations. A mask is covering her face but the menacing look in her eyes tells me all I need to know about the interaction that’s about to go down.

“I’d ask how much he pays you for the hour.....“ her long nails tap the wooden desk, “but that’d be rude. I bet it’s tough being a maid. Do you just clean or are you a multipurpose lap dog? No offense, I’m genuinely curious.“

“Vy, would you be so kind as to give Y/N some room to breathe?“ The professor asks as he nonchalantly walks in.

Vy rolls her eyes, batting her eyelashes at me, “Talk to you later, sweetheart.” With a fake friendly wave she’s out of my hair, at least for now.

Remember what I said about these people not being as dumb as I pegged them to be? Yeah, scratch that. These fuckers actually tried getting away with taking pictures of me with flash in broad daylight. Like, HELLO! I have two functioning eyes and a brain, I’m onto you. Sadly, me having figured out their childish but hurtful methods of humiliating me doesn’t change much. They still posted the pics they took, using the most derogatory terms they could find in the English language, always making sure to tag Corpse and me both.

Needless to say, these were the longest three hours of my life.

                                                              *  *  *

Shutting the door to our apartment behind me causes relief of the highest levels. I feel like I’ve locked out all the bad shit I have had to deal with these past twenty four hours. 

I’m tired. I’m fucking exhausted. I feel like a discarded piece of paper. 

And it all starts crumbling. A wall is bound to start slowly falling apart after being hit over and over again, each time feeling the blows with a stronger intensity. 

I slide down the door sitting down on the floor and slowly taking my shoes off. I put my bag beside me and wrap my arms around my knees, hiding my head in the space between them and my chest.

One tear slides down my cheek.

Another follows.

And another, this time accompanied by a choked sob.

A pair of arms wraps around the ball that my body has been shaped into. One of his hands comes up to stroke my hair gently, feeding me the comfort I have been longing for since I left the apartment this morning.

“I saw it. All of it. All the shit they talk about you. All the names they call you. And I’ve never wanted to beat so many people up simultaneously.“ His words make me raise my head from its low position, giving him a knowing look. “I wish I could. I would, but that would land me in jail. Which doesn’t even sound so bad cause I don’t like going out. Only problem is you wouldn’t be with me. I wouldn’t want you to be there with me, don’t get me wrong, I’d never want you to end up in jail. I-...” I cut him off by pressing my lips to his. A quick kiss that says so much but mainly shows the immeasurable gratitude for his support.

Seeing those awful tweets and comments had the complete opposite effect on him. He no longer blames himself but the people who actually deserve the blame - all those jerks from my college.

I pull away, giving him a small smile. “I would never let you go to jail.” 

He smiles back at me, overjoyed that my mood is slowly being lifted, “Come on, I have a nice crowd that would like to meet you.”

I know exactly what he means. Felix, Sean, Rae, Dave, Sykkuno and the rest of his friends. The people I’ve been so shy and afraid to meet since day one. Being shy doesn’t really make sense now, seeing as how they know I exist and that I’m a part of Corpse’s life. 

What do I have to lose?

“Guys, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.“ Corpse’s black avatar runs around my cyan one in the Among Us lobby.

I can’t help but giggle when I unmute my mic, “Hi everyone! It’s so nice to finally meet you.“ They each introduce themselves, expressing how happy they are to be meeting me too.

It’s the first time in what feels like a while that I’m truly having fun. These people are wonderful, each so unique and lovely. They never brought up the scandal nor acted as though they knew about it. I know they did and I am beyond grateful that they never mentioned it or treated me any differently because of it. Also, Corpse was streaming the whole time. I had my phone on his stream, my eyes nervously scanning the chat every now and then. I couldn’t believe it. Corpse’s real fans were just as wonderful as his friends - they were nothing but supportive and happy to have met me.

Now, I can either choose to believe these people were being so nice to me out of sympathy or I can believe they really like me and appreciate me for who I am and not for what happened to me. 

I choose to believe the latter.

And while I’m still getting accustomed to this whole new spotlight, I know I’ll be able to handle it as long as I’m holding Corpse’s hand in the process. All I need is to have him beside me and I’m prepared to tackle anything.

“They love you.“ Corpse tells me once the stream is done and we’ve hopped out of the Discord call, “But I love you more.“

His arms wrap around my waist while mine instinctively find their way around his neck, “I love them, too. But they’re at the number 2 spot.”

He smirks at me, “I wonder who’s at number 1.”

I push up on my toes, putting my lips an inch away from his, “Hmm, I wonder...”

He doesn’t let me finish, silencing my teasing with a sweet, loving kiss.

@susceptible-but-siriusexual  @simonsbluee  @save-the-sky  @hacker-ghost  @bi-andready-tocry  @imtiredaffff  @jazzkaurtheglorious  @hereforbeebo  @fandomgirl17  @chrysanthykios  @maehemscorpyus  @loraleiix  @letsloveimagines  @annshit  @i-cant-choose-a-username-help  @enigmaticmaze  @divine-artemis  @waterlilypat

