#the ghost writer falling in love with the muse and wanting to live through her because shes actually lived a life and ava wants to swallow

[happyendingsong]

finished hacks s2 and okayyyy it's starting to give what it's been needing to give !

[how-masterful]

31 Fics of Fright

Day 7- Trick or Cheat

Dhawan!Master X Reader

Prompt: Carnival

Notes: Between a day trip, writers block, and a crashing laptop (thank you to @plethora-of-imagines​ for the emotional support on THAT one) this fic REALLY didn’t want to happen today. But it’s here, and the weekend is upon us! Now I can catch up and write ahead with no work to stop me. I also need to go back to the original idea of these being under 1000 words. They’re creeping towards full fic territory!

Warnings: None

“Yes! There actually is a movie out there about murderous aliens that look like clowns.”

The Master smiled as you exuberantly explained, gesticulating with one hand wrapped tightly around your hot apple cider.

“They’ve got these crazy guns that can turn people into candy floss and liquify them, acid cream pies that can melt your face off, they can make shadow puppets that eat people- plus the effects work was amazing for the time.”

“And they’re clowns? How original. They don’t sound so tough to me.”

You giggled at his sarcastic retort, the Timelord taking a bite out of his pecan bear claw, other couples and families passing through the aisles of the carnival.

The Cryptic Falls Carnival had been an accident you’d stumbled upon- The Master had been tracing an abundant mineral through the rock formations at the edge of the town, the readings having lit up the scanners on the TARDIS like a supernova. Luckily for humanity no threat was posed, purely the possibility for the Master’s financial gain. These were the trips where you could let your hair down, allow yourself to not live in the anxiety-inducing anticipation of the looming threat of death. The only threat in Crystal Falls currently was a possible sugar coma… or the Master. Considering the fact he’d just let you ramble for a solid 5 minutes, and that he was walking through a Halloween carnival with you in the first place, you decided that the sugar coma was the one most likely to pose a threat.

“You humans love making an event out of things, don’t you?”

The Master mused, glancing around at the other humans and the carnival stalls. The air hung heavy with the sweet aroma of caramel, the air carrying the synth sounds of Halloween songs, laughter, and the cartoony sound effects of werewolf howls and witch’s cackles from the fun house entrance. The whole area was lit by lights strung through the trees, purples and oranges hanging like a blanket of festive shimmer over the alleys of stalls.

“All Hallows Eve, not the most typical holiday to celebrate. All ghosts and ghouls, sweets and overpriced decorations.”

“Well, you know why some of us celebrate it.”

The Master grinned, teasing and nefarious. “Of course, how could I forget my little sorceress and her ‘thinning of the veil on the eve of Samhain, allowing the spirits the cross, celebrating the solstice’.” He teased, doing his best Vincent Price impression.

You folded your arms and raised an eyebrow, clutching the cup of hot cider carefully. You could tell the Master was pushing your buttons, his flirting veering on the side of mockery. He was lucky you’d already gotten over his bitchiness.

“First of all, the solstice comes afterwards at Yule. You know this.”

The Master nodded along, not a shred of apology upon his face. You absolutely knew this too.

“Secondly, I'm now very upset with you for making fun of me.”

“Oh dear. That’s a shame.” He said absentmindedly, biting into his pastry and glancing around at the booths again.

“So I'm now going to mope all night until you do what I want you to do.”

The Master smirked, turning to finally face you.

“Emotional blackmail now? I’m so proud of you.”

You felt your facade crack at the perfectly timed cartoon wail of a ghost behind you. The Master grinned triumphantly as you relented in your offense.

“Stop trying to sound supervillainy, it’s cheesy and doesn’t work. Now win me a stuffed animal to make me feel better.”

The timelord nodded in agreement, sighing dramatically. He took the last bite of his snack and rolled his eyes, dusting off his hands and pushing back his shoulders, muttering to himself.

“I don’t know why I put up with you. Why do I put myself through this? Right-”

He gestured towards the row of carnival games, expression exasperated. You could tell he was exaggerating, his irritation an absolute lie through his teeth.

“Go pick a game while I'm still feeling nice.”

You pressed a kiss to the Master's cheek. “I love you!”

“Yes, I know you do, now go pick.”

Grasping onto the Timelord’s hand, you began to pull him down the alley of game stalls. It wasn’t a question of what the Master was skilled enough to do- in an attempt to keep his ego at the barely manageable level it currently was, you daren’t tell him you had absolute faith in him to do anything. It was a question of what plush toy you wanted to bring home- a skeletal teddy bear, a plush ghost, a giant coffin body pillow decorated with a napping vampire, all the options were both viable and endless. You spotted your prey at the last stall, hanging above the opening, tied to the metal frame. A giant bat with plush wings, winking and grinning with his fangy smile, a red love heart on his belly. You had to have him. It would certainly make up for the Master's teasing.

“I think he will be adequate,” you declared, poised and proper. “If you would be so kind.”

You were absolutely pushing it, but the Master relented. You approached the stand, a pyramid of glass potion bottles standing at a far distance away from the throw line. It was three throws per go- but the Master wouldn’t be throwing the eyeball painted projectiles.

“Having a go, young man?” The old man at the stall asked, dressed like an evil clown.

The Master smiled, despite being likely older than the man's most greatest grandfather.

“I’ll give it a shot.”

You handed over the fare and the man pocket the cash, placing the three eyeballs onto the surface. The Master sniffed at the air- he could smell the sharp scent of adhesive; he’d obviously glued the key bottles to the table. Mixed with the lightweight nature of the balls, plus the distance, and the fact the night held a wind, no person stood a chance at winning. No person unwilling to cheat.

The Master threw the first ball, a power shot. It hit one of the base bottles before bouncing off the table, clattering onto the floor. The clown reached downwards, back turned, to pick up the ball.

“That's one.” He mused. You carefully watched the time lord- he was narrowing his eyes in thought, planning his win.

This time the Master threw a curveball, ensuring the ball hit the edge of the table. It bounced towards the edge of the curtain, hiding itself within the trailing edges of the stall along the floor.

“That's two!” The clown declared, reaching to track down the ball. In the moments his back was turned, the Master removed the TCE from his inside pocket, aiming the small box at the center bottle. With a ZIP the bottle disappeared, long with its conjoined sisters, sending the others hurtling to the ground. Amongst the chaos the Master threw the last ball, letting it fall amongst the carnage.

The clown stood up, utter confusion laced across his painted on features. The Master smiled like an angel, sliding the compressor back into his tweed purple pocket.

“We’ll take that bat, please.” You stated, pointing to the stuffed creature above your heads, the Master nodding in agreement. The clown shook his head, whispering confusedly under his breath as he headed behind the stand to reach a pair of zip tie cutters, ready to free your prize.

“Exactly as I said earlier, love-” The Master said, allowing your arm to link with his own, a smug grin on his lips. Obviously he’d grown fond of you again.

“Those killer clowns aren’t so tough after all.”

[prettywordsyouleft]

To Be Continued - Part 9

Summary: As an author, you had created Brian Kang for your current trilogy series to represent the ultimate man that everyone would love, along with Charli Evers - your female protagonist. What you hadn’t expected was for him to find a way out of the story and begin shaping up your world instead

Pairing: Brian Kang x female writer (ft. Park Sungjin)

Genre: writer au / romance / fantasy

Warnings: fictional characters coming to life / a bit of angst here and there / Sungjin as a cop (or does that only affect me?) >_>

The angst that arrived last time is now amplified.

Word count: 2326

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | Epilogue

Months went by in a blur. If you weren’t at your desk slaving over the story, you were sleeping or had finally remembered to eat. You excluded yourself from everything in your world, aside from ensuring Binks had everything he needed to survive, just to finish the story as quickly as you could.

Of course, this was at a rate where you wouldn’t substitute the quality of your words either. Despite your constant heartache and yearning for Brian, this was possibly the best piece of work you had ever written to date. The emotions between Charli and Brian’s hardships felt raw and more relatable than ever. You cried when Charli did, and you felt frustrated alongside Brian. You poured all your emotions into this final story, along with every shred of creativity you possessed.

After ten long months, you were now staring at what felt to be the ending scene of Eternity, and this world. You had completed this part in the trilogy faster than the year each it took for the other two respectively, and it was the longest story out of the three.

Shaking as you reread your final line, you took in a deep breath and nodded. “It’s done. It’s finally done.”

And just as your fingers went to type the usual The End into the document, you froze, realising just what time in your life you had reached now. It wasn’t just the satisfaction of finishing the book, and effectively the series too, that consumed you now.

It was the sheer hope that after all your hard work, you could finally see the man you loved again.

“Brian,” you called out whilst staring at the screen. “Brian!”

Nothing happened, and you hesitated before typing the two words onto the document, peering closely to see if he would change them to the words you had become to love from him.

You wanted your story to be continued now. You craved his arms, his smell, his voice. Living vicariously through Charli over the last ten months has barely satiated your need for Brian. Quite often, you would lay awake for hours in bed at night, thinking of him, talking to him. And when you grew desperate, you left your laptop turned on, with the document open, hoping for a reprieve from this maddening loneliness.

Just as fast as your love had bloomed, it had shrivelled away, grounding you into a pot of despair. You didn’t want to get to the end of this story and find yourself alone for good.

And yet, the minutes went by and Brian still didn’t appear.

Jarringly, you clambered to your feet and stumbled to the kitchen, trying to make yourself a cup of tea to calm your nerves.

Maybe Brian just needed time to wrap up the loose ends on his side. Even with the story now complete, you hadn’t delivered them a life that guaranteed they wouldn’t face hardships along the way again. In fact, you believed that to be Charli and Brian’s strength – love through their battles. And life was just like that. Whilst they were now together with no further opposition from her family or his past, you knew that every couple faced trials and tribulations. Sure, they had their fair share, and you had assured the reader they would be blessed with happiness together, but you wanted them to remain realistic too.

As you sipped on your tea, your mind started to unravel, your eyes glued to the doorway leading towards your office. Every second Brian didn’t come through it, you began to believe in the doubts plaguing you.

There had to be a chance, somewhere in among your writing of this final piece, that Brian truly began to feel the love you penned for him towards Charli. Whilst he was adamant he loved you when he was here, he didn’t resist the progression of your story at all in that aspect.

Did Brian fall in love with Charli properly this time?

Had you done such a good job at convincing him of her worth at his side?

Was he back where he truly belonged?

Your knees shook, and you clasped onto the countertop, putting down your mug hastily as you felt yourself sink towards the tiles. And there you proceeded to clutch at your shirt, sobbing until you felt numb and overwhelmed.

You had finished their world off and now there was a chance that had ended yours with Brian as well.

Days turned into weeks, and you found yourself on autopilot. The grief continued, much did the constant begging at your screen and desperation for his return.

Anger settled in after all your efforts felt as if they had gone to waste, and he had left you alone in this cruel world. You cursed him out, only to be wishing for his return a moment later.

Your mental state was a complete mess, and you didn’t know how to pick up the pieces.

You had been convinced that writing the story was the only way to get back to Brian. You had served your time, poured out the words until there were no more. With the story submitted to Lily, and the editor now finalising the work you had done, it wouldn’t be long until it was sent through the process of publication. Fans of Brian and Charli would be reading about their love story by mid next year.

What about your love story with Brian, however?

No one was going to read about you both. No one, aside from Lily, who had long stopped asking you about where he had gone, knew of it to begin with. To Sungjin, he was a cousin’s friend, and when he contacted you, you had mentioned that Brian had gone back home.

This was never his place to begin with.

Your mother, whilst trying ever so hard to placate your mood swings, couldn’t figure out how to help you, because you couldn’t bring the words up to anyone.

You had fallen in love with a figment of your imagination and his existence in your world was so fleeting, that you wondered if those who met Brian had somehow seen a ghost, or something similar. It would make the most sense to you that he actually hadn’t been here and you had simply been possessed by your muse of him.

Yet you knew he had existed here and couldn’t deny it. The clothes remained that you had bought together, his scent slowly fading away from each garment you held onto. Binks often pushed his way into the spare room and sat in the chair Brian wrote in a small book each evening as you worked.

You hadn’t known of the book’s contents until his departure, finding it in among his belongings when you were searching for ways to ease your pain. When you discovered it, however, it made you crumble.

The words he wrote were all about you.

He documented your dramatic ways, the endearing moments you shared, and the feelings he had for you each day. He spoke of how easily provoked he got over Sungjin and later wondered if he was a better fit for you when he knew he was close to leaving. He wrote down goals, some of which he had already achieved with you, and of the nights where he held you close, whispering sweet nothings into your hair as you drifted off to sleep in his arms.

The book, the only piece of writing of your story together, felt too difficult for you to read often. The words were already cemented in your mind though, reminding you whenever you doubted your love that it existed.

It was the only thing that kept you going.

Sitting at your desk in the middle of the afternoon, you stared at the document for Eternity for some time before you raised your fingers.

And then you began to type.

It wasn’t your first time trying to message Brian and you were certain it wouldn’t be your last. Still, today had been difficult. It was exactly a year from your first meeting with him, the day he had come out of the laptop and you had fainted upon holding his hand. You longed for it to happen all over again, telling him of your pain from spending an entire year knowing of his existence outside of the story. That the happy days you had shared together felt so lost now with all the time apart.

And how much you loved and missed him.

Once done, you stared at the screen, waiting to see the words go away. That was what happened the first time, and you surmised it meant they went to find him. You willed your words to find their owner, clasping your hands together against your chest and praying internally for something to happen.

They remained, the cursor simply flashing at the end of your paragraph, waiting for your next command of the document.

Slamming the laptop screen closed, you shifted back in your chair, reeling from the feeling of being mocked.

“I can’t keep doing this anymore,” you spoke out into the universe, tears coursing down your cheeks. “I’m going mad. Maybe I was mad to begin with.”

Your phone rang then, and you peered at it, wondering who would be calling you right now. Picking it up, you sighed when you saw the name that crossed over the screen.

“Sungjin.”

“I know this sounds weird, but I had this feeling you needed me,” he spoke into the receiver, and you didn’t respond, the tears still streaming down your face. “Do you?”

“Not in the way you hope for,” you managed to say. “I’m sorry.”

“As a friend, Y/N. I long ago accepted that our initial liking of one another had changed when Brian came into your world.”

“You remember him?!” you asked desperately, gripping onto your phone. “Please tell me you remember him!”

“Has he gone somewhere, Y/N?” Sungjin asked, and you stared at your laptop, slowly opening the screen again.

Somehow, when you shut it, the force had been too much. There across the screen was a single crack, and it was enough to unhinge you completely.

“I’m coming over,” Sungjin spoke suddenly, and the line went dead as you looked at the broken computer.

You had destroyed the only chance Brian had left at coming back to you, and it felt so final that when Sungjin arrived, he found you on the floor in your office hysterically crying.

You knew it was wrong, his arms weren’t the ones you had craved all this time. Yet when Sungjin scooped you up and held you firmly against him, you relished in the feeling. He made you feel secure, protected, and this started to relax you. Clinging onto the man, your mind slowly came down from the irrational state it was in, and eventually, your tears stopped.

“You okay?” Sungjin asked, and you shook your head, before nodding. He smiled gently, understanding what you meant and got up.

Your hand shot up to hold onto his. “It’s selfish, but can you stay?”

“I was just going to get you a drink. I think we need to have a talk, don’t you? About that long story of yours.”

Now seated out at the dining table holding an unbearably hot mug within your sensitive hands, Sungjin watched you silently. And then he cleared his throat. “That night never sat well with me.”

“The awkward dinner?” you asked, partially because you knew that was what he referred to, but mostly because you wanted Sungjin to confirm it happened. Whilst you knew Brian had existed, you craved hearing that he had from others now too.

Sungjin nodded, chuckling a little. “You lied about him being a cousin’s friend.”

“There was no bug infestation,” you replied, looking over at Sungjin. “And Brian isn’t a friend of any of my cousins. They don’t know he even exists.”

“Call it part of the job description, but I looked into Brian more. Of course, I didn’t find much in a logical sense. There was no identification or security number. He had no job listing or even existed on the electoral roll.”

You smiled sadly. “No, he wouldn’t have been on any of that.”

“What you don’t know is that I grabbed a sample of his fingerprint that night. I took a napkin he used which had his print on it from the sauce of the pizza. And I ran it through the system. It matched the one of your intruder.”

Blinking with surprise, you leaned across towards the police officer. “It did? You found a match?!”

“I remembered the messages were signed with a B, and that made me curious when you mentioned his name was Brian. And then I came to your house and found him here, which at first, I didn’t understand. But he was there all along, somehow, wasn’t he?”

“He was the intruder.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sungjin wondered, and you bit at your lip. “Because the truth made no sense, right?”

“It’s a long story,” you said out of habit and then cringed when you realised.

Sungjin nodded. “A story you wrote, right?”

“You--”

“I felt compelled to figure the mystery out. I went onto your website and read over the synopsis for Encounter. I found it intriguing the main protagonist was also called Brian Kang. Believe me, I was annoyed at first. I truly thought you had played me and wasted police hours when this man was in your house all along. But your despair was genuine back then, much as it is now. Y/N, I started to read the novel. Brian Kang is the Brian we know, right?”

You nodded, your tears slipping down your cheeks once more. “I sent him back into the story so I could finish it. And now that I have, I think he’s gone for good.”

_________________

Part 10

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[DAY6 Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] | [Request Guidelines]

[mcudarklibrary]

Dark! Multi-chapter Stories In Progress

Welcome library dwellers. Browse the catalogue for delicious dark treats that are currently still brewing about our favourite Marvel characters. Want your story added to the list or have you found something hiding in the dark corner? Send us a message and we will add it to the catalogue. 