[steelycunt]

omg okay so… here’s the wuthering heights rant: you weren’t wrong messy for sure, it's even like. an understatement i think and ah! your mum has The Best Taste it’s deffo one of my faves too! just…cathy and heathcliff are really sirius and remus’s evil twins, them but more awful, the worst versions of them, just two people who treat everyone around them so atrociously but are soooo obsessed with each other 

and then reading the way they talk to each other first off like calling each other their souls and then ‘would you like to live with your soul in the grave?’ sorry no i Cackled at that they’re sooo catty and melodramatic and arguing right till the end like yeah that’s just them innit…

it's the specific way that they’re shitty people as well like heathcliff being a bitter miserable cunt, so proud and suffering in silence but to a fault, while cathy spends her entire childhood being a menace, running around being this savage defiant kid, she's soo selfish, jealous, has a violent temper but then turns round to the lintons and is so charming and likeable when she wants to be... umm yeah

what i can't stop thinking about though is heathcliff’s rant after cathy’s death, like ‘be with me always—take any form—drive me mad!’ and then r grieving s, stuck in grimmo this crumbling gothic house with kreacher (also are he and joseph not the EXACT same character right down to the self righteous puritanical rants), just those last two years being an absolute cunt to everyone, going insane waiting for sirius to come back from the veil…

and there's no way he's rational about it either, there's no way he's all, 'oh he's with james and lily now, rip i'll just wait here and be miserable alone' umm NO? yeah, i cannot get over this, ‘may you not rest as long as i am living! you said i killed you—haunt me, then!’ because the accuracy?? the way r would literally Become heathcliff, he’d just refuse to move on or do anything after s except lose his mind in that house waiting for his ghost to pop out of the walls, like actually? actually?? what else would he be doing???

sorry this is so long and unintelligible, just imagine me, ever since i put the book down, sitting here frothing at the mouth with kate bush on repeat :/

HI OMG!! okay its coming back to me a bit now that you mention things and i think ur sooo right omg its crazy...literally insane how they're everywhere they're the Worst people in the world. especially the haunt me then quote like literally!! in both a post-81 context and a post-veil context....this is exactly why i am not interested in them moving on or coping in a healthy way after each others death this is why r could never marry tonks he didnt have time he was too busy occupying his every waking thought with his dead boyfriend...incredible

[bellasgreensweater]

✨Why I Think Bella Swan Is On The Autism Spectrum ✨

In this post I’m going to talk about why I personally believe that Bella Swan is autistic. As an autistic person myself, I really relate to Bella and I see a lot of autistic traits in her.

Disclaimer: This is just a headcanon- I don’t think Stephenie Meyer intentionally wrote Bella as autistic, and she or the movie producers never confirmed it, so I’m not saying to everyone that she is CONFIRMED to be autistic and that every one has to see her that way, I’m just saying that I personally think she is, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Autistic people hardly have any representation in the media, and with the representation that we do have, it is almost always stereotypical, inaccurate and offensive. You do not have to agree with me on this, but just please be respectful in the comments and don’t hate :)

Ok let’s go:

1. She always felt different from everyone/she felt like nobody truly understood her and that she never really understood anyone either: this is what basically all autistic people feel, myself included. Feeling like nobody understands the way your brain works and the way you see the world. (And this is true, because autistic people do see the world differently than non- autistic people and autistic peoples brains are wired differently from non- autistic brains). Bella mentions this multiple times in the books and movies, at one point in the first book in the car with Edward, she tells him that she thinks he can’t read her mind because they’re a probably a glitch in her brain and that it’s not like other people’s. There is also this quote from the 1st chapter of twilight which sums up how she feels: “ Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was lying to myself. It wasn’t just physically that I’d never fit in. And if I couldn’t find a niche in a school with three thousand people, what were my chances here? I didn’t relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn’t relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me, never on exactly the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain”.

2. Her motor skills: She’s constantly tripping over her own feet, has bad balance, doesn’t realize that she’s walking into things, constantly dropping things ect, a common thing for autistic people is to have poor motor skills and find it hard to navigate their body.

Another disclaimer about autism: not ever autistic person is the exact same, every autistic person expresses their autism in a slightly different way, for example, some autistic people are overly sensitive to sound, and some are under-sensitive to it, these are just the specific things I’ve noticed for Bella in this post, it’s not supposed to be a generalization of autism in any way! :)

3. Social disinterest and difficultly: all throughout her childhood and her time in forks, she wasn’t very interested in making friends or hanging out or going to parties, and she found that she could never make friends with someone easily, she just never fully clicked with someone. She did have some very nice friends in forks, however she never related to them too well or was very attached to them.

4. Dresses for comfort and not fashion: Bella typically dresses in what feels most comfortable for her, not what is the most fashionable thing, this is a common thing with autism. A lot of autistic people like myself are quite sensitive to clothing and fabric and will not tolerate uncomfortable clothing.

5. Limited interests/special interests: Bella doesn’t really have many interests, but the ones she does have, she’s very passionate about. A special interest is an autism-specific term used to describe interests and hobbies that autistic people have that are very important to them. They help regulate emotions, calm people down, provide escapism ect. Autistic people can hyper fixate on these interests for hours and hours and not get bored, they can get so engrossed that they forget to do basic tasks to take care of themselves like drinking or going to the bathroom. These interests can last for years, sometimes a lifetime and they are very important to autistics. Bella swans special interests would be reading, wuthering heights, and vampires. Bella says in midnight sun that she has loved reading all her life and it is one of the few things that bring her intense joy. She said she could read for hours at a time and would try to sneak books into her lessons and read any chance she could get. Bella says that her favorite book is wuthering heights and she has read it so many times that it is beaten up beyond repair and the spine is so cracked that the book lays flat. This would clearly be her special interest. Her other special interest is clearly vampires.

6. Burnouts and meltdowns when Edward leaves: when Edward left in new moon, Bella obviously fell into a huge depression, but I also think she fell into an autistic burnout (if you don’t know what that is pls research or ask me cause this post is already too goddamn long). And in eclipse, when Edward leaves to go home in the afternoon or to go hunting, she can barely focus without him and gets very anxious (this is obviously because she loves him and is literally obsessed with him lol, but I also think it could be a meltdown from separation anxiety and also a change in routine (a lot of autistics get very upset when their usual routine is disrupted or changed))

7. Sensitive to sounds: In the book, often Bella cannot concentrate or fall asleep because of little sounds like the rain, sometimes it takes ages for her to sleep because the rain or tapping is too distracting. (This is a common autistic struggle).