Remember, AUs are more than welcome in the dark part of the library!

Happy reading, darkies! 

Steve Rogers/Captain America

A Gentle Frost by @jtargaryen18​

You were a newer member of the Avengers when the Sokovia Accords tore the team apart. A meeting is arranged between Vision and Wanda. Steve knows Vision will come to his side for Wanda. And that leaves you… Steve plans to take you for his own. 

All I Want by @kellyn1604​

Professor! Steve Rogers sees a lot of potential in a new student. One that he would like to explore, but professional and societal expectations have ways of keeping us from what we want.

Captive by @mdemontespan1667​

Hydra brings Steve and Reader together

Die Besessenheit by @imanuglywombat​ & @sophiria​

You have slowly worked your way through the writer’s ranks at the New York Times, finally securing your dream spot in the business section as an investigative journalist. However, turning down your boss’ advances lands you writing the article from hell: a PR-fix for the Avengers.

Since the destruction of Thanos, the world has idolised the Avengers. They can do no wrong. You see through the facade and their ego. Forced to stay at the new facilities, you must live the Avenger’s lifestyle and document the life of an international superhero.

You catch the eye of Steve Rogers, Captain America.

Fixation by @smutsonian​

You were just walking home from a friend’s house when all of a sudden, a certain super soldier ambushes you.

Heartbeat by @tansypoisoning​

In which Steve comes back from the past to be with you, but he’s not the same person he was when he left

His Muse by @golden-ariess​

You are his muse. The way you walk, the way you move is living art to him. He falls deeper every time... But you don't know him.

I Find That Which Is Lost by @caffiend-queen​

In which Traveller, who ekes out a living by traveling through time to bring back that which is lost, discovers that a reckless and desperate Captain America is sending out ripples that are shredding the fabric of Time through his use of the Infinity Stones. Steve Rogers may not understand what he’s doing, but the Traveller does, as well as Loki, the God of Mischief and Lies. The question is, why is the former Avenger doing this, and who can stop him before he tears Time and Space apart?

Say Thank You by @honeyhan-123​

Nearly five years have passed since Steve Rogers saves your life without so much as a thank you. When he sees you again by chance, he makes sure that he’ll never let you go and maybe teach you some manners in the process.

Sibling Rivalry by @imdarkinme​

This a story set in GoT type scenario, where the reader and Steve are half-siblings, and children of the Warden of Brooklyn. You both hate each other and try to compete with each other until one of you rises above the other.

Tapestry by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​

King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

The Nearness of You @cptnrogerss​

it’s the first christmas after the snap. grief brings steve back to where he first found bucky in romania. he finds a ghost that bucky left behind instead.

What You Need by @tansypoisoning​

Life as an unemployed, homeless wanderer was hard, until you met Captain America. Then it got worse.

Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

A Gilded Cage by @imanuglywombat​

James Buchanan Barnes did not deserve love. After a lifetime of killing and torture, he was beyond the scope of being loved. That was until the night he met you. It was love at first sight for both of you. The panic sets in though when you begin to pull away, consumed by the demands of your career. Bucky has to keep you safe, keep you locked away from the dangers of the outside world. So he takes matters into his own hands.

Breach by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​

The reader finds herself in the Winter Soldier’s cross hairs during a lock down.

I.O.U. by @champangebucky​

Bucky is tired of the youngest Avenger having all of Steve’s attention. 

Trapped by @jennmurawski13​ & @catnip987

After the five other winter soldiers that Hyrda has in cold storage are killed, The Asset is the only one that remains. In order to create more soldiers for their army, they come to the conclusion that they need a young, strong woman to carry his child, bringing forth the new generation of Hydra super soldier. 

Waves That Beat On Heaven’s Shore by @jtargaryen18​

She died in 2014. Bucky had killed her himself as the Winter Soldier. Inexplicably brought back from the snap, he knows it’s only a matter of time before HYDRA catches her. He’s not convinced she knows anything that would earn her protection from SHIELD. Bucky decides to take advantage of the opportunity presented to him and take matters into his own hands

Wicked Game by @salimahbicharara-comun​

Victorian AU. Three months after getting engaged to the elegant but cold Mr. Rogers, you find yourself trapped in the Rogers Manor. Surrounded by nothing but forests and lakes, you were more than enthusiastic when your  fiancé introduced you to his childhood friend; James Barnes. Lonely to no end and accompanied by only the darkness and your thoughts, your nights start to get filled of wicked dreams of a man of blue eyes and a devilish smirk.

Tony Stark

Darling by @ironlady1993​

This will be a dark!story with Non-con Smut in future Chapters. Reader is Tonys Stepdaughter so no Inzest here.

Stucky

Brooklyn’s Sweetheart by @spacesnail3000​

Bucky and Steve had always been meant to keep her safe and happy. As far as anyone else was concerned, that was their sole reason for being alive. Unfortunately, the things that kept her safe were not always the things that kept her happy. Lately, she was making it pretty damn hard for them to compromise.

Brooklyn Syndrome by @lordelannette​

Bucky's back was pressed against the cold floor and he stared through blurry eyes as Steve stood over him. He was trying to push himself as far away as he could, using his hands and bare feet to slide himself out from between Steve's legs but he couldn't find purchase against the wooden floor. Steve's legs were locked on both sides of his hips and Bucky couldn't move, couldn't get away, and the room was swimming before his eyes and he couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. All he could make out was the hazy figure of Steve towering over him and he lifted his arm to push uselessly at Steve's shin. "P-please," Bucky whispered. His voice was weak, like him, and his jaw trembled as Steve reached down. Steve slid down onto the floor and effortlessly gathered him into his strong arms, cradling Bucky to his chest as he leaned against the wall. "Bucky," Steve breathed. One of his large hands slid gently into Bucky's hair, the other curving against his spine and pulling him even closer. "You're mine now, remember?" Steve's grip tightened then it all went black.

Let’s Review by @viciousdenofsacrilege​

Peter Parker knew that his big sister would do anything for him to be safe and happy. She’d given up everything for him twice over already and would do it again in a heartbeat. And that’s why, when the criminal mastermind Tony Stark started inextricably following him around, he didn’t say a word. Because he knew without a doubt Penny would do whatever she had to if it meant keeping Peter safe. He had to protect her, just like she always protected him. He never considered what would happen if Stark decided both Parker siblings were worth taking. Never considered who else in Stark’s inner circle would agree. He just wanted to protect her and yet somehow, they both ended up with needles in their necks. 

My Right To Purge by @theliveshipparagon​

Purge Night starts at Stark Tower

The Game of Hearts by @you-are-my-sanctuary​

After being kidnapped and sold to an underground club, you quickly learn that the only way to survive in The Red Room was to gain the favor of its customers.Popularity among the men of the bar meant everything in this world.It meant you would have a stable income of food, better treatment from the Mistress, better rooms and of course, it meant you wouldn’t be some cheap fuck anyone and everyone could use.It meant the men seeing you would have to be important and wealthy. It meant that they had to be powerful.When it comes to power, no one was as powerful as Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.Brooklyn’s very own Kings.And everyone knows a king needs a queen.So when these two infamous Mob bosses set their smouldring eyes on you, you were sure of one thing:This was going to be the ultimate game of hearts.One you weren’t sure you were going to win.

It’s A Party (Multiple Partners)

Hunger by @searchforanotherway​

You’re camping with your friends. On a hike you are suddenly kidnapped by a man who takes you to a secluded cabin occupied by other men. They call themselves alphas, the only ones of their kind, and they are convinced that they can convert you (a normal human) to an omega in order to carry their young.They groom you and force themselves on you until you take their knot.

Little Pet by @ironlady1993​

non-con, threesome, blackmail, swearing, dark!professor steve , dark!Professor !tony

[winebleeds]

sample scenarios & plots based on common themes & tropes i’ve seen on tumblr. may help with interactions & ease into plotting, though each of the muses have their own verses found in their main bio pages that can be found in the navi link on the pinned post (raleigh’s, liz’s, and jamie’s verses are completed, but i am still working on maddie’s, so you can pm me for that). i’ve numbered these where you may reply with said number for this post, if interested, or mention them in the other verses comment in the interest tracker. I am putting this under a read more since it’s long & i may updated this occasionally when ideas comes to mind. you can also message on discord, with that on the pinned post as well. 💖

GENERAL

G1.    🌌space🌌 in our favorite rocketship  G2.    but especially relating to kohalto, a lore that i can go more in depth with private chats without having the entirely of the lore written out yet. kohalto can also be a dystopian society that’s located on earth. G3.    raleigh, liz, & jamie being part of the same crime syndicate instead of doing their own small scale crimes, either base on your muses lore or one plotted out. they could also be part of a rival syndicate from your muse or the three person crew is getting in the way of your muses crimes.   G4:    more on ellesmere, which can be from your muse riding on the ellesmere trail or the first time on the property. honestly this is more of a setting piece. G5:    speaking of the ellesmere setting, a regency / victorian era plot where ellesmere is in england. could be br*dergton or a*sten based. or just any historical plot with the spencers being equestrians. really just anything in historical periods, from the 80s or ancient. G6.    of course the ever so cliché of  your muse is friends, rivals, or acquainted with raleigh/jamie/liz/maddie & your muse meets jamie/liz/raleigh & either has a fling, relationship, or one sided crush on jamie/raleigh/liz. because liking a friend’s sibling is spicy apparently. G7.    an au where the four spencers work at a restaurant or café. this can be flexible in terms of being in competition with your muse’s place or your muse being a customer / working with them (either with your muse as the owner or working under the spencer business). for the positions themselves, raleigh & liz would be the co-owners/manager as they split tasks (raleigh with employees while liz with accounting, ie), though liz could also serve as a bartender, then jamie as a chef/barista, and maddie as a hostess/server/barista.

 RALEIGH

R1.    most likely to be a teacher, either with primary, secondary, or uni. probably teaches biology or any science related field. R2.    most likely to pay for your muse coffee or drink at a cafe. or just paying it forward in general. also the most likely to venture into cafes getting his tea or going into a library / bookstore to get a new book. R3.    he likes exploring different areas and, while not believing in any supernatural, would be the most likely to investigate with your muse in haunted places or supernatural things, if only for his curiosity or looking at that nice ivy. outside of supernatural, he’ll just venture in nature. R4.    ANYTHING WITH HIS DOGS. R5.    if he does anything pertaining in the celebrity world, he would be a director or writer. and he would hate the limelight & he just wants to be creative. R6.    most likely to be the oblivious one that won’t realize there’s a relationship. so ig slow burn. and anything awkward or friends to lovers. but also most likely to talk to any ex’s again, for anything romantic. R7.    someone to talk nerdy to him. or influencing his chaotic side & doing dumb things together.  for more platonic or general relationships.  R8.    would offer his space if someone needs somewhere to live or stich up close. he’s a gentle mom friend when someone gets close enough to him. can be supportive of younger muses.

ELIZABETH

E1.    most likely to be a lawyer or politician aide. any position that her father would prefer her to have over an engineering. E2.    most likely to be part of your muses’ own business if she’s shooting for a higher position within it, like cfo or ceo or just the executive board. mainly for fashion design but anything in general. E3.    for any of her older verses, then she could be a CEO, politician (senate), or a professor for a uni with engineering. E4.    for her becoming a celebrity, then a musician similar to... yeah. so country to indie pop & has a reputation similar to her modern. maddie probably writes the lyrics for liz though. i just can’t see liz getting into acting rip, though she could produce. E5.    horses. neigh. that’s all. but even an au where she runs ellesmere or has a horse pasture herself... with her own winery. E6.    mostly likely for slow burns & rivals / enemies to lovers, for anything romantic. also the most likely to have one night stands or just ghost your muse. E7.    most likely to have wine nights with your muse. or being someone that, while blunt, your muse ends up talking to because liz listens. or your muse just sees through liz’s icey bs & befriends her.  E8.    also the most likely to “adopt” or being extra supportive your muse if they need a home, physically or emotionally. or just needs someone to remind them to finish that resume & proofread papers. the most stern mom friend, but a caring mom friend nevertheless. 

JAMIE

J0. his name is benjamin james spencer, & his nickname was benny but now is ben (because i love you charlie) J1.    most likely to go into acting once his football career vanished.  J2.    most likely to be a firefight too, especially if his cousin nick had more inspiration with jamie. J3.    most likely to fight your muse if your muse is confrontational & filled with testosterone. so someone fight his ass. OH, could even be a boxing au if jamie is like, forgetting about his own physical health. but this easily fits in modern if you muse ever ticks jamie off. J4.    so jamie is actually the biggest animal out of the four, so him going to animal shelters or horses or dealing with his cat or your muses’ pets. would definitely get his softer side here. could even be him running ellesmere. J5.    BODYGUARD AU. J6.    also the most likely to fall into the fake dating trope. can have one night stands as well, but doesn’t like them as much anymore. J7.    your muse being someone that jamie felt he wronged in his younger years, such as being a jerk in college or having puked on your muse then blaming them for it, you know, his darker period. and, now, he’s reconnecting in order to apologize about the things he’s done wrong. could go swell or angsty. J8:    most likely to be the one your muse has to “adopt” or support whenever he does dumb things. someone tell him not to get into fights. so having a paternal / older sibling figure.

MADDIE

M1.    her being a known bassist / rock star with her band & has that celebrity status within the alternative / rock / metal genres. but she could also be part of your muse’s band or genre sphere. M2.    most likely to be in college with your muse, where maddie lives in a dorm instead with liz or have classes together... though likely to skip those classes. M3.    most likely to be a tattoo artist or running a flowershop. M4.    is the one that likes being around artists, being an artist herself.  M5.    mostly likely be a waitress or bartend, practically when she doesn’t go to college. M6.    being part of her cousin’s motorcycle gang. M7.    most likely be to accept your muse as an older platonic figure or even like a sibling to her. someone to guide her in life as she grows into her own.

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Quiz: Which Desmond Hall Character Are You?

SPOILER WARNING FOR DESMOND HALL ARCS I AND II

Last week, I was going to work on finishing my next review, but then my muse pulled me aside and ordered me to write a Desmond Hall personality quiz while threatening me with a conjure doll and silver pin. Not every Desmond Hall character is in this quiz, only the ones that I thought would be the funniest to write. Enjoy!

1. You have just arrived at an ancient manor house enveloped in darkness that rests atop a sinister network of haunted caves. When you learn this, how do you react? A. Lie in bed for several days while writhing in agony. B. Accept it and keep myself busy while pining for my voodoo island home. C. Act insufferably smug, because soon the house will belong to me. D. Go search for creatures in the caves to alleviate my boredom and satisfy my compulsion to do random disturbing things. E. Barely react at all because the writers have forgotten that I have a personality. F. Swan around while talking to myself about how the manor looks like something out of a storybook. G. Wish that I could live there again, because I've been trapped in a trippy magical closet for months.

2. The daily newspaper arrives and the headline reads, "GIRL BRUTALLY MURDERED.” What is your response? A. Retreat to my bedchamber and panic loudly about how I hope no one discovers that I’m the murderer. B. Get the body buried and all evidence concealed. C. Observe a moment of silence for my former doxy, then promptly forget she ever existed. D. Cut out the photo of the victim's face, suspend it from a papier-mâché gallows tree, and display it prominently in the foyer. E. Feel moderately concerned for my safety, but not too much. My ghost boyfriend will protect me...maybe. F. Scheme to blackmail the killer into marrying me. G. Wonder, "Was that my brother again?"

3. Your hobbies include: A. Moping around the manor house in fancy suits and contorting my face as though trying unsuccessfully to relieve myself. B. Reciting dramatic monologues with bits of scenery caught between my teeth! C. Plotting murder, robbery, and the corruption of young maidens while sipping sherry. D. I wander. I visit. I'm here and there. I'm a kind of ghost of Desmond Hall. E. I used to enjoy rebelling, flouncing, and bickering, but I've lost my taste for those. Now I prefer hanging out with old people in a cottage that smells of strange spices. F. Talking to and stroking my sweet little snake. (By which I mean "reptile with no legs and a forked tongue." Get your mind out of the gutter.) G. Necromancy.

4. Your favorite foods include: A. Bubbly eggs cooked in champagne. Definitely not kippers. B. The cuisine of my native island, before the evil of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES made all the plants poisonous and killed all the animals! C. My spouse's hors d'oeuvres--but only when I don't have to eat them off the floor. D. Sugar, strawberries and cream, and the very best...*checks Teleprompter*...butter. E. Muffins laced with magical herbs. F. The delicious misery of the man who tried to strangle me and of all the other women who want him. G. I don't eat anymore. I'm a ghost. Food passes right through me--literally.

5. What turns you on? A. A lover who is unpredictable but not murderously crazy, and who likes to wear lacy nighties. B. I would not know! I have not felt those urges in three hundred years! C. Money. D. Anyone from my preferred gender who actually wants to spend time with me. E. A ghost who behaves like Edward Cullen. F. Jean Paul Desmond! He is the sexiest male character in the history of television. G. Submission and unquestioning devotion. Also, lesbians.

6. What is your signature look? A. Highly flattering mod suits combined with an unflattering combover. B. A long black Victorian dress. C. A stodgy gray/green suit, which is probably in desperate need of Febreze after being worn three days in a row. D. Turtlenecks. E. Bleached blonde hair and faddish early ‘70s fashions. F. Long pointed fingernails, false eyelashes, and a creepy grin. G. I once hung from the ceiling with my shirt torn open. Does that count?