8. Stims & facial twitches & stuttering: in the movie, she is constantly stuttering over her words, and her face and body twitches a lot. She also stims a lot in the book by playing with her hair or sleeves or the zip of her jacket, or her hands or edwards hands. She also covers some of her face with her hair, this could be to do with sensory overload, seeing too much in her field of vision may be overwhelming for her, like a lot of autistics.

9. Trouble expressing feelings/ thoughts: bella struggles a lot sometimes with communication and telling people how she feels. You can see this in her relationship with Charlie. They both love eachother very much but they never say it and when they do it comes out very awkward and sometimes they use the wrong words. You can also see this when she is hesitant to tell Edward in eclipse when she doesn’t want him to leave for the fight, it takes her ages to work up to telling someone how she feels. She also tends to be quite private. This is common for some autistics to feel.

10. Sensory experiences: bella loves the sun and heat, she says that she loves feeling the sun seep into her skin- a lot of autistics feel the sensory world very strongly and love certain sensations and detest others. When Bella moves to forks, she hates the sudden change in weather and gets anxious and upset at the feel of the cold, and the rain against her skin. This links back to my other point where I was talking about how autistics fear sudden changes in routine. Bella is very relieved when there’s a sunny day in forks and goes and sits outside, savouring the weather which reminds her of home.

11. Not too concerned with how she looks: obviously not every autistic person is like this, but quite a few autistics don’t really focus on how they look/present and what they wear. They don’t really know about the social norms and what other people wear so they do what they want. This is something I often see in Bella in the books especially.

12. More quiet/ reserved and socially withdrawn and awkward: this is basically self explanatory. Bella is very well known for this. I touch a bit more on this in point 3.

If you made it this far then thank you so much! This took a long ass time to write and I’ve been thinking of making this post for months. There are more things that make me headcanon her as autistic, but these are just from the top of my head. When I re-read the series (for like the 100th time lol) later this year, I’ll annotate the book so that I can update this post in the future with more supporting this).

Again this is just my opinion and my personal headcanon, it is not factual (but I’d obviously want it to be canon) so please no hate :)

If you have any more things to add on then please do!! I’d love to hear your thoughts!

[collectionsofbitsandbops]

Books I think characters would like

Note :this is a work in progress. This is just for fun. Maybe just view this as book recommendations ok. Also I am only putting books I have read on this list. And feel free to add books as well. I love a good book recommendation.

(also let me know if the links work. this is my first time trying this.)

Loki:

East of Eden- A book about brothers and choosing your fate, rather than accepting what people say about you. Also fantastic writing and some of the best descriptions of California I have ever experienced.

Arabian Love Poems- listen, Loki loves poetry. No one does love poetry better than Nizar Kabbani.

On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous- The chokehold Ocean Vuong has on the English language. Even if the story of a gay immigrant child writing to his mother in a language she cannot read doesn't appeal to Loki (which I think it would), the lyricism of this book would be appealing enough.

My Sister, the Serial Killer- Dark Comedy, I think it would be a light read for Loki, but the story would entertain him for sure.

Wuthering Heights- a) the writing is great. b) the line between love and hate is thin. its the passion that drives them. c) ghosts

The Count of Monte Cristo- Revenge with a flair of dramatics. Totally Loki's style.

Steve:

Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland- This book covers complexities in war and also doing what you think is right even if others get hurt, in such an empathetic way. Like the author is clear bad things happen, but explains what drives people to do them and also why it isn't black/white. Also isn't Steve an Irish immigrant or something of that nature. anyway this is the rec that made me want to make this post.

Know my name- I think Steve is really into memoirs and this is one of the best ones I have ever read. Also he would totally be a feminist who fights rapists.

The Picture of Dorian Gray- Irish literature because Steve can now afford to read all the books he wants.

The Outsiders- boys fighting for friends.

Bucky:

The Martian- Bucky is a scifi dude and you can't tell me otherwise. This features isolation, being left behind, and yet your friends choosing to risk it all to save you. Which is basically the modern story of Steve and Bucky, so yea. oh and the sarcasm in this book is through the roof.

Mind of my mind- Scifi and mind control. That's the logic.

The Black God's Drums- this is a novella that has set the standard for all novellas. The story, characters, and world are all so vivid, despite how short the story is. It has the classic, underdog saves the day and I see this being a pick me up for Bucky.

Frankenstein: The story of a monster being created, the creator not taking care/responsibility, and then the monster coming after the creator. I think Bucky would relate to the monster honestly.

Astrophysics for People in a hurry- science yet digestible. This book would totally live on his nightstand.

Bonus:

Set Boundaries, Find Peace- the book I recommend to everyone, bust especially those who need to work on mental health and let's be honest nearly every marvel character needs therapy.

[grandhotelabyss]

Despite my carefully cultivated reputation for contrarianism, my answer to the first question is “not really.” When it comes to the canon, I’m pretty much a normie; the test of time is a real test. Back in 2017, all the literary bloggers were listing the books in their “personal canons.” I participated too, but introduced my take on the exercise by saying that I would only list formative works of nonfiction, particularly philosophy and literary/political theory, since my actual favorite books were so boring. I wrote, “Greatest writer of the modern west? Shakespeare. Greatest English novel? Middlemarch. Greatest twentieth-century novel? Ulysses. My favorite lyric poem, I tell you no lie, is the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’” Then I quoted Emerson (my favorite American essayist, by the way) from “Experience”:

[I]n popular experience, everything good is on the highway. A collector peeps into all the picture-shops of Europe, for a landscape of Poussin, a crayon-sketch of Salvator; but the Transfiguration, the Last Judgment, the Communion of St. Jerome, and what are as transcendent as these, are on the walls of the Vatican, the Uffizii, or the Louvre, where every footman may see them; to say nothing of nature’s pictures in every street, of sunsets and sunrises every day, and the sculpture of the human body never absent. A collector recently bought at public auction, in London, for one hundred and fifty-seven guineas, an autograph of Shakspeare: but for nothing a school-boy can read Hamlet, and can detect secrets of highest concernment yet unpublished therein. I think I will never read any but the commonest books—the Bible, Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton.

So I have no quarrel with the books you’ve listed. (Caveats: I unfortunately must plead ignorance on the classical Chinese and Japanese novels; also, I never went beyond Swann’s Way in Proust.) Some of the names you mention are if anything underrated or not rated in their proper dimension: do people understand how transcendently good Wuthering Heights and Villette really are, not just as the stormy romances the Brontës are known for, as if they wrote nothing better than the precursors to Rebecca, but as genuine spiritual and social testaments, the prose successors to Milton, Blake, and Shelley, Melville’s trans-Atlantic sisters, as well as ingenious formal inventions to rival Austen or Flaubert? (As for “the other guy” though, I started but did not finish The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. The talent, it seems to me, ran in the blood only so much.)

If we must have controversy, since you mentioned Madame Bovary, I am ambivalent about Flaubert and his influence, though I should probably revisit him soon. (I read Madame Bovary, Sentimental Education, and Three Tales in my 20s, in translation, albeit with not-incompetent though not-fluent glances into the French.) All that fussing over the sentence, all that inorganic technique—see GD Dess’s recent essay against “craftism,” as well as James Wood’s “Half Against Flaubert” (in The Broken Estate) and Borges’s neglected “The Superstitious Ethics of the Reader” (in Selected Nonfictions) which I quoted here almost a decade ago—to my mind creates an immobilized prose, paragraphs through which no breeze blows, even in post-Flaubert writers as talented as James, Conrad, and Nabokov, and even the Joyce of Dubliners. But Joyce, exceptional in this as in so many things, then transcended the limitation of this aesthetic by making perfected prose move as poetry moves—with a word-by-word drama that opens up the sentence—rather than as prose does in Portrait and Ulysses.

Must we rank? Should we rank? Ranking is inevitable, despite your apt objection to its listicle extremes. Why would we not want to know what the best is? If resources of time and material are scarce—only so many weeks in the semester, only so many pages in the anthology, only so many days in your life—then it’s a practical matter to know what comes first. We just have to be careful not to be small-minded about it. I think of Orwell’s judicious comparison of Tolstoy and Dickens as a model of how to think carefully in these matters, attentive to difference as well as to quality. (This can be extrapolated mutatis mutandis into areas where social biases like race, nation, class, and gender may enter, as nation and class do enter into a comparison between Dickens and Tolstoy.)

Does this mean that Tolstoy’s novels are ‘better’ than Dickens’s? The truth is that it is absurd to make such comparisons in terms of ‘better’ and ‘worse’. If I were forced to compare Tolstoy with Dickens, I should say that Tolstoy’s appeal will probably be wider in the long run, because Dickens is scarcely intelligible outside the English-speaking culture; on the other hand, Dickens is able to reach simple people, which Tolstoy is not. Tolstoy’s characters can cross a frontier, Dickens can be portrayed on a cigarette card. But one is no more obliged to choose between them than between a sausage and a rose. Their purposes barely intersect.

My candidate for “best novel”? It probably has to be Ulysses since in its cyclopedic ambit it manages to contain all the others. But I acknowledge a spiritual dimension to experience that Ulysses is finally too secular, too satirical, to encompass, and this is found in Tolstoy and especially Dostoevsky.

[dawnsbreaking]

for all the stars care, i can go to hell

chapter three poe route rewrite pairing: poe colestead x cmc rose status: ongoing chapter wc: 1,875

“It’s weird being here,” Poe said, coming to stand in the middle of his pristine childhood bedroom. “It’s been a while.”

Rose, ever attentive and more confident with her affection than before, stepped into the room with him and immediately took one of his shaking hands in both of hers. “Are you alright?”

or: poe takes a girl back to his childhood bedroom and finally works up the nerve to kiss her

read on ao3 want to be tagged when the next chapter is posted?

“It’s weird being here,” Poe said, coming to stand in the middle of his pristine childhood bedroom. “It’s been a while.”

Rose, ever attentive and more confident with her affection than before, stepped into the room with him and immediately took one of his shaking hands in both of hers. “Are you alright?”

“I’m having a lot of conflicting feelings,” Poe took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Especially being here with you.”

“Oh,” Rose said, already pulling away, “Do you need a minute?”

“No, no!” He held onto her hand, pulling her back towards him. “The feelings I have about you are overwhelmingly positive.”

Her eyes stayed wide for a split second before she smiled, relieved. Poe loved that he could read her like a book. As someone who constantly feared the worst, he found Rose’s inability to hide her feelings incredibly reassuring.

“My parents met in college,” he said, looking at the piles of books stacked on his desk. He had been looking for a particular book the last time he visited and hadn’t put the discarded books back on the shelf afterward. A strange pang of regret pierced his stomach, thinking about the selfish man he’d been just a few months ago. “They were both reading Edgar Allen Poe for classes.”

“Oh my god,” Rose said, “That’s so cute.”

He laughed, “It is, isn’t it? But it gets better. They both reached for the same volume of poetry, that was their meet-cute.”

“You inherited nerd from both sides, then?”

“I suppose so.”

Rose laughed, “We have that in common.”

“Yeah?”

“My parents are both professors. That’s partially why I understand all of your stupid literary references.”

“Stupid?” Poe laughed, mock-offended.

“Stupid, said adoringly,” Rose amended, “I love your stupid literary references.”

“You’re probably the only person on this earth that does, so I’ll take it.”

Rose smiled, turning her eyes towards the posters on the wall. If Poe had known that he’d be bringing his crush to his childhood bedroom he would have probably done some redecorating.