7. Everyone has a skeleton in their closet. What is yours? A. Although I want to reach out and help the beautiful young women who come to me, instead my hands reach out to kill! B. I single-handedly cursed my employer's family by signing his grandfather’s (misspelled) name on a pledge to the Dark Lord. C. I am a black widower. D. I used to participate in necromancy rituals with my dear cousin. E. I stole a piece of my mother's jewelry and sold it at a pawn shop. F. I am a priestess of the Serpent God. G. Funny you should mention skeletons. My closet has a literal one hanging in it.

8. If you had to guess, which of these personages were you most likely in a past life? A. A freebooter possessed by the Devil. B. Myself. C. Henry Seewald--who looks exactly like a toddler version of me--transported back in time via the 49th hexagram. D. Someone named Claude. E. A young girl sacrificed by a priestess who looked like my mother. F. Ophelia, if she were real. G. My great-uncle with the same first name as me, who was allegedly disowned for being a poet.

9. Your favorite Dark Shadows character is: A. Barnabas Collins. B. Magda Rakosi. C. Nicholas Blair. D. David Collins. E. Carolyn Stoddard. F. Angelique Bouchard. G. Quentin Collins.

10. What from 1970 Dark Shadows do you believe was most likely inspired by Strange Paradise? A. The character of Judah Zachery, who is highly reminiscent of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES. B. The use of a retcon to completely change Angelique's backstory. C. The name Desmond Collins. D. The implied reincarnation in the Summer of '70 arc that (sadly) never got explored as much as it should have been. E. The subplot about Quentin falling in love with Daphne's ghost. F. The Leviathan cult's use of snake iconography. G. The carousel in Tad and Carrie's playroom.

If you answered mostly A, you are Jean Paul Desmond, richest man in the world and master of Desmond Hall. Tall, dark, and incredibly handsome in spite of his receding hairline, Jean Paul is the victim of two self-imposed curses, one of which causes him to strangle people when the Mark of Death appears on his hand (which is totally not a reflection of some repressed or hidden part of his personality, having formerly displayed megalomania and control freak tendencies on his island). When not under the effects of this curse, he is the living embodiment of charm and sweetness and attracts would-be partners like moths to a flame. Logically, the same must be true about you, because online personality quizzes are never wrong. ;)

If you answered mostly B, you are Raxl, daughter of the Priestess of the Serpent and winner of the Canadian 1969 and 1970 scenery-chewing contests. Far older than she looks, the Desmond family’s housekeeper may not be as loyal as she appears, depending on the whims of whomever wrote the plot outline for the final arc. She is an expert on all things occult and supernatural, from tarot cards to the Egyptian Key. Even after her retcon, she is awesome.

If you answered mostly C, you are Laslo Thaxton, husband of Ada (Desmond) Thaxton and master of Desmond Hall in the absence of Jean Paul and Philip. I would say that you are an unscrupulous, greedy Devil-worshiper like Laslo, but I’ve always hated those personality quizzes that make moral judgments about people just because they share some traits in common with the villain. Therefore, I’m just going to assume that you are most likely a decent person who only got Laslo because you happen to love money and Nicholas Blair.

If you answered mostly D, you are Cort Desmond, twenty-something cousin of Jean Paul and Philip. Eccentric and erratic but oh-so-adorable, Cort is a polarizing character loved by some fans for his good looks and (often unintentionally) funny lines, but hated by others for being somewhat of a spoiled brat. Like Hamlet whom he idolizes, he seeks justice for the death of his father, along with the inheritance his Dear Stepfather Laslo wants to steal from him.

If you answered mostly E, you are Holly Marshall--or, rather, what Holly has become since her creator Ian Martin left the show. Formerly a spitfire with a high IQ, a low boiling point, and a love for outdated slang, Holly has become a shell of her former self under the new writers. She spends more time unconscious and hypnotized than not; when she is conscious, she wastes her time pining after an unsuitable love interest who treats her like Edward treats Bella in Twilight. I hope this doesn’t describe you, because, if it does, you should seek help. Don’t be like Desmond Hall-era Holly!

If you answered mostly F, you are Agatha Pruitt, a young seamstress obsessed with Jean Paul. While the master of Desmond Hall has attracted many suitors, none are as strange or disturbing as Agatha, who blackmails him into letting her live at Desmond Hall after his failed murder attempt and proceeds to wreak havoc there along with the Serpent God (who may or may not be Raxl’s Great Serpent) whom she worships.

Finally, if you answered mostly G, you are Jean Paul’s brother, Philip Desmond (not to be confused with his cousin Philip Desmond, or either of the two Philippes des Mondes). A secretive figure largely mysterious even to his own brother, the handsome Philip dabbles in the dark arts and other mysteries, which ultimately leads to his disappearance into the caves beneath Desmondton and reappearance as a ghost. His character alignment is unclear--he may be evil, or just chaotic neutral--but one thing is clear: whoever messes with Philip has the Devil to pay.

[jelanisaeed]

Round 1: VS Venonat - Legends Part 1

Hello everyone, welcome to my story! This is the first book in a series I'm writing. Hopefully, it'll be finished the way I want it to be. I have a lot of plans to manipulate known facts and add my own into the fray as well.

Sorry, y'all! I didn't mean to fall off on writing this. I just got self-conscious. But I'm not going to let that get into the way anymore! I'm gonna stay on top of writing this!

Especially with this new writing style I've got! I've discovered I'm more a slice of life, mystery, fantasy type of writer. Not so much action like I originally tried. So, my chapters will be much shorter than before and will have great character interactions. I hope y'all like it this go around! And I promise I'll do better with staying on top of things!

I've made a lot of changes to the OG story, along with the previous version so I'll make sure to spot them out and let y'all know!

Oh, and quick disclaimer. I'm a black queer writer so all of my stories, including this one, will have characters who explore black and queer themes. I hope this creates a welcoming atmosphere for all to enjoy my stories and see a different perspective on pokemon and what it can be written about.

I also hope to inspire more black and queer writers to write stories on this site. The more the merrier!

Oh and I'm thinking about doing this thing where I tell y'all what music helped me write these chapters. It's a fun little thing. Mainly because music is a big part of my writing process so I thought it'd be fun to share with y'all!

So these three chapters were inspired by the Calling All Lovers album by Tamar Braxton! I love her voice and have been obsessed with her recently! She's always been one of my favs (#piscesgang) but this revisit to this gem just kept me going! I believe the song that helped a lot was Broken Record.

Special shoutout to Big Dummy by Cocoa Sarai (#piscesgang) as well! That song kept me motivated.

Without further ado, I hope you enjoy it!

…

Pokémon Adventures: Turquoise, Jasper, & Ammolite

Round 1: VS Venonat – Legends Part 1

Location: Twinleaf Town Date: August 4th, 3000 Time: 8:45am

Legends. Paxton grew up on the grand tales of mystery and wonder. Weaved together by ancient people who desired to understand the world around them. From declarations of the universe’s creation to the birth of emotions. A legend existed for them all. And all found themselves scribed and stored in libraries across Sinnoh.

Once upon a time, he believed them. Sat amongst groups of budding trainers in awe as their teacher’s spun these tales. Admired the scholars who backed up these claims with beautifully dressed lies. Part of him wished he believed them. At least then he’d preserve the innocence he lost long ago.

Not that it mattered. Innocence didn’t make for a great travel companion. Clouded the mind and led even the best astray. Paxton knew he’d never succumb to it. Not again.

“Ain’t that right, Kiri?” his little formantis thrilled beside him. She fell in step beside him, having just defeated a wild bidoof. Annoying rodents with the worst aromas.

Under the morning sun, he kept moving. Summers in Sinnoh never made much sense. Despite the heat, a chilling breeze whisked by. Eastern winds—had to be from the lake. Still, a bit musty for his taste. He heard Lake Verity was a beautiful place filled with energetic, young pokémon. Perhaps just another well-crafted lie.

It doesn’t matter. Paxton shrugged and continued his path. He had his mission and pitstops didn’t fit the bill. Soon enough, he found himself inside Twinleaf Town. A cute little place filled with morning folks. They took to the streets with their pokémon and tended to their business. A few merchant stands set up with fresh produce and supplies.

“Pretty nice, huh?” Kiri agreed. She breathed in the fresh air and thrilled. Much better for her than Jubilife City.

Now, if any of them could point him in the right direction—

“I tell ya it’s true!” A youngster wailed to a crowd. Quite the sight, Paxton mused. Clothes tattered and caked with mud. His youthful tan marred with bruises and an odd burn across his forearm.

“There’s a monster in the lake! It attacked me and my nidoran!”

A monster in Lake Verity? Paxton frowned. Too farfetched for his taste. Powerful pokémon never lingered along the lakefront, so the merchants told him. The most dangerous any trainer encountered was a choleric gyarados!

There’s no such thing as monsters, he scoffed but got closer regardless. The kid had a story, no doubt about it. Perhaps it would prove to be a challenge for him.

Though his hopes weren’t high. Twinleaf Town hadn’t produced capable trainers in years—

“The boy speaks truth, if only misguided,” an elderly man took the boy’s side with a pleasant smile. Eyes narrowed with wisdom as leaned against his cane. “There’s always been a force protecting the lakefront. A guardian blessed by Lady Mesprit herself. It serves to protect the grounds from intruders.”

A guardian, the Paxton scoffed. Yet another well-dressed lie. And the crowd around him shared his thoughts if their whispers were any indication.

Clearly, the elder saw no reason to stop. He only adjusted his kimono and tapped his cane against the lush grass. A soft, melodic sound, yet it quieted the confused herd of people. Paxton whistled. Plenty of teachers killed for that superpower, especially on the last day of classes.

“Now, now,” The elder smiled, gingerly tapping the pokéball on his cane. “We all knew of the legend.”

The ball snapped open and released a pokémon before them all. A beautiful feline with glowing, white fur. The perfect contrast to its pitch-black skin and talons. Armed with a scythe-like tail and a crescent horn jutting from its forehead.

It glared at him with glowing red eyes. Eyes filled with frosty wisdom. Lingered on him, demanding something the trainer wasn’t prepared to give.

He flinched. Not his proudest moment. And the pokémon agreed, turning up its nose with a snarl.

“You feel it, Absol?” The man said in a graveled whisper. At once, the strange pokémon—absol, he supposed—growled. The elder stroked its forehead and locked eyes with the trainer. “Young man, what is your name.”

Part of him wanted nothing more than to flip the old geezer off. He hated unwanted attention. Yet the questioning gaze of the crowd made him shrink. Of course, that geezer had them wrapped up in his every word.

“Paxton,” he spoke softly, gathering Kiri closer for comfort. She glared and waved her arms for battle. “Paxton Lotus of Floaroma Town. This is my partner pokémon, Kiri the formantis.”

The geezer nodded with a strange smile. But Paxton couldn’t place why it disturbed him. “You all remember the legend,” the geezer spoke again. “A child blessed with verity. Discovered by the peaceful flower.” Paxton groaned. Of course, this had something to do with him. No wonder he didn’t trust the geezer. “Tell me, young one. What has brought you to his town?”

Easy. He had his mission. Deliver the package and report back to Professor Kapok. Nothing special. He did plenty of these over the weeks.

“To see the lake guardian with my own eyes,” Paxton spoke, but words felt foreign. “And start my journey with an adventure.”

“An adventure,” The man smiled. A knowing smile Paxton saw plentifully on Father’s face. “An adventure intertwined with the red strings. Yes, you certainly shall receive one. Follow me, please youngling.”

Something tells me I shoulda stayed in Floaroma Town

…

Suddenly, staying in Floaroma Town felt like the right move. Paxton sighed and ran a hand over his green coils. Lake Verity didn’t live up to the legends. No bustling pokémon or fairy spirits. Not even a spontaneous battle—though, Paxton yearned for it well. Just silence and a thick fog.

A strange fog at that. It hung over the trees until they caved to its weighed. Many bent at odd angles. Not even Eterna Forest looked so eerie. And that forest had far too many ghost-type pokémon.

“I hate this place,” Paxton shivered. The air seemed so cold and heavy. And each brush of air prickled his skin with sharpened icicles.

Paxton paused by a familiar tree. Passed it a few times now, he knew. No other tree had these strange cravings on the bark. Some language, he wagered. However, the letters seemed bizarre and had cycloptic eyes. Strange, yet they seemed familiar. As if he saw them in a dream before.

{Paxton…} a voice whispered on the wind. Eyes darted around, but Paxton couldn’t find the source. Yet the voice continued, whispering his name in an offbeat rhythm. {Paxton…}

Great, I’m loosin’ it! Paxton groaned. Yet the voice paid him no heed. Each whisper grew louder than the last with a pronounced echo. Mashed together with words until it jumbled into an incoherent mess. Pain shot through his mind and Paxton stumbled. Braced against the tree, he stared into the fog and froze.

A figure breached the fog. Pale as ice with messy coils and lifeless eyes. Naked yet the wisping streamers of the fog covered anything unsavory. The figure stared at him with shinning sky-blue eyes…and smiled. Giggled even!

Is that a ghost? Paxton swallowed. Spirits weren’t his forte. In fact, they freaked him out!

{Paxton…} the ghost spoke even though its lips never moved. It urged him to follow as it stepped back into the fog. {Paxton…}

…Hell. Against his better judgement, he followed it. Chased it through the shifting fog as Kiri appeared beside him in a burst of light. He needed her. If this ghost was anything like the kind in Kanto, then he couldn’t take any chances! Would’ve been a perfect time to find that guardian though.

Guardian…what if that ghost was the guardian? A chill ran down his spine. He hoped not. Dealing with the undead was Casper’s thing, not his! He had enough of ghost-type pokémon ever since he got lost in that busted down chateau!

Still, he put those thoughts aside and chased its faded form. Even as his lungs screamed at him to take a break. Or his legs struggled to keep up. He fought through it. And Paxton found himself in a clearing. Empty, yet devoid of the heavy fog. Just a soft breeze and lake water as it crashed against the ground.

The ghost turned to him and grinned. Eyes filled with mirth as it lifted off the ground and floated to the lake. Paxton followed and gazed in awe. The ghost danced above, swinging its arms. It spiralled through the morning skies and giggled. Soft and melodious as the soft waves rolling through. And with a grin, the ghost dove into the lake.

Glittering light erupted across the water. Engulfed the lake in a rainbow splendor.

For a moment, Paxton stared into the light. Entranced as thoughts raced through his mind. Feelings, long since buried, unearthed and flooded him in a sparkling array of light—

(Veno-NAT!)

Paxton didn’t realize he moved until the heat hit him. As he rolled along the soft grass, charred dirt sprinkled his skin. Ignited by flashes of green light. Something attacked him, but he couldn’t see anything in the grass. Just rustling as the breeze blew through—

(NAT!)

This time, Paxton was ready. He lunged away as streaks of light smashed into the ground. Unharmed except for the light scarps. Good enough for Kiri as she dashed into the fight. She weaved through the streaks of light and unleashed a spiral of glowing leaves into the tall grass. Trimmed grass fluttered through the air, but the rustled told him all he needed to know.

“Kiri, widen your range and trim the grass! Razor Leaf!”

Sharpened leaves ripped through the air and trimmed the tall grass. Amongst the fallen leaves, he caught a glimpse of the assailant. Purple for sure…and were those clodhopper feet?

The creature paused in the epicenter of the field. And…it had to be the ugliest thing Paxton ever saw. Thick, disheveled purple fur mashed with giant, red eyes, stubby paws and insect features. Poor thing. Nobody’d ever train something so hideous.

This must be the monster. Paxton frowned. Ugly or not, he had to get rid of it.

“Kiri, time to water the garden.” Kiri rushed it and slashed it across the chest. The bug cried out, but Kiri didn’t stop there. She slashed and slashed, drawing pained buzzes from the creature. Now that Kiri had a target, that bug didn’t have a chance.

“That’s it! Fury Cutter!”

Once Fury Cutter went to work, it didn’t matter what pokémon Kiri faced. Each slash gained greater strength than the last. A nasty move for sure but made pokémon battles so much easier. The bug stumbled away from a slash and hopped away. But Kiri raced after it, unleashing more spiraling leaves to smash into its back.

“Finish it, Kiri! Leaf—”

Kiri cried out, low and mangled, as she fell forward! Her blades held her up, but she gasped for air.

But how?! Paxton watched in horror as the air rippled and smashed into Kiri, blowing her back. He lunged for her. Caught her just before she crashed. And when he pulled her close, he found streaks of purple staining her green skin. Poison?

(Nat?) The bug hopped over. Body tensed as green light oozed underneath its messy fur. Paxton dipped a hand to his belt. He had the perfect pokémon for this ugly—

“Motha,” A calm, melodious voice washed over the field. And the beast paused. “That’s enough.”

The beast hobbled over to the lake with a certain bounce that Paxton didn’t appreciate.

“That’s enough fighting, please,” the same voice spoke again. And a trainer climbed out of the crystal waters. Clad in only a pair of black briefs decorated with bugs and bubbles. His soaked black coils hung over his eyes, dripping water down his toned hazelnut body. When he finally moved the coiled curtains, Paxton caught sight of sky-blue eyes.

Just like that ghost.

But…his looked so shattered.

“Who are you?” He spoke again with that same melodious quality. Only this time, there was a noticeable edge. Like a cliff blocking a powerful wave. “What are you doing in Lake Verity?”

Paxton scowled. Figures the monster had a trainer. It fought too well to be wild. But it didn’t make sense. Why attack? Paxton shook his head.

“My name is Paxton—Paxton Lotus of Floaroma Town,” he gulped. His heart pounded against his chest. “I’m here to defeat the monster in Lake Verity. That you, ain’t it?”

The trainer paused. And his eyes darkened with flecks of gray.

“I am the guardian of Lake Verity,” he began slowly as a storm brewed behind his lips. “My name is Turquoise. Turquoise Yukule.”

…

How did y'all like that chapter? It took some time to perfect, but I loved the twist it took! I'm happy with it.

Paxton's a new character I made. Lowkey based him off of a mix of the Aroma Lady and Gardener Trainer Classes. I'm starting to really fuse Trainer Classes for some reason and I love it lol

And yay, Turquoise is back! He's literally my favorite little bubble of sunshine. I love his character and did some changes to him too. I'll let y'all know his Trainer Class next chapter!

But I'd to hear from y'all. Feel free to leave a review or PM me. I'd love to hear your feedback. And I'll do my best to respond to all reviews as well!

[drugs-and-deadlines]

she & her

You are haunted by the manic female NYC writer trope. Not a trope, really, because that feels like a reduction of her wiles, her slipperiness, her popularity, her perseverance, and her sex. It is a certain kind of ghost, progressive and beguiling, her kink as boundary pushing as the prose lifting up her personal narrative. She sculpts meaning-making out of every lived moment in her life, but most especially the young ones, because those are more thrilling for her audience, wherein she oscillated from a teetering cocktail of stimulants and alcohol, between egotist self-aggrandizing and pure self-flagellation. 

You know exactly who she is, because her definition and her very body is composed of the resistance to definition, most especially the questions and expectations of femininity. She is by turns lithe, waifish, possibly sick; by turns defying categorization with a smirk and a firm muscular body; by turns unafraid of her fatness in brain and body to take up space. When she generally speaks of her body, it is to make a philosophical point about the world at large and the place of female-bodied people in it; she skewers her feelings about her own corporal form with analysis. You know her because you have flirted with her in a literal sense, but also a figurative one -- you have let your body, fashion, and being explore each of the categories but none of them ever stuck. And a big part of you has feared why that is -- perhaps you don’t know yourself, perhaps your indecisiveness outstrips your ambition, a thoroughly un-manic trait. Perhaps, most horrifyingly, you fall too cleanly into a Freudian ball of neuroses to allow yourself to ever be you and thus will always be chasing the best way to present yourself. And meanwhile, while you’re asking yourself all these questions, she is writing.

She is not just writing. She is staying up late, refining the same sentence with rigor, stripping it further down to its essentials while you stare up at the ceiling, wondering at the opportunities you’ve missed. She is a ghost because she is able to slip through all the cracks of the house that is your life. She creates a mythos of every doorway she’s passed through. Even in her floundering, even in her telling of her own failures, there is a sort of certitude that each bumbling embarrassment served the narrative purpose of bringing her right to this moment: a moment of fame, of byline, of acknowledged brimming talent. 

If you had little money or privilege growing up, she had all of it, spending summers on a family boat in Greek waters, inviting friends from your liberal arts college to come along and therefore fall in love with her for years. She deliberately chose not to apply to the Ivies because she wanted a less conventional path; you chose not to apply because you never thought you could get in. She ends up dating the women from your past and you watch the thirst traps and inside jokes filter their way through Instagram and Twitter, a life you might have lived but weren’t brave enough or wealthy enough to attract. You cannot offer anyone a good time consistently because it exhausts you along with the other trappings of the class you were born into. You eventually grow out of resenting that which you never had, but the injustice of how the rich always have extra time still stings. Time seems to be everything a writer needs. 

If you did grow up with privilege or money, the ghost shapeshifts. She worked her way through undergrad as a server, or possibly a dominatrix or a stripper, a woman aware of the power of her own body and the ability to turn society’s preying into a currency she could use. She is always embodied, all her couplings and couplets enviable because of the bravery that surrounds them. When she is tired in her classes the next morning, it is only because she worked a double the night before. Her voice still leads your class’s intellectual thought, she openly confesses that she fell asleep in her work uniform with Plato’s Republic two pages away from the end of the reading assignment sometime around 2am. She does this in your 8am class. You’d hope to catch her for lunch, but she always has work to do, is always begging off invitations, and you hope desperately that it’s true and not because you’re not cool enough. And on the weekends, she always seems to have friends from work and beyond inviting her out. They have nothing to do with your age group or with the school you both attend. She is rapacious in her discipline but still somehow has time to try all the drugs you haven’t tried and are too afraid to. How is she so unafraid? Her fortitude and coolness with hard work is a currency too, making up for all the things she didn’t grow up with. Every privilege you’ve ever had only seems to undercut your sense of whether you earned anything. She is raw, willing to say the first absurd thing that comes in her head. Her poetry takes risks yours cannot. 

And you are pissed. Because regardless of where you come from, you are confronted with all these Instagram realities (that only make larger the actual realities), which is mostly that the rules are still the same. You avoided trying to be a cool girl as a child and a teenager because you knew you could not accomplish it, and so you strove to satisfy yourself with being an intellectual. You decided to give up on being an actor or a singer or a dancer and plunge yourself into letters because you thought it would be a refuge from constant performance. Constant performance required constant realigning to the changing modes of cool, and so you thought writing would suit you better. How wrong you were. 

Writing in itself is a more complete performance: if you are serious about it, you must be an intellectual builder of words in every moment of self-narrative, whether spoken, written, or posted. You listen to tales of “dressing for the muse” and showing up at the writing desk at 6am. You also listen to tales of complete slobbishness, writing on the floor with crayons, unafraid to make mistakes while creating in underwear and a tank top. Sex and danger, especially when both can be intertwined, are palpable in every sentence and interaction the manic girl has. It is part of her attraction. No knows if she’s going to want to fuck or fight, or, best of all, floatingly let you know she thinks you are full of your own light. The latter ideal scenario happens right before she leaves you to stride home, empowered enough to tromp through the late night New York City streetlamps dappling through the trees, deciding to walk with your now ever-aggrandizing thoughts rather than take the MTA. She is most thrilling when she leaves you wanting more, which is always. Your thoughts ping around your head with a velocity borrowed from her own. 

Once home, you look up all the writers she mentioned and see them all connected by several nodes: one MFA program or a particular residency, publishing house, or theater company. You become determined that this node is the epicenter, which will be true for a time until you’ve penetrated it and find another node of hot writers beyond your reach. 

There are always conversations happening without you. There are always people fucking without you. There will always have been a better time to be in New York, some time well before you were here, when it would’ve been easy to meet these intellectuals and be friends with them and the real estate was cheaper therefore making the creation of art and myth more accessible. You will always have missed the boat by five years or more, something you curse your age or attachment to another city before this one for. They took time away from the pulsing magnetism of your true love for this city, and you resent that, because now you are less attractive, less energetic, less manic than you were when you were younger. You cannot stay out for so long without chemical dependence & when you do, you bemoan that you should’ve been writing. But when you stay home to write, you invariably miss the moment when you would’ve met the right person who would’ve fallen in love with you & asked to read you.

You alternate with being obsessed with her, wanting in some way to possess her as a friend or ally or lover, to actually being possessed by her. The need to write what you know are brilliant fucking things infecting every moment -- prose pooling into an appetizing puddle at the bar, waiting for you to mop it up, poetry lingering on the steering wheel, electrifying your hands when you touch it to go go go go go fly to paper, even in those moments when you are fully possessed by her and become her, it is not enough, there is a time when you were more brilliant, more boundary pushing, more consumed by the manic need for a narrative that you simultaneously sculpted in your own life and committed opulently to paper. The poetry monster is always hungry. There is always a better-worded performance of the myth of your own making and you begin practicing by interviewing yourself. The graphomania can always, always, always increase its acceleration. But better that than a pandemic-inspired staring at the ceiling, this moment when you are certain you missed your chance and it will never come again, that there will never be a doing coke in the Village with some rich folks you barely know, the bumps wrapping you in cynicism and excitement for your new friend group all at once. No, in your pandemic reality, and perhaps before, clout is only gained via social media and you seem to be especially bad at that. The manic NYC female writer is better at it. She is genderbending her own performance of herself, twisting her depression and isolation somewhere in Connecticut or New Hampshire or her Manhattan fire escape as something to be envied.

How, you wonder, how how how how how

And then it becomes obvious

Her performance of self is nimble like white supremacy, resilient like the virus itself, always finding a new way to shapeshift her experience into something artful. You should be using this moment, because she certainly is. Because what the manic NYC female writer has is an obsession and possession of talent, a haunting that allows her to keep working at the problem into the late hours, when hers is the only light left on. And then there are moments when she obsesses instead of possesses, moments when the light is off but she is still awake, questioning this ceiling, her choices, and the fact that she’s chosen a stable partner beside her in bed instead of an ever-shifting existence that allows for new narratives to come in. She questions her life with the same rigor she does her stories, every choice that does not suit the performance and pursuit of her potential.

And, to that end, all of her/your characters become you/her or are versions of you/her -- and that is the only constant. The feedback she/you get(s) in workshops is that your/her main characters are too similar and that is precisely the point -- you are her and she is you and you both see one another on every street corner and every passage, only a few centimeters to the left in an alternate universe. The Quantumness of it all exhausts you and haunts the many yearning yous, the whole network of them, so overwhelming that then you must return to the facts of your autobiography to find stable ground before your own architecting of your autobiography shifts it again.

[pynkhues]

You're such a good writer. Have you ever thought about writing professionally? :)

Ah! Thank you, anon! You’re so sweet!

I actually do write professionally. It’s forever a weird thing to say, haha, but I’m an award-winning short fiction writer, and have had over 15 original stories published in journals, anthologies and collections. (Also actually just found out I’m having another one published this week, which means I’ve got three stories already coming out this year, which is exciting!) I’ve also written a few novel manuscripts that have been shortlisted for prizes, but haven’t been published yet, and have a screenplay that has been optioned by a production company, but hasn’t yet been turned into a movie. 

Unfortunately, there is not a lot of money in any of those things, haha, at least not in Australia, and I grew up pretty poor, so I also work as both a gun for hire / freelance writer, writing everything from utility manuals to child safety policies and procedures, to product descriptions for various online stores, as well as at a theatre company which makes interactive works for disadvantaged children. 

But yes!

I’m actually currently working on a new novel manuscript which is set against the backdrop of Houdini’s tour of Australia in 1910, and how during that tour he became the first person to fly a plane in Australia. The novel itself though is actually a mystery novel about a woman investigating her grandfather’s (who was a magician) strange death, and how she ends up sort of accidentally teaming up with an American journalist who’s out in Australia reporting on Houdini’s tour. 

You can have a little excerpt, if you’d like!

“Mrs. Hathaway?” Joe asks, and Alma laughs, but it’s empty, even to her own ears. 

“I was, I suppose. Once.”

If Joe has any thoughts about the matter, he keeps his face carefully blank. Instead, he lifts his scotch glass, swirls the liquid like a God does a muddy river in the palm of his clean hand. Before them, the fire crackles – lit for the cool desert night, and only serving to stifle the day’s stagnant heat. There are certain customs that are hard to shake, she thinks, and she pinches the sleeves of her sweaty blouse and thinks that any real place, accustomed to this heat, would never ask this constriction of its people.

In front of the fire, moths and beetles fly, a haphazard array of insects, crashing into one another, fleeing, crashing all over again. The realisation of it is not one that Alma especially cares for, but she keeps it in her head all the same. The way the flames cast their light across the glossy shells of the insects.

“I don’t want to pry,” Joe says suddenly, and Alma tilts her head towards him. Takes in his careful, downcast expression, his careful, downturned lips.

“I rather think you do,” she says, as gently as she can manage it. “You don’t have to be so careful, really. There’s no fantastic story to tell, and no particularly extraordinary tragedy about the matter. I was married, and now I am not.”

Joe looks at her then, properly, for perhaps the first time since Mr. Wellesley called her name across the gathering all those days ago. His eyes are so green, it almost surprises her.

“See, I’m not entirely sure I believe that,” he replies, and Alma laughs, dropping her head forwards and reaching for her own conspiring cup.

“Last I checked, I was not your story.”

Joe tilts his head, back and forth, as if weighing up her statement, a shadow of that familiar smile ghosting his lips.

“Perhaps I undersold your character.”

“Perhaps you did.”

The insects are growing in volume, if not size. Their wings a light catching gauze in the throes of this deep night. Vaguely, Alma can hear patrons on the floor above them, stepping the long corridors of the hotel, their laughs and their slurs and their missteps like a play across the stage of her head. And if they are, then perhaps she is to Mr. Goddard, she supposes. She sighs.

“You are aware that I worked as a governess in one of the northern houses?”

Joe nods, quickly, briskly, leaning ever so slightly forwards in his seat.

“Mr. Hathaway was a groundsman at the same house. He’d served in the Boer War, and from the stories I’d heard, not all of him had made it back.”

She swirls the scotch around in her own glass, watching the amber liquid mouth up the sides of her cup.

“That is not uncommon,” Joe says quietly. “At least, not of the men I know who have served.”

“No, of course not,” Alma says, shaking her head. “And that’s not entirely what I meant. I suppose I never knew him before it, and so the man I met was the only man I knew. He was kind and he was quiet, tormented, but I know a lot of tormented folk, so it was not unusual to me. We did not fall in love exactly, but - - I liked him. And I rather think he liked me, and perhaps that could have become love. I don’t know.”

She pauses, lost, for a moment, in her own memories of a man who had, for a very brief time, become the most important part of her life. It’s as if a tent has been erected inside her, forcing aside her bones and her organs, allowing unwelcome feelings to sleep within her. Alma sighs.

“He shot himself. About a year after we were married.”

She finishes her scotch.

Beside her, Joe is quiet, still turning over the glass in his hands, letting the liquid roll up the sides, warm between his skin and the fire. He brings it to his nose, inhales deeply, but does not take a sip. It’s unexpected, unusual, perhaps, but she had been warned about the strange habits of Americans, and of this, this seems like one of Joe’s lesser ones.

“I rather think you’ve done what many thought impossible,” Joe muses quietly. “And rendered me speechless.”

She laughs, and Joe weighs her with a careful, considering look.

“Oh, Mr. Goddard, if only I knew the key to that was a few well-timed words of my own.”

He laughs, but his face remains shadowed, uncertain, and she puts her own glass down on the floor and reaches her hands for his free one. He gives it freely, and she turns it over in hers, running her fingers, still damp from her glass, across the palm of his freckled hand.

“You know, back when I was a part of my grandfather’s act, I would put on a shawl and read palms as the opener.”

He laughs again, a gentler one this time, scrunching up his nose in a way that reminds her that they are both so young still. So young to have felt this much. He leans back, almost embarrassed, but Alma follows him.

“Hm,” she hums, stroking a finger down his palm. A part of her knows this is improper, a young, widowed woman, without gloves, touching the skin of a young, unwedded man, but for now, there’s nothing in the world that feels more proper than this.

“This,” she says, her voice donning the vague, European accent she’d wear during her shows. “This is your lifeline.”

She taps it once, twice, three times.

“It’s long,” and it is. Very long, stretching around the heel of his hand and curling at the base. “You’ll live a long life.”

Joe sits up a little straighter, leaning forwards in his own chair.

“A good life?”

“That, unfortunately, is not something the palms can easily tell.”

He chuckles, a breathy one, spreading his fingers better in her hand, as if offering better access to the lines of him, and Alma swallows thickly.

The weight of a hand in hers is not foreign to her, but somehow Joe’s feels both too heavy and impossibly light. Feels - -

Well.

Just feels, she supposes.

She turns his hand over in her own, looking at the long, graceful lines of it, the fresh dirt beneath his nails, the cricks in his skin that tell her everything and nothing.

“Your hands are long,” she says, running her thumb across his knuckles, relishing in the warmth it spreads through her chest. “And thin. Which means you’re loyal, and that you’re kind, and you’re thumb bends out, so you’re generous too. But,” and she tuts then, amused, shaking her head. “Your fingernails. They’re short and round, which means you’re a gossip.”

He hoots at that, like she’d thought he might, and a smile paints her face as she opens his hand again in hers. She can feel him then, leaning closer, his breath on the back of her head, shifting her sweat-damp hair.

She uncurls his hand in hers, moving her thumbs from the heel of his hand up towards the tips of his long, arching fingers. She can feel the pulse in them, the flutter of it just below the veil of his thin skin.

“Your head line is short, which means you are impulsive, but it curves down slightly, which means you are gentle.”

She can feel Joe getting closer, shifting beneath her hands, moving nearer to her in his seat, until his whole body is curved towards her. Her own breath picks up, the fire before them suddenly too hot. Hotter than it has felt before. She brushes a hand back through her hair. Tries to stroke any knot from it. Free it from its bindings. She must be quiet too long, for the next question Joe asks, is: “Are there any more?”

Alma blinks, feels the sweat building at her lashes, tries to blink them free.

“Your heart line,” she says, and she can feel more than see Joe smile. “It starts before your index finger, and it’s deep. Which means you fall in love quickly, but that you love intensely.”

He hums, a small sound like an agreement, and Alma touches the rough flat of her thumb to the softness of his palm, and she remembers all the ways she wasn’t made for this man.  That Joe - - that Mr. Goddard - - that he might be a working man in the bowels of New York City, but as far as the rough, dirty middle of Queensland is, he’s an upper class boy with no idea as to the gruelling design of this land. He was built for the tamed, not the wild, and he is not Alma. He is not a desperate, writhing snake trying to find family in the desert that has loved her and abandoned her and made her whole, nor the tropics which have weathered her skin, and shed her bare beneath the tempest of its moods. He will marry a good, American girl with a good, American dowry, and a quick wit and a smart look, and the wild of this trip, and the wild of Alma, will become a story he will tell friends at bars, if it even becomes that.