“I stand by Wuthering Heights, but ignore the Catcher in the Rye poster, please,” he joked. “I put up some of these before I’d even read the books.”

“They’re cute, but I’m questioning your taste just a little.”

“No, please!” Poe laughed.

Rose turned back to him wearing the mischievous smile Poe had grown to love so much in the past few weeks. “I suppose I can look past it.”

“Thank you.”

“So, is that why they named you after Poe? Their meet-cute?”

Poe nodded. “That’s part of it. They both loved his poetry and my dad’s name was Alan so they were flirting with the idea of it for a while. And then I was born on January 19th, so they took that as a sign.”

“That’s really sweet,” Rose said. “And another thing we have in common.”

“We share a birthday?”

“No,” Rose giggled, “My parents also chose literary names for me and my brother. My middle name is Ophelia and my brother’s middle name is William, both for Shakespeare. Though technically my first name is also Shakespearean, no one recognizes ‘Roseline’ as much as they recognize the name Ophelia…” She was rambling, but Poe didn’t mind. He needed the time to find it within himself to kiss her. He had a feeling she was stalling for his sake.

“Sorry,” she said, finally, “I’m rambling.”

Poe smiled reassuringly. “I don’t mind.”

“But I’m trying to learn more about you.” She squeezed his hand ever so slightly, emphasizing the sentiment.

“And I’m trying to be an open book. But, in case you haven’t noticed, I am much more comfortable being a closed book.”

She laughed, “I have noticed.”

“I just need you to know. I don’t spill my guts to everyone. I hardly talk about myself at all, usually. And I especially don’t talk about my parents. There’s just something about you…”

“I appreciate it,” Rose said, beaming, looking into his eyes more boldly now. “I really do.”

“I feel better when you’re around.” Poe leaned in closer to her, pulling her ever so slightly by the hand so that she did the same.

She let go of his hand and began sliding her arms over his shoulders and wrapping him in a gentle hug. She moved slowly as if giving Poe time to escape. He didn’t want to escape, however.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her by the waist into him.

Holding her, smelling her jasmine perfume and the campfire smoke that had sunken into her skin, felt more like home than any home he’d ever had. It took a mustering of his courage to press a long, tender kiss to her forehead.

“Can we just stay like this?” he whispered, barely leaning away. He still felt his lips brush her face ever so slightly as he spoke.

Rose pulled back and smiled up at him. “Can we?”

As an answer and before courage left him again, Poe moved one of his hands from her waist to her cheek. He knew, intellectually, that Rose wanted him to kiss her. She’d all but kissed him herself. But there was still a mental block. He was so unused to allowing himself the things that he wants. And, god, he wanted her.

“Poe?” She asked, pulling him from his thoughts. She was looking up at him through her eyelashes with just a hint of concern on her face.

Finally, he leaned down to meet her lips with his, pressing gently at first until feeling her kiss him back. Her lips were soft and cold. He wondered vaguely if his chapped lips felt rough to her, but the satisfaction of kissing Rose Prichard after all this time was enough to keep him from feeling self-conscious. Bold, for once in his life, he pressed closer and parted her lips gently with his tongue.

Maybe she deserved a more wholesome first kiss, but he couldn’t find it in himself to hold back. Poe had wanted this since the moment she walked into his Literature class, since the first time he heard her speak — giving a delightfully thought out opinion on a Dickinson poem. He had wanted to kiss her when they had decided to go on this stupid road trip in the first place. When he had looked over from the passenger seat to watch her absentmindedly sing along to Howie’s awful Taylor Swift and Musical Soundtracks playlist.

It was with great relief that he realized that Rose was kissing him back with just as much longing, allowing his tongue to slip past her lips with ease. She pulled herself up towards him with her arms still draped over his neck, pressing herself into his chest. To support her, he moved his arms down and put strong hands against the backs of her thighs.

When he pulled back, she stayed on tip-toes against him, almost lifted off of the ground and into his arms.

“You feel like home to me,” he whispered. “More than any place ever has, Rose.” He let his eyes wander over her face, looking, despite himself, for a hint of regret in her expression. He found no such thing, only bright eyes and a smiling mouth that looked wonderfully kissed.

“You feel like home to me, too.”

Poe staggered back a step and sat down in his childhood bed, holding Rose so that she came down with him.

She let out a yelp, but held Poe tighter and let herself be pulled into his lap, tightening her arms around his neck to steady herself.

He settled his arms around her waist to keep her from sliding off of him. Then, to avoid talking about the kiss they just shared, he asked, “Do you think Howie and Tess are okay?”

She laughed easily, “Are you thinking about Howie and Tess right now?”

A warmth spread across his face at her insinuation, but he rolled his eyes and did his best to appear unaffected. “It’s just been a long time since we last saw them! They could both be zombies by now.”

“I guess that wouldn’t be very sexy.”

“It wouldn’t.”

“Maybe if we were in a paranormal romance book.”

Poe laughed, surprised, “I’m sorry?”

“Like Twilight. A paranormal romance book.”

“And you read those?”

She scratched the back of his neck absentmindedly with her fingertips, a worthy distraction but not enough. “I read them in high school.”

“God, I thought you were better than that.”

“Excuse me?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“And here I thought we had something.”

“Don’t be an ass, Poe. I’m not saying that Twilight was literary genius, but I’m also not going to pretend that it was silly of me — as a teenage girl — to read a book for teenage girls.”

Poe laughed, not necessarily surprised. He’d seen Rose put people in their place like this before, it just had never been him. “Okay, okay, you’re right.”

But she kept on, “And Twilight definitely had its faults, but it was popular for a reason! It’s fun, books are allowed to be fun, Poe.” She was rambling again and, though Poe still found it endearing, he found the thought of kissing Rose again to be much more interesting than her defense of a mediocre young adult series.