She pulls away, dropping his hand, and ignoring the way he tries to chase her.

“There will be someone worthy of that hand, some day,” she says instead, rising from her seat, a quiver in her legs that surprises her. “Sadly, this is where I must leave you, Mr. Goddard. I am rather tired, all of a sudden, and know we have a rather monstrous day ahead of us, if we are to make it back down to Marigold’s before the dusk.”

She turns, moving promptly towards the stairs leading up to their rooms, and she hears the scrape of the chair across the floorboards behind her, and the calling of her name - names, Miss Rivers first, and then Mrs Hathaway and then suddenly, strikingly, Alma, and she picks up her pace away from him before she can even consider that it is the first time she has heard her name at his lips.

[entamewitchlulu]

so i did a reading challenge this year and i wanna talk about what i read

transcription under the cut

i did Popsugar 2019 and wanna talk about what i read:  Book Reccs and Anti-Reccs 

1.) Becoming a Movie in 2019: Umbrella Academy (vol 1) by Gerard Way and Gabriel Ba

4/5. A fascinating take on superpowers, dysfunctional families, and the apocalypse. Can get pretty gory, confusing here and there and you have to pay close attention to panels for lore, but overall an entertaining romp.

2.) Makes you Feel Nostalgic: Circles in the Stream by Rachel Roberts

4/5. Middle grade novel about the magic of music, belief, and of course, friendship. Definitely written for kids, and has some unfortunately clumsy Native rep, but overall an absolute joy to dive into once again.

3.) Written by a Musician: Umbrella Academy (vol 2) by Gerard Way and Gabriel Ba

4/5. Ramps up the confusion to ridiculous degrees with some absolutely bonkers, unexplained arcs, but still fun to watch this dysfunctional family do its dysfunctional thing.

4.) You Think Should be Turned into a movie: All That Glitters by Rachel Roberts

4/5. Continuation of Circles in the Stream, but with more unicorns, more rainbows, and more fae, which makes it automatically even better than the first.

5.) With At Least 1 Mil. Ratings on Goodreads: 1984 by George Orwell   

1/5. I understand why it's important and all but wasn't prepared for some of the more graphic scenes and the overall hopelessness of the message.  Would not recommend or read again.

6.) W/ a Plant in the title or cover: The secret of Dreadwillow carse by Brian farrey

5/5. A fantasy world where everyone is always happy, save for one girl and the princess, who set out to solve the mystery of their kingdom. Poignant and great for kids and adults.

7.) Reread of a favorite: Cry of the Wolf by Rachel Roberts

4/5. Yet another installment in the Avalon: Web of Magic series, which clearly I am obsessed with.  Please just read them.

8.) About a Hobby: Welcome to the Writer's Life by Paulette Perhach

5/5. A welcome kick in the pants, chock full of great advice told without condescension, and full of hope and inspiration for writers both new and old.

9.) Meant to read in 2018: The Poet x by Elizabeth Acevedo  

4/5. Absolutely beautiful coming of age novel told in verse.  Do yourself a favor and listen to the audiobook version.

10.) w/ "pop," "sugar," or "challenge" in the title: Black Sugar by Miguel Bonnefoy

2/5. I think maybe I just don't understand this genre.  Or maybe the translation was weird. I was confused.  

11.) w/ An Item of Clothing or Accessory on the cover: Our dreams at Dusk by Yuhki Kamatani

4/5. It had a lot more slurs/homophobia than I was prepared for, but otherwise is a very touching, relatable collection of queer characters living in a heteronormative world.

12.) Inspired by Mythology or Folklore: Ravenous by MarcyKate Connolly

3/5. A girl goes on an impossible quest to save her brother from a child-eating witch. Really wanted to like it more because I loved the first one, Monstrous, but it dragged a little.

13.) Published Posthumously: The Islands of Chaldea by Diana Wynne Jones

3/5. I adore Diana Wynne Jones, but this one was missing some of the magic of her other books. Not sure if it was because it had to be finished by someone else, or if I just grew out of her stories.

14.) Set in Space: Binti by Nnedi Okorafor

4/5. Powerfully written story of a girl straddling tradition and innovation, who wields power through mathematical magic, surviving on a spaceship alone with a dangerous alien occupation after everyone else has been killed.

15.) By 2 Female Authors: Burn for Burn by Jenny Han and Siobhan Vivian

2/5. Ostensibly a story about a revenge pact in a small island town, but leaves far too many dangling threads to attempt alluring you to the sequel.

16.) W/ A Title containing "salty," "bitter," "Sweet," or "Spicy": The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith  

3/5. It's okay but I literally just never know what anyone means at any time. Are they being reticent on purpose or do i just not understand communication

17.) Set in scandinavia: Vinland Saga by Makoto Yukimura

2/5. Technically and historically accurate and well made, but the story itself is not my cup of tea.  Very gory.

18.) Takes Place in a Single Day: Long WAy Down by Jason Reynolds

4/5. A boy goes to avenge his murdered brother, but ghostly passengers join him on the elevator ride down. Stunning and powerful character-driven analysis.

19.) Debut Novel: Nimona by Noelle Stevenson

4/5. Charming and then surprisingly heart-breaking comic about Nimona, a shapeshifter who wants to become a villain's minion. Really love the villain/hero dynamic going on in the background, along with the dysfunctional found family.

20.) Published in 2019: The Book of Pride by Mason Funk  

4/5. A collection of interviews with the movers, shakers, and pioneers of the queer and LGBTQ+ community.  An absolutely essential work for community members and allies alike.

21.) Featuring an extinct/imaginary creature: Phoebe and her Unicorn by Dana Simpson

4/5. Incredibly charming, Calvin and Hobbes-esque collection of comics featuring the adventures of Phoebe and her unicorn best friend.

22.) Recced by a celebrity you admire: The Emerald Circus by Jane Yolen

2/5. Recced by my fave author Brandon Sanderson. An unfortunately disappointing anthology proving that any story can be made uninteresting by telling the wrong section of it.

23.) With "Love" in the Title: Book Love by Debbie Tung

4/5. One of those relatable webcomics, only this one I felt super hard almost the entire time.  Books are awesome and libraries rule.

24.) Featuring an amateur detective: Nancy Drew: Palace of Wisdom by Kelly Thompson

4/5. REALLY love this modern take on Nancy Drew, coming back home to her roots to solve a brand new mystery. Diverse cast and lovely artwork, though definitely more adult.

25.) About a family: Amulet by Kabu Kibuishi

4/5. Excellent, top tier graphic novel about a sister and brother who have to go rescue their mother with a mysterious magic stone. LOVE that the mom gets to be involved in the adventure for once.

26.) by an author from asia, Africa, or s. America: Girls' Last tour by Tsukumizu

4/5. Somehow both light-hearted and melancholy. Two girls travel about an empty, post-apocalyptic world, and muse about life and their next meal.

27.) w/ a Zodiac or astrology term in title: Drawing down the moon by margot adler

3/5. A good starting place for anyone interested in the Neo Pagan movement, but didn't really give me what I was personally looking for.

28.) you see someone reading in a tv show or movie: The Promised NEverland by Kaiu Shirai

4/5. I don't watch TV or movies where people read books so i think reading an adaptation of a TV series after watching the series counts. Anyway it was good but beware racist caricatures

29.) A retelling of a classic: Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy by Rey Terciero

5/5. We can stop the Little Women reboots and retellings now, this is the only one we need. In fact, we can toss out the original too, this is the only one necessary.

30.) w/ a question in the title: So I'm a spider, so what? by Asahiro Kakashi

4/5. Cute art despite the subject matter, and a surprisingly enthralling take on the isekai genre. Love the doubling down on the video game skills.

31.) Set in a college or university campus: Moonstruck (vol 2) by Grace Ellis

2/5. An incredibly cute, beautiful, and fascinating world of modern magic and creatures, but unfortunately falls apart at the plot and pacing.

32.) About someone with a superpower: Moonstruck (vol 1) by Grace Ellis

4/5. Though nearly as messy plot-wise as its sequel, the first volume is overwhelmingly charming in a way that overpowers the more confusing plot elements.

33.) told from multiple povs: The Long way to a Small, Angry Planet by becky Chambers

4/5. Told almost in a serial format, like watching a miniseries, a group of found-family spaceship crew members make the long journey to their biggest job ever.

34.) Includes a wedding: We Set the dark on fire by Tehlor kay mejia

4/5. Timely and poignant, a girl tumbles into both love and resistance after becoming one of two wives to one of the most powerful men in the country.

35.) by an author w/ alliterative name: The only harmless great Thing by brooke bolander

3/5. Much deeper than I can currently comprehend.  Beautifully written, but difficult to parse.

36.) A ghost story: Her body and other parties by Carmen Maria Machado

4/5.  It counts because one of the stories in it has ghosts. A sometimes difficult collection of surrealist, feminist, queer short stories.

37.) W/ a 2 word title: Good omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

4/5. Charming, touching, and comical, probably the best take on the apocalypse to date. Also excellent ruminations on religion and purpose.

38.) based on a true story: The faithful Spy by John Hendrix

4/5. Brilliantly crafted graphic biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and his assistance in fighting back against Nazi Germany.

39.) Revolving around a puzzle or game: the Crossover by Kwame alexander

4/5. The verse didn't always hit right with me, but the story is a sweet, melancholy one about family, loss, and moving on.

40.) previous popsugar prompt (animal in title): The last unicorn by peter s. Beagle

5/5. Absolutely one of my all-time favorite books, it manages to perfectly combine anachronism and comedy with lyricism, melancholy, and ethereal beauty.

41.) Cli-fi: Tokyo Mew Mew by Mia ikumi and Reiko Yoshida

4/5. Shut up it counts

42.) Choose-your-own-adventure: My Lady's choosing by Kitty curran

3/5. Cute in concept, a bit underwhelming in execution. Honestly, just play an otome.

43.) "Own Voices": Home by Nnedi Okorafor

3/5. The storytelling style was definitely not my style; while the first book was slow, too, it felt more purposeful. I found my attention wandering during this installment.

44.) During the season it's set in: Pumpkinheads by rainbow rowell

3/5. Cute art, but precious little substance.  The concept simply wasn't for me in the first place.

45.) LITRPG: My next life as a villainess: All routes lead to doom! by Hidaka nami

5/5. An absolute insta-fave! Charming art, endearing characters, an incredible premise, and so much sweet wholesome fluff it'll give you cavities.

46.) No chapters: The field guide to dumb birds of north america by matt kracht

3/5. It started out super strong, but the joke started to wear thin at a little past the halfway point.

47.) 2 books with the same title: Unfollow by Megan Phelps-Roger

4/5. A brave and enduring personal story of growing up in and eventually leaving the Westboro Baptist Church. Really called to me to act with grace and kindness even more in the future.

48.) 2 books with the same title: unfollow by rob williams and michael dowling

1/5. How many times do you think we can make Battle Royale again before someone notices

49.) That has inspired a common phrase or idiom: THe Outsiders by S.E. Hinton

4/5. Definitely good and deserves it's praise as something that pretty much revolutionized and created an entire demographic of literature.

50.) Set in an abbey, cloister, Monastery, convent, or vicarage: Murder at the vicarage by agatha christie

3/5. I just cannot. physically keep up with all of these characters or find the energy to read between the lines.

ok that's all i got, what did y'all read and like this year?  (oh god it’s gonna be 2020)

[reverbmod]

Honorable Mentions

Sometimes, art is lost to the sands of time. This post celebrates the writers who are left behind. Please give them your support!

July 2, 2015: That Summer Feeling by earthshines [ ffn ]

July 2, 2015: Hit Me Down Sonny  by thebrightestfell [ ffn / tumblr ]

July 22, 2015: Fleeting  by l0chn3ss [ ffn ]

July 31, 2015: Below  by OblivionTime [ ffn / ao3 / deviantart ]

July 9, 2016: In Perpetuity  by jaaaaks & sandmancircus [ ao3 / ffn ]

July 20, 2016: Live Every Day Like It’s Your Last  by Professor Maka [ ao3 / ffn ]

July 21, 2016: The Dubious Moralities Of A Bloody Pistol  by ilarual [ ffn / ao3 ]

July 24, 2016: Flour Delivery  by soulevansvevo [ ao3 / ffn ]

June 9, 2017: Rise of a Star  by rogha [ ffn ]

June 24, 2018: Wish Upon an Envy  by lavendermatrix [ ao3 ]

July 16, 2018: My Star...  by ADdude [ ffn ]

July 20, 2018: Soul Seeing Alchemist  by ADdude [ ffn ]

Summaries under the cut.

July 2, 2015: That Summer Feeling

by author earthshines [ ffn ]

Prank wars, bug juice, tetherball, and ghost stories -- summer camp is all fun and games until you fall in love for the first time.

July 2, 2015: Hit Me Down Sonny

by author thebrightestfell [ ffn / tumblr ]

Soul Evans expects summer camp to be a boring, stubborn mistake made to outwit his parents. However, when he becomes the nemesis of the cute blonde who runs the girls' side of camp and best friends with the leader of the boys', a prank battle of the sexes breaks out and to the victor goes the bragging rights. But as he starts to develop feelings for the enemy things slightly get out of hand…

July 22, 2015: Fleeting

by author l0chn3ss [ ffn ]

Just like clockwork, Soul has always taken the bus to and from wherever he needs to be. He sits in the back, always keeping to himself, listening to music as he weaves in and out through traffic, unwilling to be bothered by others. Except one. The girl who sat alone, who saw color where he thought there was only monochrome, who brought a touch of life to his dull days, who he wants his music to be touched by the most. The one named Maka.

July 31, 2015: Below

by author OblivionTime [ ffn / ao3 / deviantart ]

It was supposed to be an easy mission. Now Maka and Soul find themselves thousand feet below in a mine searching for the one behind the disappearing of countless of children. The longer they spend in the mine, they dig their own graves inside the depth of the abandoned mine.

July 9, 2016: In Perpetuity

by authors jaaaaks & sandmancircus [ ao3 / ffn ]

1958, New Years Eve. What Maka Albarn was expecting was a night of dancing, champagne, and celebrating with the jazz pianist next door. What she got instead was explosions, riots, and more dead bodies than she'd ever seen on her operating table. In just a few short hours, the researcher's world ended and a began anew -- and now she has to do something, lest she sink, both literally and metaphorically, with Rapture. Bioshock AU

July 20, 2016: Live Every Day Like It’s Your Last

by author Professor Maka [ ao3 / ffn ]

Tsugumi Harudori doesn't know what to do. She'd come to the DWMA to learn to control her weapon form, not to be a hero, but with her teachers and friends encouraging her to join the EAT class, she has a life changing decision ahead of her. All she'd ever wanted was to be normal--can her idol Maka Albarn help her to see that heroes are people, too?

July 21, 2016: The Dubious Moralities Of A Bloody Pistol

by author ilarual [ ffn / ao3 ]

Franken Stein never considered himself much of a detective, but when an old flame comes back into his life begging for his help solving a string of murders, he finds he might just have a talent for crime-solving after all. It's just a shame that all the evidence is pointing straight to his red-headed ex boyfriend...

July 24, 2016: Flour Delivery

by author soulevansvevo [ ao3 / ffn ]

Kim Diehl: resident witch, delivery girl, and unofficial matchmaker of Top Spot Bakery. All in a day's work really. Loosely based on Kiki's Delivery Service.

June 9, 2017: Rise of a Star

by author rogha [ ffn ]

TheatreKid!AU. It's Spring Muse-I-Kal time, and the high school's production of Peter Pan is in need of a Wendy. Unfortunately, Maka doesn't have time for another extracurricular! So what's a desperate lead to do, except make some time for her?

June 24, 2018: Wish Upon an Envy

by author lavendermatrix [ ao3 ]

Soul has a good life: friends, a decent job, a beautiful, loving girlfriend. One Wish can change all of that, though, and it may come with prices he doesn't anticipate.

July 16, 2018: My Star...

by author ADdude [ ffn ]

One quiet night Tsubaki thinks back on her life with Black Star and what he truly means to her. "If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky."

July 20, 2018: Soul Seeing Alchemist

by author ADdude [ ffn ]

Fullmetal Alchemist AU. Maka Albarn is a young alchemist studying under a state alchemist. There she meets Soul, an Ishvalan refugee. She soon stumbles upon a dark experiment that threatens to change their lives forever.

[qvintcssence]

Task || 002 — About the Mun.

01. what’s your name/alias you go by ??

Stephanie, but I go by Steph or S. 

02. what’s your age ??

Well—if Dani’s ancient then I am prehistoric. If you insist on a precise number, I’m 30.  

03. what’s your zodiac sign ??

Aquarius.

04. what’s your ethnicity ??

Dudes, I don’t even know my blood type let alone my heritage. What I do know is that I’m whiter than casper. 

05. what’s your nationality ??

American. 

06. what’s your favorite band and/or musical artist ??

Hahaha, cover your ears, Cody. It’s Taylor Swift. 

07. what’s your dream job ??

My absolute dream job would be writing either as a novelist or showrunner. That said, I’m really passionate about teaching, and can’t wait have a classroom of my own. 

08. what’s one place you would love to visit ??

My favorite city in the world is New York City, but I really want to visit Germany. 

09. what’s your favorite tv show ??

Oh goodness... I’ve seen and loved way too many. If we’re talking ultimates though, I’m going to have to say Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 

10. what’s your favorite movie ??

Remember the Titans. I am a sucker for sports films. I literally cry the whole time because they are just that moving. 

11. what’s your favorite song ?

I don’t really have a favorite. I go through stages of listening to songs on repeat over and over again and then not revisiting them until some time later. Right now that includes “Don’t Throw it Away” by the Jonas Brothers and “Church” by Aly and Aj. 

12. what’s your favorite sport ??

Baseball! I am a huge fan of the Cleveland Indians, though I’ve recently started stanning women’s soccer. How about that Christen Press though? 

13. what’s your favorite food ??

Italian. I’m garbage for pizza and pasta. 

14. what’s your favorite face claim to use ??

Hmmm. A few months ago I would have said Eliza Taylor without a doubt, but I’ve really taken to playing with Tasya Teles and Daniel Sharman as well. 

15. what’s your least favorite face claim ??

I get very uncomfortable when people roleplay with child actors and/or children in general. 

16. what’s your favorite character of yours to play ?? which do you think you’re most like ??

I have been with Rory for several years now, so I definitely feel like I know her the best. She’s very near and dear to my heart, so she’s probably my favorite. I love all my kids though. They’re all so different, and they provide me with such a unique perspective! 

I don’t know if I’m really like any of my muses. If I had to pick one, I’d say Matt because I too cannot speak around girls. Haha I don’t have him anymore though, so maybe Ashton or Jonas. 

17. what’s your sexuality ??

 I’m a lesbian because women 😍

18. what’s the last movie you saw in a cinema/theater ??

Ugh. I feel so set up by this question! I took my niece and nephew to see The Secret Life of Pets 2 today, and it was pretty cute. 

19. what’s the worst injury you’ve ever had ??

The summer before 7th grade, I broke my leg and shattered my growth plate sliding into home plate. I was safe though, and we won the game! Too bad my pain tolerance levels are like zero, and it was the worst pain I’d ever felt. #embarrassing

20. what’s a random or interesting fact about you ??

This is the question I struggled with the most. I’m boring, y’all... I have a baby brain tumor that I call a ‘brain buddy’ because he’s not really doing anything up there but chillin’. Also, I once wrote a feature length Power Rangers Film when I was 12. I still have it! 

21. do you listen to music while you write ??

Sometimes! If I do, it has to be very mellow because I get distracted very easily. If there is a song that really fits the moment or inspired me to write the moment, I’ll listen to it on repeat to keep the vibe. Otherwise, I’ll listen to instrumentals or Sleeping At Last’s album titled “Atlas.” 

22. are you a morning, day, evening, or night writer ??

It all depends on when I have time. I honestly get my best writing done on pen and paper while I’m at work with fewer distractions, but a lot of times, I get inspired at night. I also did a lot of writing while substitute teaching, so it all just depends on if the situation allows for it and how focused I can get myself.  

23. have you ever roleplayed intoxicated ??

Yes, it’s embarrassing. Don’t do it! 

24. what language or languages do you speak ??

I only speak English fluently, but I can read French decently well.

25. how long have you roleplayed ??

I started role playing way back in the days of message forums and MSN chat. It was power rangers, and I was 14 so... 16 years. Damn. 

26. favorite roleplay genre ??

Honestly, genre isn’t important to me. Give me a story worth telling, and I’m in. I just need plot. Everything else will fall into place. 

27. one sound you hate & one you love ??

I fucking hate the sound of metal against metal or metal against teeth. Anything that gets that loud screeching noise is a big no from me. 

I love the sound of heavy rain and thunder storms. 

28. do you believe in ghosts ??

I’m fairly certain that no less than three of my former houses have been haunted, so yes. Yes, I do. 

29. do you believe in aliens ??

Sure, why not? I find it harder to believe that the galaxy exists with only us. 

30. do you believe in true love ??

Yes, I do. I believe in reincarnation, and soulmates, and finding each other in each and every universe. It might not be forever, because bad things happen, but it is a constant. 

31. do you hold grudges ??

Not really. I get all hopped up about something for like 10 minutes and then forget about it. No use staying angry over something you can’t change. 

32. do you have any obsessions right now ??

I’m forever obsessed with Harry Potter, but I’d say I have a few other currents. The 1OO, Women’s Soccer, Cleveland Indians Baseball, and Resident Evil are the ones that come to mind. 

33. do you drive & if so, have you ever been in a crash ??

Double yes. I ran over my fence post backing out of my drive a few years back, and I’ve fallen victim to the icy Ohioan roads a few times. I also side swiped a truck merging into a lane and also pulling into a parking spot, but listen... I’m not that bad of a driver! Not-So-Fun Fact: All three of the weather induced accidents occurred on February 11th—a day before my birthday. 🙃 These also all occurred before I was 25... minus the bad park job. 

34. do you like the smell of gasoline ??

That’s a no. (Dani, that’s gross!)  

35. do you prefer writing fluff, angst, or smut ??

Honestly, I love it all. Not a huge smut writer, just because it feels a little too personal with the person you’re writing with, but I’m not opposed to it as long as everyone is over 18 and comfortable writing it. Angst and fluff get me hook, line, and sinker though. I live for it! 

36. are you in a relationship ??

I WISH.

37. grab the nearest book to you and turn to page 23, what is the 17the line ??

“I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought: “what if this should cost me another?” —The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.

38. put your playlist on shuffle and list the first four songs that pop up:

“Let’s Get Married” by Bleachers, “There for You” by Martin Garrix & Troye Sivan, “Star Maps” by Aly & Aj, and “Maps” by Yeah Yeah Yeahs. 

[searchingwardrobes]

Hope is the Thing With Feathers: 3/4

@hollyethecurious and I started this fic as a gift to @kmomof4 for her birthday. Fittingly, it keeps getting longer because I swear Krystal is a muse disguised as a human being. Story banner created by Hollye as well.

Summary: Emma and her son Henry move to the tiny, quirky town of Hopeful, Maine for a fresh start. Emma isn’t expecting her son to get obsessed with a haunted castle or for her to get involved with the mysterious, handsome man who lives in the cabin behind it. Emma soon discovers that both the castle and the man have secrets that she could never have imagined. For @kmomof4 on her birthday.

Rating: M (yes, I upped the rating. This isn’t smut, but I definitely flirted with the line. All for you, Krystal!)

Words: 2,000 and some change in this chapter

Can also be read on Ao3

Trigger warnings: positive portrayal of past Millian

 Tagging: @artistic-writer @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @bethacaciakay @thislassishooked @teamhook @kday426 @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @let-it-raines @branlovestowrite @shireness-says (for some reason, I have no tag list for this, so I’m flying blind here! Hope I didn’t forget anyone!)

Chapter Three: And On the Strangest Sea

“Get off your ass. You’re taking me on a date.”

Emma Swan bursting through his front door with a demand upon her lips wasn’t how Killian foresaw his evening going. He set the beer he’d been nursing down on the coffee table next to his bowl of evening stew, Emma seemed to take that as Killian not taking her seriously judging by the scowl on her face and the way she fisted her hands on her hips.

“Did you not hear me, Jones?”

Killian lifted both hands in surrender. “I heard you, love, I’m just a bit taken aback by the delivery.”

She shuffled nervously, but the spark of anger remained in her eyes. “Well, I’m here to ask you out, okay. Like to dinner or something.”

Killian arched a brow. “Now?”

“Yes now!” she practically shouted. “So why are you still sitting there?”

He rose from the couch and approached her cautiously. He gave her a flirtatious grin as he fiddled with the ends of her hair. “A man likes to be wooed, love. Why the demand?”

Her brow wrinkled as she searched his face frantically. “Come on, Killian, let’s get out of here and go somewhere.”

“What’s happened, Swan? You were fine when you left here the other day.”

She worried her bottom lip. “Maybe I want to be sure it wasn’t just sex for you. Is it so wrong to ask that you take me out?”

He rubbed her arms up and down. “Of course, but give me time to plan the evening. You can come here tomorrow night, and I’ll serve you the best meal you’ve ever eaten.”

Emma shook her head vehemently, stepping quickly away from his embrace. “No, I want you to take me somewhere.”

He swallowed down the sudden fear that welled up inside and forced himself to smile charmingly. “Perhaps a picnic then, I know the perfect spot -”

“A restaurant,” Emma interrupted firmly, “maybe even a movie.”

He felt the color drain from his face. “I prefer a more intimate setting.”

She stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve done intimate. I want to go out.”

He let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed wearily at his forehead. “Emma, I just don’t like being around people.”

“Bull shit. You are many things, Killian Jones, but a recluse is not one of them. It doesn’t suit your personality.”

“Oh, really,” Killian snapped, stepping into her personal space, “you think you know me so well?”

“Actually, I don’t think I know you at all!”

She shouted the words so loudly, it startled them both into silence. He felt a knife twist in his gut as Emma’s face fell into a mask of hurt.

“Are you a ghost?” she whispered.

His eyes widened. “What I am . . . who I am . . . you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Killian collapsed onto the couch and rested his arms on his knees. He gestured to his dinner. “Ghosts don’t eat, Swan. Do they?”

She eyed him and then his stew as if she might run out the door any second. “No. I guess not.”

“I’m very much alive.” He winked at her in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Or did you not feel that the other day?”

She huffed out a wry laugh. “So why can’t you leave?”

“You’re quite perceptive, Swan. The best way to explain it is . . . I’m cursed.”

Emma blinked, but didn’t move. “That’s what Belle said, but I had a hard time believing it. You’re the pirate. The one who was Milah Gold’s lover.”

“Aye.”

Emma sank onto the couch, shaking her head in disbelief. “But . . . how? Why?”

Killian stood and paced to the window. “Gold cast the spell first, on Milah, after he learned of our dalliance. He knew it was the only way he could keep her. Milah and I truly loved one another, but she also craved freedom. She longed to travel and see the world.”

“No wonder she fell for a pirate.”

Killian turned to see Emma smiling at him. He nodded. “Gold assumed I would sail away and forget her. He didn’t know how deep our feelings ran.”

“But you couldn’t just give up the sea . . . or did you?”

Killian chuckled, rubbing at his jaw. “You sound like Milah. She wouldn’t hear of me giving up my ship.” He stepped closer to Emma and extended his hand. “Come, I’d like to show you something.”

Emma tilted her head skeptically, yet she took his hand anyway. He searched her eyes.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Emma,” he told her sincerely, squeezing her hand.

She nodded. “I trust you.”

*****************************************************

Emma stood in awe, her hair blowing on the wind gusting up from the sea. The sound of waves breaking on the rocky Maine coast was as soothing as the warm sun beating down upon her face. It was like something out of a movie, this jagged cliff with a pristine view of the sea.

“This is one of the farthest boundaries of my curse,” Killian said softly at her side, “and Milah’s before me. She would watch for my ship from this very spot as often as she could, and I likewise would look up to this cliff as we approached Hopeful Harbor.”

His eyes were wistful as they gazed out at the gorgeous view.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Emma breathed out.

“Aye, the sea can be so calming,” he agreed. Then he gave her a wink. “Yet it can also turn volatile on a whim. Like a woman.”

Emma elbowed him, and he gave an exaggerated grunt. “So I take it you found reasons to come back to Hopeful often?”

“Naturally,” Killian agreed, settling down on the quilt he had laid out on the grass. “I wasn’t about to abandon the woman I loved. This was our meeting place.”

“Kind of exposed isn’t it?” Emma asked as she settled down beside him.

He arched a brow. “Makes it sort of thrilling, actually.” He inclined his head towards the tree line. “There was a spot over there in the forest as well, more secluded. We not only made up for lost time with moments of intimacy, we also racked our brains trying to figure out how to break her bloody curse.”

“Belle said you dabbled in magic you didn’t understand.”

He chuckled. “That was an understatement. And those books of her husbands she smuggled out of the manor? They were the very ones the Hopeful parson caught her with that fateful day when everything changed.”

Emma put her hand on his arm gently. “I’m so sorry.”

Killian took her hand, rubbing his fingers over her knuckles. “I don’t know exactly what went wrong. All I know is the curse was transferred to me. And ironically, by freeing Milah, I gave the mob the power to kill her.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Emma took his arm and looped it over her shoulder. He pulled her close against him, pressing his lips to the top of her head. She leaned into him, closing her eyes as she relished the scent of him that enveloped her.

“So you can’t die?” she whispered.

“No,” he sighed, her hair fluttering under his breath, “there was a dark time when I tried to end my miserable existence. To no avail.”

“What about Gold? That had to be some strange karma, his wife’s lover stuck on his property.”

Killian chuckled. “Aye, that was the one silver lining in it, actually. I got my revenge rather spectacularly.”

Emma pulled away, her eyes wide. Not that she was scandalized. In her opinion, Gold got what was coming to him. “What did you do?”

That cocky grin of his filled his face. “I may not be a ghost, Swan, but I do a rather good impression of one. I can haunt people with the best of them. Robert Gold did indeed fall to his death from his third floor balcony, but it wasn’t because he was consumed with grief.”

Emma grinned back. “You didn’t!”

Killian raised both hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t say I pushed the man. Physically, anyway. But mentally? I don’t think he could take my . . . haunting him anymore.”

Emma laughed, shaking her head at his smug expression. Killian lay back on the quilt, crossing one arm under his head and reaching the other out to her. She gladly came to him, settling in the crook of his arm and resting her cheek on his chest.

“How did you . . . live?”

“In the beginning my first mate was my connection to the outside world. He became Captain of my ship, but continued to share a portion of all the spoil. He also brought me provisions. I didn’t spend all my coin, squirreling away as much as I could.”

He fell silent as he ran his fingers through her hair. Emma twisted so she could look up at him. His expression had gone wistful again.

“Then, after Smee,” he continued, “there were others like Belle, like your boy, who had a heart of belief. Each one was a tenuous link to the rest of the world out there.” His jaw clenched and his arm tightened at her waist.

“But eventually they all . . . “ she couldn’t finish the thought.

“Aye,” was all he said. Finally, he looked at her again and flashed her a light-hearted smile. “Then technology advanced by leaps and bounds. Radio, TV, cell phones, the internet. Especially the internet. As time marched on, I withdrew more and more to avoid suspicion.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Until now.”

Emma rolled over, perching her chin on his chest. “It sounds lonely.”

“It was,” he said softly, tracing her jawline with his fingertips, “and I certainly never thought I could love again after losing my Milah,” he swallowed nervously before continuing, “that is until I met you.”

His words made the breath leave Emma’s lungs. Since she didn’t know what to say, she slid forward and pressed her lips to his.

*******************************************************

Killian had been right, there was something thrilling about making love out in the open in broad daylight. Though the sun was now dipping closer to the horizon, and the breeze was a cold gust. Killian had the quilt cocooned around their naked bodies. As she watched the sky turn yellow and red and felt Killian’s hand drawing circles on her back, she couldn’t think of being more content.

“We need to head back,” Killian told her softly, though he made no move to release her.

Emma didn’t move either, running her fingers instead lightly through his chest hair, their breaths rising and falling together. “This project with the manor . . . why is Belle so insistent on it? Won’t it make it harder for you to stay under the radar?”

Killian’s hand stilled on her back, and he cleared his throat nervously. “Belle has this crazy idea that she’s found a way to break my curse.”

“And how is that?”

“Um . . . you, actually.”

Emma sat abruptly, clutching the quilt to her chest. “What?”

Killian sat up too, and Emma tried not to be distracted by the fact that his muscular body was no longer covered.

“You see, the key ingredient in the spell I cast was the crushed wing of a cardinal. A symbol of freedom, or so I thought. And apparently, the other side of that coin is . . . a pure white Swan.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “So this is all about my name?”

Killian shrugged. “Belle thinks maybe it doesn’t have to be a literal Swan. Especially since she sensed a connection between us . . . “

Emma stood abruptly, reaching for her clothes discarded on the grass.

“Emma,” Killian said softly.

“So you what?” she snapped, her hands trembling as she slipped into her underwear. “You seduced me because of my last name? Thinking it might do the trick?”

He leapt up, heedless of his nudity, and reached out for her arm. “No, Emma, of course not. My feelings for you are real. I haven’t felt alive in a hundred years, and then your boy shows up -”

“Don’t bring Henry into this! Or are you interested in him too? Because he’s also a Swan?”

Emma shoved her feet into her boots, trembling all over. She blinked rapidly as she faced him, refusing to let him see her cry. “I trusted you!”

“And you were right to!”

She backed away, both hands up in warning. “I’m leaving, okay. Don’t follow me.”

As she turned away, he whispered, “As you wish.”

[thesinglesjukebox]

LANA DEL REY - THE GREATEST

[7.71]

The discourse is lit...