“You have to admit that the one scene —“

Poe cut her off by pressing his lips to hers, feeling her smile as she conceded and kissed him back. He placed a firm hand on her hip and pulled her impossibly closer. As he did so, his hand came to rest just under her slightly raised blouse and he luxuriated in the feeling of her soft, warm skin under his thumb.

Rose pulled away from him, breaking the kiss. “I’m not done with this conversation,” she huffed. “In general.” She pressed another quick kiss to the side of his mouth. “But you’re wrong.” She kissed his jaw. “And I’m right.” She moved down and looked over his neck for a half-second before pressing a precise kiss below his ear.

“Everything okay?”

“Hm?” She hummed absentmindedly against his neck.

“Are you a vampire?”

“I wanted to kiss your freckle,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Ah.”

“Are you going to admit that I’m right?”

Poe chuckled. “Yes, absolutely.”

She kissed him again, moving back up to his jaw. She lingered for a moment before saying, “That’s what I thought you said.”

Before Poe could come up with a clever response, a loud crash sounded outside of the window. Rose jumped, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Maybe we should go check on Tess and Howie after all?”

He nodded in agreement and helped Rose off of his lap and to her feet, keeping her hand clasped tightly in his as he moved in quick strides to the door.

While finally kissing Rose, Poe had almost forgotten the immediate danger that he and his friends were in. He felt himself shrink, remembering that his happiness was nothing in the grand scheme of things. And the sinking feeling reminded him of a line from one of his favorite poems.

-

thank you so much for reading! comments/reblogs always appreciated <3

a few things fixed here: one, i combined the two scenes in Poe's bedroom to make the pacing less weird. literally fictif only split them up because gd forbid there be more than one kiss per paid scene. also, it's a quick line but i made it so that Poe and Rose have known each other for longer than a few days by making them former classmates. the idea here being that they were at least acquaintances before going on this trip. this is an issue a lot of people have with RK in general, so i think it's justified.

posting a new chapter soon xoxo

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

What if vampire Bella took Renesmee and ran away with her? What do you think would happen?

Well that would be an entirely different story on so many levels I don’t even know where to begin.

First, when is Bella running away and why?

Per your ask, you specify that Bella is a vampire. This means that this is not beginning of Breaking Dawn AU where Bella, terrified Edward and the Cullens will force her to abort, flees from them in order to save Renesmee’s life (sacrificing her own in the process). 

For the record, though you didn’t ask, I imagine Bella would have a terrible time, starving in the jungle in Brazil, probably drinking the blood of dead road kill until Renesmee pulls an alien and bursts out of her womb and stomach. Renesmee then eats her mother’s corpse.

Edward would never find her because he’s an awful tracker, he’d probably do what he does best, goes to Rio. Eventually, he shows back up on Aro’s doorstep telling him it’s time for assisted suicide again, because Bella is definitely dead this time. Just to make sure they actually do it this time, he walked into Volterra shirtless.

Aro just stares, gets up, and walks out of the room. He has a very terrible phone call to make to Carlisle and then a hybrid vampire (and probably an immortal child) to track down somewhere in South America.

Caius looks at Marcus, Marcus looks at nothing, Caius tries to decide if he’s more insulted by being Edward Cullen’s assisted suicide express or by Edward Cullen’s existence. It’s a very tough call. I imagine that, rather than let Edward slip away again after breaking the law several times over now, Caius goes, “Okay” and lights him on fire.

But you specified that Bella’s a vampire, meaning this is happening post birth and possibly post Breaking Dawn.

To be honest, I think towards the end of Breaking Dawn, Bella’s left the planet. Her world is a surreal haze that has nothing to do with reality. She had this horrific pregnancy, she actually died, went through three days of agony, and is now this alien being.

She prances through fields of flowers in beautiful clothes, she has a lovely five-year-old precocious daughter, he has Edward and a small little cabin where they have the world’s tamest sex, she’s able to keep Charlie in her life, the realities of vampirism are miles away from her.

Bella’s not living on Earth anymore, she’s in the headspace only Esme of the books lives in. And, to be honest, I think Bella’s doomed to become Esme 2.0. Bella will go full incest at high school (as you know she, Renesmee, and Edward will be posing as triplets), probably bake cookies for Renesmee (who probably can’t even eat them), thinks vampire hunts are the equivalent to camping and a wonderful bonding experience, has 0 awareness that every relationship in her life is falling apart, and is just this deeply weird and frankly creepy person.

Renesmee is more... a concept to Bella than a person. I mean, I don’t blame Bella in this, Bella goes from never thinking about having kids to suddenly having an alien five-year-old in a month. How do you process that?

The damning part is Bella thinks she knows her daughter very well. She looks at Renesmee and sees this alien thing that she can’t gauge at all (she keeps trying to guess Renemsee’s physical and mental age in human terms when Renesmee isn’t remotely human, her DNA is completely different, she just has this human shell). Bella concludes she’s very mature and adult in mentality. Renesmee seems to read Bella’s favorite books, (which by the way are really weird reading material for children), and Bella bonds with her daughter by reading Wuthering Heights to her alien child. 

Bella sees a miniature Edward in her child (in terms of sophistication and intelligence) and thinks everything’s wonderful.

Bella’s life is perfect. Everyone else’s lives, including Renesmee’s, are perfect. Why would she ever leave?

So, for Bella to take Renesmee and run, we need a catalyst.

I believe Edward will inevitably cheat on her (yes, I know, I haven’t posted a meta yet but you can’t simply open the dark box labeled Edward Cullen and emerge unscathed, these things take time). But I think that would prompt Bella herself to leave or, more likely, be the Yoko Ono effect that breaks up the Cullen coven.

It’d be devastating, but has nothing to do with Renesmee. I imagine Renesmee would just sit there, eating rats like she’s eating popcorn, looking rather bored as she saw this coming ages ago and she has no idea why everyone’s losing their collective minds.