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Lana Del Rey's embrace of decades-old American culture has always been a window into the present, so it's no surprise that her invocations of rock music and Dennis Wilson's deaths on "The Greatest" are signposts for our own inevitable demise. But even before she concludes the song with ruminations on California wildfires, Hawaii's false missile alert, and the possible necessity of colonizing Mars, you can sense the knowing dread in the midsong guitar solo and her affected vocalizing. She declares that she's "wasted" with poise and romantic longing, stretching the word out into a rallying cry; she intimates that debauchery is not just an expected response to contemporary anxieties, but an empowering action in times of seeming powerlessness. She channels that same depressing spirit in her semi-ironic delivery of the song's most memorable couplet -- "The culture is lit and I had a ball/I guess that I'm burned out after all" -- toying with its dual meaning to succinctly portray how escapism in end times isn't indecent behavior, but a necessary means toward survival and acceptance of one's fate. The sparse guitar strums and piano melodies that close out the song anticipate the somber eventuality that awaits us, but can that be much worse than right now? Worse than a time when "dancing with you" and "doing nothing" can be nostalgic pastimes due to never ending stress? Whatever the case, we'll collectively watch as it happens; it's the "live stream" that Lana hints at in the final line, and it'll be of cinematic proportions: "the greatest loss of them all." [9]

Joshua Copperman: "The culture is lit, and if this is it‚ I had a ball." This line is everything I hate about the aesthetics of this decade, but it IS the aesthetic of this decade, at least the latter half. Apart from rare, usually unintentional exceptions, something about 2010s voice-of-a-generation songs always felt pat, apparently because they had hope. We need songs for an age when everything is so overwhelming and impossible that there's nothing left to do but give up, give in, and bide your time until the flames -- the literal ones or the David Foster Wallace ones -- consume you too. (Who by fire, who by water vapor.) The cool, detached gloominess of "The Greatest" sends the opposite message to the one producer Jack Antonoff sent years ago; I don't want to get better, because there's no time left and no point. Lana was "doing nothing most of all," and that's why she's become the figurehead for this decade's music. Not Gaga. Not Beyonce. Not Lorde. Lana. Lana won the race to the bottom because she was there first; maybe a writer once took her sadness out of context, yet if someone said "I wish I was dead already" today, the response would not rise beyond a shrug of 'mood.' I don't even like this song that much as a song. It's slow and dreary, and that "culture is lit" line sounds hackneyed and pandering in its own way. But it's because of that artificiality that the line feels authentic, which was Lana's whole thing in the first place. Maybe I'm just bitter that she became so important when I wasn't looking. To paraphrase another, equally 2019 line, I hate to see it. Especially when I was so blind the whole time. [7]

Josh Buck: "I miss New York, and I Miss you. Me and my friends, we miss rock and roll." As Lana del Rey laments her Big Apple days, it feels like a lifetime since she was a Brooklyn Baby, singing Lou Reed with her boyfriend's band. She ventured out west to create an entire California fantasia and over a handful of albums, she built a cinematic version of the Golden State that was vibrant and full of endless sun and limitless romantic possibilities; even if it was all tinged with just a dab of noir-ish danger. It was a world as fully realized and teeming with mythology as a great novel. And "The Greatest" is where she watches it all burn down. "I'm facing the greatest loss of them all." California dreams are beautiful, until you have to wake up, so she sparks a cigarette and raises a glass to the ride. But if "The Greatest" is a moment of personal reflection, it's also a celebration. It's a toast to a new Greatest Generation. A generation that created and protested, that fucked and traveled and loved in spite of a planet threatening to burn them alive, and world leaders determined to end things even quicker. It's an anthem for thriving in the face of the apocalypse. It's my favorite single of 2019, and just thinking about it triggers a million competing emotions. If all somehow make it through this moment, we'll have one hell of a story, and a hell of a song to go with it. The culture is lit, but we had a ball. [10]

Michael Hong: A couple of cycles ago, that line probably would have drawn mass scorn from critics, but for now, it may very well be the lyric of the year. Part of that may be attributed to the way the culture has shifted their view on Lana Del Rey, but another part of it is that Lana sounds the most honest she's ever sounded. "The Greatest" is an ominous but sincere reflection of the current state of the world, and Lana no longer seems content with empty depictions of American touchstones. Lines like "I miss New York and I miss the music" still rely on those same symbols, but they now feel like lived experiences rather than empty nostalgic musings. Hell, Lana Del Rey even manages not only to make "me and my friends, we miss rock 'n' roll" work but sound like one of the most profound statements you've ever heard. Lana Del Rey's hushed vocals paired with the gauzy instrumental are quietly disarming, playing out like the cinematic zoom-out at the edge of the apocalypse. And if this is it, those final laments on the outro might be the greatest way to go out. [9]

Alfred Soto: She's not the greatest, nor does she think she's the greatest, so long as she thinks the "culture is lit" and she's "having a ball," whatever that means, but I suspect it means more than the guitar solo. Narcissism as plaint. [7]

Katherine St Asaph: The core Lana Del Rey problem is that she confuses narcotic with dramatic and droning with sweeping. "The Greatest" mitigates those faults a little, but only a little, and only by borrowing some faults from classic rock. The track also smothers what could have been a fine torch song in overproduction -- the culture can't be lit if you snuff it out with a million moles of echo. It shouldn't happen that I felt more genuine things about ghosts and missing things from a perfume newsletter than this. [4]

Ian Mathers: So here's the thing; I originally wrote about and scored this song before the more exhausting parts of the whole Lana Del Rey Conversation that engulfed Music Twitter last week had happened, and I was basically saying, yeah, the conversation is interesting and has some good points but I mostly receive the song outside of it and I just like that song (and generally do, with her singles). But then... it got worse. And between the artist herself showing her ass and all of the assorted takes, the thought of listening to any of LDR's music just got more and more enervating. Some would say it's unfair or incorrect to adjust my opinion of this song, or at least to admit that those events have, in fact, adjusted my opinion of the song. But I'm a guy who wrote a Master's thesis at least partly on the idea that the context around a work of art justifiably changes not only our aesthetic relationship to it but the ontological status of the work of art itself (which is not a physical thing, not even as data). The classical example is finding out, say, a painting is a forgery, but honestly this whole thing is a great example too. Doesn't make me outright dislike "The Greatest", but does legitimately move it from being a real bright spot to a song I enjoy that I need a bit of a break from. [7]

Stephen Eisermann: Hats off to Lana and Jack for really creating an atmosphere of nostalgia that you fall into the second you hit play. Lana's vocal is tender and understated, further reinforcing the sense of longing the track aims to create; but, hearing her sing the word "lit" and the Kanye West reference stand in stark contrast to that moody guitar lick and I... I just can't reconcile the two. [4]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Lana Del Rey is deeply aware of the fickleness of the music industry. On Born to Die, that manifested in her almost-trolling approach -- aggravating, almost-rap cadences, weird production choices, even weirder lyrical ones -- that wormed its way into the pop consciousness. For her middle three albums, she refashioned herself as a thinking person's pop star, working with more respectable (and more male) figures like Dan Aurebach and A$AP Rocky as a way of positioning herself as adjacent to prestige. The music was better but also more boring. Now, with Norman Fucking Rockwell!, she has cashed all the checks that a decade of practice and following the rules of pop earn you. "The Greatest" is a thesis statement for the album's ambition. It's not just the title -- although that is a helpful indicator. It's everything: the classic rock guitars and big drum fills, the nostalgia for doing nothing of the lyrics, the way she sings them. On "The Greatest," Lana sounds done. Not exhausted, but complete, as if she could walk away from this all and not miss a second's worth of sleep. It's a big damn classic rock song that's aware of how bombastic it sounds, and yet its self-awareness does not undercut its narrative and sonic heft. It's the kind of song you can't make without making a lot of worse songs that dance around the same topics. But here, where it really counts? Lana nails it. It's a buzzer-beater of a song, rattling around the rim four times before falling in -- all the sweeter in glory for the bumps on the road before it. It's likely not the last Lana Del Rey single we'll review, but if it is, it's a fitting send-off: in response to all the fickleness of the industry, Lana rewrites her story on her own terms, and makes it sing. [9]

Jackie Powell: Norman Fucking Rockwell started as such a fascinating paradox, but didn't really continue building and evolving on what made its first third so successful. "The Greatest" is lyrically relatable and sonically beautiful. Jack Antonoff, being the wizard that he is, finds a way to wean Lana Del Rey of her noir and whining tendencies. He overdubs her potential for a beautiful vocal pairing it with brighter arrangements. It's pellucid and mellow but not a snoozefest. But its placement on this album really sold the track short. NFR loaded its most compelling tracks at the top of the project. Del Rey placed "The Greatest" after "Fuck it I love you" in a double feature of a music video, which where it should have been placed on the album. In the visual, Del Rey floats around and almost above her surroundings contemplating what's next. The haunting but gorgeously comforting guitar solo brings the listener along with Lana herself back down to earth. Lyrically and through its soft piano, the outro is what gives this song its weight and a sense of profundity. Her cultural references which include Kanye West's physical and emotional transformation and David Bowie's "Life on Mars" allow us to reflect on what we've become. Lana Del Rey does that here and on almost every record. I just wish "The Greatest" was given the proper stage to achieve the status of its moniker. [6]

Joshua Lu: The majority of "The Greatest" feels unbound by time, as Lana Del Rey reuses Extremely American words that apply to the '80s as much as today: Long Beach, New York, the Beach Boys, rock 'n' roll. Only the outro plants the song firmly in the current year -- with mentions of Mars, Kanye, global warming, and that time Hawaii thought it was about to get bombed -- and with this passage of time, these signifiers bring no joy to Lana anymore. Her sprawling sense of nihilism seeps through in her languid voice and the turgid, psychedelic guitar as she laments how her generation's time is ticking away. Tempting as it is, I'm wary to read into this song as some kind of political statement, in part because the epochs that Lana fetishizes were also rather shitty, and also because I think Lana herself wouldn't prefer this reading, as it would play into that "p" word she, erm, has expressed adversity to. Maybe that's the song's trap, that despite how alluring it is to try to ascribe some deeper meaning, it's better to just do what the song does: sit back, observe, and mourn. [8]

Alex Clifton: Lana Del Rey has a beautiful and occasionally overwhelming voice. It's haunting but for me it can be like ingesting too much cake in one sitting -- extremely rich to the point where it feels exhausting to listen to more than one song at a time. Having said that, "The Greatest" is a song that works well with Del Rey's vocals. When the first pre-chorus hits -- "those nights were on fire, we couldn't get higher" -- her breathiness feels less like an affect but sadder and more wistful, the awareness that she'll never be able to get that life back again. It's a grandiose song, strings and languid piano and a chorus of a dozen Lanas sighing "if this is it, I'm signing off," but for once the grandiosity of the production fits the message. My issue with Del Rey's persona back in the Born to Die days was that I couldn't quite make out who she was under all the artifice, flower crowns and American flags. I know that's the appeal of artists like Del Rey, whose entire careers are built off of specific personas (despite what they claim to the contrary), but I don't deal well with facades that are built that tall. Arguments about personas and performativity in music can quickly dissolve into arguments about authenticity and how much that matters to the music, and I want to stress that I don't care about authenticity in the slightest -- I just like the moments where artists aren't invincible but human. In "The Greatest" those walls crumble down and Del Rey revels in her sadness in a way that hits close to the heart. She's vulnerable and mourning over a real love rather than a fantasy, and for once I feel like persona or no, I understand the appeal of Lana Del Rey. [8]

Vikram Joseph: At 2am this morning I found myself in the smoky bedroom of a guy I hadn't met until two hours earlier, half a bottle of red wine deep and still high off the fumes of the MUNA show I'd just been to, discussing the aesthetics of Lana Del Rey's music videos (as a kind of emotional foreplay, I guess?). It struck me that this, right there, was actually a pretty good representation of Lana's aesthetic -- unlikely moments that shimmer at the fringes of reality, a doomed romanticism that bleeds into a laconic, blissful sort of nihilism. There's so much heightened emotion (close to melodrama) in her music, and yet there's a simplicity too in what she craves -- men, bars, California, sun -- that Vice described as a "revolutionary pleasure." It feels like an extremely LDR move to draw a direct parallel between lost love and the end of the actual fucking world, but it's testament to her songwriting, those aesthetics that she's worked so hard on, and the spellbinding, crystalline production on "The Greatest" that she pulls it off so completely. From the opening bars -- dignified piano chords, soft-focus acoustic guitars and cinematic strings -- it feels like an elegy; I can't help but see the crumbling, sunlit edifice of a gorgeous building when I hear this song, especially during that billowing, washed-out guitar solo, or the slow nuclear decay of the outro. "The Greatest" feels like a culmination, and a kind of closure. It's a veteran of an iconic club scene reading the memoirs of her golden years out loud, or the last time two people who once loved each other ever speak, or a beach scene at the end of civilisation. Sonically and aesthetically, it sounds cast adrift in time, and that's why it's so effective. It's the end of the world as we know it -- I don't think Lana feels fine, exactly, but maybe there's a certain comfort in finally knowing for sure that it was all for nothing. [10]

Will Adams: Lana Del Rey made a career writing elegies to American culture, which is what makes "The Greatest" as moving as it is heartbreaking. The patriotism of "American" has turned bitter. The sprawling luxury of "Shades of Cool" has fizzled. The worries expressed in "Coachella -- Woodstock In My Mind" have been realized in twisted, terrifying ways. So it makes sense that, after a few minutes of misty-eyed farewells presented with a smile ("I had a ball"), it all collapses to rubble. The gleaming classic rock evaporates into three descending chords. This, it turns out, is the greatest loss of all. Not rock 'n' roll, not a past lover, not Long Beach, not Kanye West, but everything. In that final minute, the song sinks to the ocean floor, the flaming city fading from view, the monuments and culture blurring into nothing. Del Rey is gone, too, as there's nothing left to say. There is nothing except the brutal end. [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[sartle-blog]

12 Must-Read Novels for Art History Lovers

Maybe you’ve been experiencing “The Agony and the Ecstasy” of trying to figure out what to read next! If so, we’ve got you covered. Go beyond “Girl with a Pearl Earring” and “The Goldfinch” with these incredible novels about art and art history.

Disclaimer:  Some of the links below are amazon affiliate links, meaning that at no additional cost to you, by clicking through and making a purchase of a book you like, you will also be contributing to the growth of Sartle.

1. "The Girl in Hyacinth Blue" by Susan Vreeland

If you loved “Girl with a Pearl Earring,” you’ll fall in love with this book, too. Starting with a troubled math teacher who is quite certain the work he hides in a cabinet at home is a genuine Vermeer, the novel traces the owners of the painting back in time in a series of vignettes that function as a living, breathing provenance. An exploration of the meaningful roles art can play in the lives of those who cherish it, this book is as thoughtful and gentle as the light that falls from the windows in a Vermeer painting.

2. "The Relic Master" by Christopher Buckley

A crime caper steeped in art and history, the story follows one Dismas, the official relic master to Frederick, Elector of Saxony, and Albrecht, the soon-to-be Cardinal of Mainz, in the year 1517, when Luther has shattered faith in the Church and relics themselves begin to be called into question. He and his friend, none other than the preening Albrecht Dürer, get swept up in a scheme to make a copy of the Shroud of Chambery. The novel, like what one imagines 16th century Germany to be like, is earthy, humorous, and occasionally quite brutal. But it’s witty and shameless (“To Hell with Purgatory!”) and a perfect Renaissance romp about the intersections of art, piety, and politics.

3. "The Parable of the Blind" by Gert Hoffmann

A strange and haunting tale that looks at the painting of the same name by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, the novel is told from the perspective of the blind “sitters” for the painting on the day that Bruegel painted them. As they journey across a landscape of unseen people and obstacles, they wonder where they are going, why they are being painted, and why anyone would want to look upon them permanently when people turn their heads away in real life. Riddled with black humor, the novel is a picture of suffering and existential woe à la “Waiting for Godot,” and will linger in your mind long after you read it.

4. "The Muse" by Jessie Burton

Don’t be deceived when the cover calls this book a “Simmering romance” because it’s far more than that; it’s a meditation on artistic integrity and ownership wrapped up in a story of relationships that reads like a thriller. The novel follows two storylines that intertwine masterfully. In one, a Caribbean émigré trying to make her way in 1960s London dreams of becoming a writer but gets a job at a prestigious art institute working for the mysterious Marjorie Quirk. In the other, an English girl living in rural Spain in the 1930s yearns to become an artist and falls under the spell of the countryside and painter-turned-revolutionary Isaac Robles. It’s a vivid tale of love and loss, ego and creativity, that is a marvelous follow-up to her first novel, “The Miniaturist” (which you should also definitely read if you haven’t already!).

5. "Modern Art" by Evelyn Toynton

Inspired by the lives of Lee Krasner and her husband Jackson Pollock, this novel follows Belle Prokoff, an aging artist from the New York School, who has outlived her much more famous husband and spent her last few decades guarding his albeit troubled legacy. As she faces her own mortality and hires a grad student (who is also in love with an artist) as a live-in helper, Prokoff is forced to confront ghosts from her past when a nosy biographer comes sniffing around for dirt on her husband. Adroit and piercing, the novel asks what do you do with yourself after you have poured all of your being into someone else? And what does sacrificing yourself in that way do to you? Toynton tackles themes of suffering and artistic integrity with elegance and wisdom.

6. "The Moon and Sixpence" by W. Somerset Maugham

This classic novel follows a turn of the twentieth century English artist named Charles Strickland who abruptly abandons his family and life as a stockbroker to devote himself entirely to painting. Completely impoverished but in desperate pursuit of beauty, he studies in France and eventually ends up in Tahiti, where his artistic genius flourishes even as he suffers from leprosy. If this sounds reminiscent of the life of Paul Gauguin to you, you would not be mistaken--Somerset Maugham was inspired by the very same, only his version of the artist is by turns both more and less brutal than the real man. The Moon and Sixpence is a prime example of a kunstlerroman, a novel about an artist’s growth, painting the artist-hero as a necessarily anti-social being whose creative side can only flower in isolation and rebellion against social norms. While it’s not a perfectly accurate image of Gauguin’s life, and while the narrator espouses some outdated views about women and people of color, the book raises questions about genius and legacy that are still relevant today.

7. "Sunflowers" by Sheramy Bundrick

If you liked “Loving Vincent” or are just fascinated by the work of Vincent Van Gogh, then this novel is for you. Told from the perspective of the prostitute named Rachel unto whom Vincent famously bestowed part of his mutilated ear, the novel gives life to Vincent’s happy but troubled years in Arles. Many of the people he lovingly painted are presented in the flesh, from his friends like Joseph Roulin to the perfectly nasty Gauguin, whom readers will find reason to hate even more than in the “The Moon and Sixpence.” At its heart the book is a love story, but it’s punctuated by moments of both joyous artistic creation and those of the darkest depths of mental illness.  His romantic self, a side of Vincent we don’t normally see, is explored with great sympathy. Written by an art historian, the novel is convincing and well-researched, and even includes a list of all the paintings referenced in the back.