I also imagine she takes this as permission as that she can eat Edward (I imagine Renesmee and Edward’s relationship is... not good, but that’s for another meta).

The Romanians may come calling and try to sweet talk Bella into the necessity of destroying the Volturi. That, or Edward himself will decide it’s his god given mission to destroy the Volturi and free mankind and vampirekind from their tyranny.

However, while that will result in a horrific dystopia, it doesn’t necessitate Bella and Renesmee breaking off from the coven. That, and Bella’s so far from reality, that I imagine it doesn’t sink in for a long time and perhaps ever that she now lives in a hellscape.

I think it’d have to be a direct threat to Renesmee from Edward. And a clear, non-negotiable, horrifying threat at that (which Edward is fully capable of).

I say Edward, because that would be the biggest betrayal to Bella. After New Moon, I believe that Bella thinks her fate with the family rests on Edward’s opinion alone. Edward can make them flip on her in an instant. If it was someone else threatening Renesmee, then Edward could come with her or they could do something about whoever’s gone crazy.

If Edward decides that, no, it is time to kill the demon child then Bella will lose faith in the entire coven. She’ll panic, and she will run with Renesmee as far and as fast as she can.

Volterra’s off the table thanks to the Breaking Dawn fiasco, I imagine Bella would be too paranoid to seek out any of Carlisle’s friends as she’d lump Carlisle in with the threat that is Edward. So, likely, she and Renesmee would go to Antarctica or somewhere else completely uninhabited.

Edward would go to Rio.

Bella and Renesmee would probably finally talk to one another. Though it’s probably mostly Renesmee trying to deal with the emotional, depressed, mess that is her mother whose entire fantasy has now completely fallen apart.

Renesmee gets to be the new Jake!

Carlisle, meanwhile, is wherever the Cullen family has moved to, trying to process what even happened and what he’s going to do. He’s probably lost all faith in Edward and finally acknowledged that something’s not right and is desperately trying to get a hold of Bella and Renesmee, who aren’t answering his phone calls.

[cherryblossomtease]

Chapter 16

18 + only

warnings and summary - Masterlist

Authors Notes: So maybe sometimes I get a little wrapped up in the romance and the drama amongst the kink *shrug* I was very much in my feelings while writing the next few parts but I sincerely hope you enjoy the next few posts over the next couple of nights. I’m happily working on the ending!

Warnings: 18+ only as always. Thank you for knowing your own limits. Not everyone can handle this much Bronte… by Bronte I mean m/m/f action lols- no but really— explicit sexual situations, m/m first time sexual exploration and insinuation, dom Zemo, sub reader, sub Bucky

You’re convinced overindulgence was invented on the first yachts. It was probably the romans who came up with it. Caligula comes to mind. Terrible person, evil fuck really. Threw epic parties though and some of the best were on boats. While you’re missing a few hundred people to reach those levels, the next couple of days could inspire a depraved emperor or two.

You eat drink and laugh your way through a hazy cloud of hedonistic delight until you've managed to find yourself between them, beside them or beneath them on every level of the yacht. And if you aren't being fucked into oblivion, then you and Bucky are on your knees obeying Helmut’s many commands.

And yet it’s not all A.D. levels of body fluid swapping. You and Bucky convince Zemo to give your favorite baking competition show a chance and end up binging all of season three from the start, with you cheering when the winner is announced because you called it when they thought it would be the odds-on favorite.

During the lazy days that drag on so much longer than real life would ever allow, you team up with Bucky and nearly defeat Zemo at an endless game of chess which you can see only happens because he allows it; however you both easily beat the Baron at shuffleboard and more than once until he's convinced you’re both cheating.

The games are fun of course, but what you most like is watching Zemo and Bucky find their stride as a couple while learning how to share you, after all they've only ever had you apart. It's sweet to see them so attentive and aware of one another, not wanting to make the other feel pushed aside or less than. Yes Zemo is the dominant one in this relationship, thats been established, but respect and care for feelings is not bound by a role.

It's the little things that show this, like how Zemo will watch the way Bucky traces his finger down your neck thinking you don't see him looking and adjust his own subtle displays of affection. It happened in the lounge after you all went swimming just this past afternoon. You’d settled onto the low couch together, reading and scrolling. He used to touch you just like that—playing with your hair, stroking the back of your neck— now he watches, and it makes him smile to see Bucky so gentle with you. Without a word and little effort he lifts your legs up and over his own putting his feet up on the coffee table before getting lost in his book again so that you are cradled between them. This way, Bucky is free to touch you as much as he wants and Helmut can wrap his arm around the tops of your thighs and lay his warm hand on your knee. Sometimes, when he reads something especially interesting, he grips just a little tighter...

Helmut Zemo.

Your ever observant Baron. Always attentive to every need, so ready to serve for a man so quick with a command. Be it a drink, or a late night snack; Helmut is never above offering every comfort. He is a gentle and adoring force of such intense love that you both feel swallowed by the world he’s built around you.

On a calm and peaceful night —you can’t say which one, because you’ve intentionally lost count— the sky is full of stars and a low hanging white moon, so the three of you go out onto the bedroom balcony and curl up together on the oversized white sofa. You’ve brought a glass of wine and a blanket and take a big gulp of the jammy red before laying your head in Zemo’s lap while Bucky rests in the crook of his arm making himself small enough to fit and Helmut opens one of the many books from the den.

One of the things you’ve found out during your travels is that in preparation for his escape, Oeznik had been busy readying two crates full of the things the Baron would need; some things which were private and other small luxuries a man like Zemo can not live without, like these books. You’ve begged him to start Wuthering Heights. He doesn’t mind, Helmut is a tragic romantic at heart, it’s Bucky who seems a little doubtful at first but by the time Cathy’s ghost is begging to be let in through Heathcliff’s window, Bucky is silent and listening, completely lost in the story, or as your suspect, this beautiful telling of it. You’re just glad he’s able to experience the delight that is Helmut's voice all soft and calm as he brings the story to life. Everyone should be so lucky…

When he’s gone through the first couple of chapters and you’re starting to fall asleep, he closes the book, kisses your head and rubs Bucky’s thigh suggesting that it’s time to go in.

The bed is a welcome change and while you’re all too tired for a wild session like what happened on the upper deck this morning (your knees still ache and you’re pretty sure Bucky would have marks from Helmut’s belt across his back if it weren’t for his healing abilities) you can sense something special starting.

It’s easy to forget on nights like this that anyone is submissive or dominant in your relationship. There is no edge to the way you touch one another, just love. Limbs intertwine, hands touch and rub and hold; only Bucky’s cool vibranium gives away his identity, otherwise there is a playful mystery in the dark that you all choose to let remain until you kiss a mouth and smile figuring out that it's Bucky because his lips are full and pillowy soft while the fingers that calmly stroke your wet center are Helmut’s because they move in his confident, graceful way. And you find yourself thinking of something you really haven’t before.

Experience. It’s something the three of you have so much of and in so many different ways that you nearly forget one of you is technically a virgin.

Hard to imagine the man kissing you, the man who has been inside of you so many times is new to this, well a form of this. The thought makes your heart flutter with excitement as you feel the deft fingers leave you and Helmut gets up from the bed.

He doesn’t go far and you wonder what it is he’s gotten.

When you feel the weight of him dip the mattress and much closer this time, you open your eyes curious but realize it’s a little too dark and Bucky’s face is too close to see. You pull back wanting to catch a glimpse of what you think is happening as the faint scent of bergamot tells you all you need to know.

Bucky raises up, not far, but enough that the moonlight shines on half his face letting you see how his brows knit close together. His gasp is light. He does not exhale. You can’t see past him but you know that Helmut has been slowly nudging him closer towards his first time and you have been watching this man be readied for a moment that just a few days ago he never would have imagined— or maybe he has? Honestly based on the way he grinds his ass against Zemo when the three of you are lost in all sorts of lovely situations, you’d say he’s imagined it a lot more than he’s letting on.

He exhales and they moan together as you pull him down into a deep kiss.

Is that one finger or two?

“Would you like to come inside of her?” Helmut asks softly as Bucky breathes through the feel.

He hovers over you, eyes shut tight, licking his lips before moaning softly again “Yes.” He manages to say, and you’re so wet you think Zemo could have saved the oil.

Permission must come through some physical contact because you hear nothing, just feel him at your entrance and then inside of you. You can’t help but to moan and arch your back, your stomach pressing against his, your nipples brushing against his warm chest groaning as you give into the familiar size of him, opening your mouth with a deep sigh as your heart races knowing he is taking you while being had.

Between breaths you catch a glimpse of Helmut beside him —right hand flat on the small of Bucky’s back the muscle of his left forearm flexing rhythmically— his face is stern with concentration but his eyes are soft. He does love to make you both feel good. For all his bluster and demanding, nothing ever makes him so happy as pleasing you and Bucky.

The fact that you start to come so quickly is no surprise but the fact that you start to come together makes you look at one another. You smiling through the quick breaths, Bucky’s furrowed brow a sign of his shock but absolute pleasure. It’s too much for him in the best way as he rocks his hips, slowly thrusting deep into your body that clings to him.

You shut your eyes, your gasp mixed with a laugh and a cry as you come.

Bucky lays over you, his face tucked into the safe corner of your neck, so soft and warm where he moans heavily, climaxing in a way he’s never experienced before. You put your arms around him holding him tight and the sound he makes is the sound of a man who has just discovered quite a few things about himself.

He raises up, breathing hard, stunned and happy as he kisses you.

That was incredible for you both and together you quickly look over Bucky’s shoulder at Zemo who sits gazing at your faces in the dark…

[ombresart]

Hello there dear author! I reeeaaally love the way you write in your wip. To be honest, I haven't read the book yet. I'm thinking of purchasing it once I finish my research. If you don't mind me asking, whose pov is heavily focused in the book? Is it Catherine's or Heathcliff's?

Hi! I'm really glad to hear you like my writing! It's totally fine that you haven't read the book yet lol. The answer to your question is a little complicated though!

Technically, it's from neither of their perspectives – the book pulls the extremely classic gothic move of having a narrative frame around it, and is also told in first person. So the narrator character for the "modern" (post-Catherine's death) section is actually a guy who won't be showing up in my game! He is literally just some guy who shows up to rent a place near Wuthering Heights. He is then told the story that makes up the bulk of Wuthering Heights the novel by Nelly! The portion of the storyline he directly experiences is also where we get the iconic ghost scenes (which I will be pulling from).

With this is mind though, I should also answer the spirit of the question: while the novel itself mainly follows Catherine narratively until her death and then the kids for the rest of the book, Healthcliff is the central figure of the story. The book is really about him and his actions, but it leaves almost all of his life and story out of the actual text. It's super interesting! My professor called him a "lacuna" – Heathcliff is a hole in the narrative, a blank space right in the middle of the book. So, long story short, the answer to your question is both and neither!

Fair warning to everyone who is thinking of or going to read the book by the way: obviously while I loved it, it definitely isn't for everyone and there's no shame in just not being into it. You can still come play my game (which is going to, if you play your cards right, fix things for everyone) without having read the source material! I'm taking necessary liberties to have a fun game while still maintaining the spirit of the text. Definitely check out content warnings if you need them before reading either my game or the original book though; both will deal with some pretty heavy topics, and basically every character is actually a pretty awful person. I still love them though, so mileage may vary significantly!