8. "A Month in the Country" by J. L. Carr

In this slim, poetic volume, a young Englishman recovering from a broken marriage and shell shock after the Great War finds himself spending a summer in a Yorkshire village, where he has been hired to uncover a medieval mural in a church. By night he sleeps in the church’s belfry, and by day he befriends the locals, bonds with another veteran whose been hired to uncover a medieval grave, and falls in love with the Vicar’s wife, all while working steadily at uncovering a medieval judgment scene. Tiny revelations--in the begrimed mural at which he’s chipping away, in his own wounded heart, and in the hearts of those around him--make up the soul of this placid yet powerful book that is a hymn to the healing power of art.

9. "I Always Loved You" by Robin Oliveira

With such a title this book might easily be dismissed as a typical romance, but it is actually a rarer thing: a story about love between two people that may never have been returned by either party. Namely, it chronicles the fraught and querulous relationship between Mary Cassatt and Edgar Degas. Set in a glittering and rain-washed Belle Époque Paris, the novel follows Mary Cassatt as she struggles to establish herself in the art world until Degas takes her under his wing. Her successes and sorrows over the years unfold alongside the drama of Degas’ vision loss and the grief-stricken love affair between fellow impressionists Berthe Morisot and her brother-in-law, Edouard Manet. Aside from being a vivid look at the politics of the Impressionist circle within the Parisian art world, it is also an eloquent tale about the struggle of artistic creation in the face of constant doubt, harsh criticism, and heartache. You can learn more about the puzzling relationship between Cassatt and Degas here.

10. "Portrait of an Unknown Woman" by Vanora Bennett

This novel follows Meg Giggs, the twenty-three-year-old ward of Sir Thomas More, at the eve of the Reformation in England. The More family, which will soon be torn by political, religious, and courtly strife, is visited by Hans Holbein the Younger, who paints their portraits multiple times with an uncanny ability to capture the hidden truths of their hearts. While More’s humanistic ideals become warped by anti-heresy fanaticism even as Henry VIII grows disenchanted with the faith More fiercely protects, Meg finds herself increasingly drawn to the German artist who embodies a more earthy, compassionate form of Humanism. While Bennett occasionally plays fast and loose with history (like the identity of the sitter in Holbein’s portrait of the titular name, for one), overall the book is richly drawn and well-researched. Even better, her descriptions of Holbein’s painting process for such enigmatic works as The Ambassadors is highly compelling. The dangerous times in which he lived, as well as a taste for symbolism in the Tudor world, meant Holbein had to couch the truths he perceived in iconography both subtle and complex, and Bennett illustrates this well.

11. "The Secret Book of Frida Kahlo" by F. G. Haghenbeck

This colorful and spirited novel was inspired by a mysterious notebook found in Frida Kahlo’s house in Mexico City that was full of handwritten recipes the artist had collected over the years. A complex woman, Frida was quite the cook, and this novel explores the prominent place food had in her life, with recipes at the end of each chapter. Throughout the course of Frida’s tumultuous time on Earth, her marriages to Diego Rivera and her affairs with lovers from Georgia O’Keeffe to Leon Trotsky, she is haunted by a vision of death, whom she calls her Godmother, and whom she meets the day she almost dies in a trolley accident as a teenager. In Haghenbeck’s capable hands, Frida’s veneration of the Day of the Dead, her existential feminist fire, and the emotional intensity of her paintings come alive with surreal imagery and the imagined taste of Frida’s fabulous food on the tongue.

12. "I Am Venus: A Novel" by Barbara Mujica

Told from the perspective of the unknown model who posed for what is arguably Velázquez’s most beautiful work, The Rokeby Venus, this novel follows Diego Velázquez’s rise to prominence in the Spanish court. Court life under Philip IV is depicted as a splendid bubble of contradictions: lavish and luxurious yet plagued by bankruptcy, lascivious and self-indulgent, yet clinging to a sober sense morality. Of course, one of the things that tantalizes most in this book is the mysterious production of the Venus painting, painted when feminine nudity on canvas was a punishable offense. However, Mujica also takes special care to chronicle Velázquez’s efforts to elevate art as a gentlemanly endeavor in a country where painters were regarded as mere tradesmen. (Seriously, before him, being an artist in Spain was the WORST.) Furthermore, she gives a voice to the women who surrounded him in his family and social circle, painting a broad picture of Spain itself through their experiences and hardships. This novel is evocative and compelling, and a perfect read for lovers of the Baroque artist.

As Vincent van Gogh once said, "It is with the reading of books the same as with looking at pictures; one must, without doubt, without hesitations, with assurance, admire what is beautiful."  May you discover beauty and joy in all of your reading adventures!

By: Jeannette Baisch Sturman

[loverontheleft]

Next Round’s On Me

AU!Brendon x reader. Inspired by a post from @warmbeebosoftbeebo: (these are excerpts) “where’s the fic at where’s he’s a hairdresser/cosmetologist? (it was what he was gonna do if they didn’t want him to stay in panic/panic didn’t work out)...also stuff like him as a nurse, massage therapist, secretary, waiter/bartender/barista, customer service phone operator, etc. fics where he lives in a shabby bachelor apartment…” Oh my dear, ask and ye shall receive 😍

I know y’all wanted the AU!Brendon in college with the high sex, or RtL 30, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about this.

Word count: 4.9k Warnings: pretty vanilla. Fluffy at times, oral, maybe some mild dirty talk? language, sex with a condom, etc.

-||-

You’ve been sitting at this bar for a solid hour and you’re only drinking water. You check your phone again, hopelessly, and flip it over, screen down, and swear under your breath.

The bartender approaches- again- and looks at you curiously. “You still waiting?” Bless him, he’s got a water pitcher in his hand.

You look at him and shrug. “I don’t think I’m waiting anymore; I think now I’m processing the fact that I’ve been stood up.” He sets the water pitcher down and frowns.

“You?” He’s surprised and you’re not sure what to do with that. “Sorry, it’s just - you seem nice enough and you’re pretty and you don’t give off any crazy vibes...so…” he shrugs, pushing his dark hair back into its elaborate-for-a-bartender coiff. “I just don’t get it. He’s an idiot to not show up. Sorry if that’s too...whatever.” He blushes a little. “I’ll just-“ and he gestures awkwardly behind him and starts to leave.

“No, stay,” you say suddenly and he freezes. “I do want a drink now and I didn’t plan on drinking alone, so let me buy you a drink for being nice. I am a catch and he’s an idiot for standing me up.”

He grins, relaxing into his familiar role and reaching under the bar for two shot glasses. “I’ll drink to that. But this one’s on me.” He quickly rims the shot glasses with lemon juice and sugar, eyes darting to yours to make sure you’re good with a lemon drop and you nod. He quickly mixes the vodka, lemon juice and simple syrup before expertly slicing a lemon into wedges and sugaring the wedges. He slides one across the bar to you and you accept it gratefully. He raises his shot glass, taps it against yours, saying, “to knowing your worth and value,” before the two of you each take the shot.

“Damn,” you say, after sucking on the sugared lemon wedge and watching him suck on his, “that’s the best lemon drop I’ve had. I know it’s not a hard recipe but - damn.” He smiles appreciatively and you can’t quite read his face as he clears the glasses off the bar. There’s a silence and you study him as he sets the glasses in hot soapy water. He’s handsome, you decide, remembering the little thrill that went through you when his lips closed around the lemon wedge. He’s handsome and you don’t want him to leave. The bar is mostly empty anyway; it’s just another couple at the other end of the bar and they’ve been giggling and holding hands, playing with each other’s fingers and kissing for long lengths of time - basically it’s nauseating and you wish they’d just leave. You turn your attention back to him and he meets your gaze steadily. “So,” you say slowly, “tell me about yourself.”

He grins. “Mama said don’t talk to strangers.”

You roll your eyes, laugh a little, and hold out your hand. “Y/n.”

He takes your hand and shakes it playfully. “That’s what I hoped you’d say. Brendon.” His voice is smooth, you realize, and his eyes...well, you might already be drowning in their depths. “And now that we’re not strangers,” he says, “I can tell you about myself, if you still want to know.” He ends with a little uncertainty in his tone, and you smile.

“How fucked up would that be, to introduce myself and then decide I don’t care and just leave?”

He shrugs. “Fair enough. I’m Brendon, and this,” he says as he gestures around himself, “is only temporary. Bigger things on the horizon.” You must look confused and he elaborates. “I’m working here to a, survive in general, and b, pay my tuition at Aveda.” You choke on your water and he looks concerned.

“You’re at Aveda? The beauty school?” When he nods, you look impressed. “Damn...my friend dropped out of Aveda last year. She’s phenomenal and she said the program was too rigorous and she couldn’t handle it. So...you must be really good...like, really fucking good. Incredible, even.”

“I’m trying really hard to look humble right now,” Brendon laughs, “but you’re making it difficult. I’m pretty good, yeah. I’ve got three more months in the program, but my instructor said I could work double-shifts on the training floor, if I wanted, and graduate in less than two. I’m talking a lot, I’m sorry.” He blushes again and you like the flush of color on his neck and cheeks.

“You don’t need to apologize; I asked. Keep talking. I like your voice.” You make a face. “Sorry, that was weird. I just mean-“

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says with a grin. “I’m not sure if I’m going to do the double-shifts, because it’ll probably conflict with band rehearsals. I sing in this band; we’re trying to make something of it I guess,” he explains.

Your eyes rove over him, taking in the hair and the eyes and the lips and the assured, languid, almost sexy, way he carries himself and leans over the bar and meets your eyes. Yeah, you could see him on stage, girls going fucking nuts. Hell, at this point, you might be one of them. “A bartender who sings in a band and is a cosmetologist,” you muse. “I’m impressed. When’s your next show?”

“Almost a cosmetologist,” Brendon corrects good-naturedly. “As for the show...not sure. We’re dealing with a flakey bassist and trying to find a replacement.” You nod, understanding, and he nods his head towards the menu to your left. “You want anything else?”

You hesitate and he reaches under the bar for a notepad. He glances at you, smiles, and scrawls something down before ripping the page off and, with surprising grace (only because you surely would have tripped by now) spins on the spot and holds the paper to the wall before stealing a thumbtack from another sign (he doesn’t seem to care or notice when it flutters to the ground) and stabbing his sign into place. “Nice, pretty girls drink for free when Brendon is on shift,” he says, meeting your eyes. “Bar policy, see?” He gestures behind him at the yellow piece of paper he’s just posted. His exact words are in Sharpie on the wall.

“I bet you do that with every ‘nice, pretty’ girl,” you comment, feeling yourself blush now.

“Nope.” He doesn’t continue, elaborate, or clarify; his eyes still on yours.

Your breath catches in your throat and you believe him. “Well, it was smooth.”

“Don’t give me too much credit, I fully expected it to fail in some way. It was a small miracle that I didn’t fall and bust my ass or stab myself with the thumbtack. So what can I get you?”

“Surprise me,” you decide, shrugging. “I don’t really like rum, dark or light. Vodka and tequila though…” and you grin.

He nods and grabs a short glass and a stainless steel pitcher from the fridge before reaching up and grabbing two bottles and pouring at, what seems to you, total random, but he’s concentrating, so there must be a recipe he’s mentally following. “Voila.” The drink is gorgeous and you tell him this, impressed. “Cranberry screwdriver. Cranberry vodka, orange juice, and Grand Marnier.”

“Top shelf,” you muse, and he nods, winking at you playfully, reminding you to know your worth. “Am I drinking alone?” The question falls breathlessly from your lips and he shakes his head, duplicating the drink quickly. “You won’t get in trouble for this, right?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. So tell me about you.” You both take a long sip from the drink and your eyes go wide.

“That’s so good,” you tell him and he smiles, nodding. “Okay, me...uh...fuck, I don’t know. Give me more specific questions.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.” You pause and laugh. “Which is to say, I’m a waitress who is revising her manuscript of her first novel for the ninth time without having submitted it anywhere.”

Brendon looks impressed. “A writer, huh? What do you write?”

“A little of everything. I’ve been writing for years; contemporary fiction, historical, romance, ghost-written for newspapers and magazines...but my novel is...I guess you’d call it psychological? A psychological thriller? I hope that’s how they describe it, if it ever gets published, at least.”

“You should submit it. Stop revising and submit it.”

You hesitate before considering. “Okay. Okay. Maybe I will.”

“Good.” He takes another long sip of his drink it reminds you of how good it is, prompting you to take another sip as well. “What restaurant do you work at?”

“Jag’s,” you say simply and he laughs a little. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” he says, trying to stop laughing, ”you are so above my pay grade.”

“Hey,” you protest, “It’s not like I own the place or even manage it, I just wait tables.”

“Yeah,” Brendon nods, “and the odds of me ever coming to visit you at work to casually ask to be seated in your section and flirt with you the entire time just plummeted.”

“You’d come flirt with me?”

He blushes and takes another sip. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry. I just get anxious sometimes and things slip out. I shouldn’t have said that, that was so inappropriate; I’m so sor-“

“No,” you assure him, nudging his glass with yours. “I didn’t mind. It was sweet.” He relaxes a little and you smile at him. “Really.”

“So when you’re not waiting on this city’s wealthiest or writing, what do you do?”

You consider. “Well, I love sleeping.” He laughs and you grin. “And...god I’m boring, aren't I? I write and work and sleep and let my friends set me up on blind dates and that’s my life. Damn.”

“What I’m hearing is, if I want to accidentally-on-total-purpose run into you again, I’ll have to find you in bed.” He bites his lower lip and you definitely feel something deep in the pit of your stomach. “Or just hope that another blind date chooses this bar on one of my shifts and bails. Or is sketchy enough that you’d willingly let me steal you away.”

“I’m not letting my friends set me up with anyone else.”

“Good plan. But why were you on a blind date in the first place?” He's leaning forward, elbows on the bar. “Why is there no guy barging in here to yell at me to stop hitting on his girlfriend? You’re smart, funny, nice, and gorgeous. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’ve been promoted from pretty to gorgeous?” He nods and you grin. “An excellent question, one for which I have no answer.” You quip and he shakes his head.

“A travesty.” The couple at the other end of the bar flags him down and he pauses. “I’ll be right back.”

You watch him walk and try to control your thoughts. He’s the gorgeous one, you tell yourself, eyes closing briefly as you remember the lemon wedge between his lips and how he met your eyes when he told you nice, pretty girls drank for free. He’s gorgeous and kind and funny, but he’s also awkward and self-conscious and anxious - you love it. He’s real. He’s not the typical guy, hiding his insecurities or putting on a front. He’s real and you’re definitely attracted to him. He’s closed out the other couple’s tab and they’re leaving. As they pass you, the girl catches your eye and grins. “Get it,” she mouths, giving you a thumbs up. You blush and she winks, turning back to her boyfriend.

“So where were we?” Brendon is back in front of you and he’s thinking. “Ah, yes. It’s a travesty that you don’t have some guy in here, defending your honor.”

“Is it?” You pose the question casually and he pauses. “I don’t think it is.” You glance at him and then down at his lips, not even trying to be subtle.

“Maybe it’s not,” Brendon agrees in a low voice. His eyes match your movements; moving slowly to your lips. He downs the last half of his cranberry screwdriver. “I need another drink. You want one?” You tell him yes and he smiles. “Tequila this time?”

You nod, finishing off your own drink. “Yeah.”

He places the drink in your hand moments later and you sip at the margarita, moaning quietly. “Damn, that’s good.” You check your phone and wince. “It’s getting late. When do you close?”

“It’s a Tuesday,” Brendon answers, glancing at the clock. “So...technically midnight. One more hour.”

“One more hour,” you echo, taking another sip. “This should probably be my last drink then. Will need to sober up to get home.”

“Please,” Brendon scoffs. “I’ll call you an Uber or something.”

“Still,” you argue, “I should cut myself off. After I finish this amazing margarita though…”

-||-

It’s midnight and you reach for your purse. “About that Uber,” you say with a laugh. Brendon grins and nods but you keep talking. “I’m almost sober. But I was thinking…”

Brendon looks at you from over the bar, eyes dark. “I was thinking that I shouldn’t drive. And I was thinking we could share that Uber.” His eyes widen a little and you smile, leaning over the bar. “My roommate is home but…”

“Mine is out of town.” Brendon interrupts you softly, taking the register out and putting it in a safe under the bar and surveying the glasses and soapy water. “Let me just…yeah, no. I’m opening tomorrow. I’ll deal with this then. Let’s go.” He walks around the bar and pulls up the app on his phone and taps at it urgently, eyes flicking from the screen to your face. “They’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Perfect,” you murmur, stepping closer. “I can think of a few ways to kill those five minutes.” Brendon smiles and leans down to kiss you.

Oh thank god, you think, kissing him back fervently. He’s a good kisser. He’s a great kisser, actually, and his hands are sliding down your back. You make an encouraging noise against his lips, tentatively reaching for his hair, purposefully going to the back, to avoid messing up the front. Even though it’ll probably get messed up later...and you push the thought away, focusing on his lips.

He mumbles something against your mouth and you take the opportunity to part your lips. He mimics you and then just when you think you’re about to blackout from euphoria, from his tongue meeting yours, two headlights move over you both and he groans, pulling back regretfully. “Car’s here.” He sees the question in your eyes and grins. “Ten minutes to my place.”

-||-

You’re behaving in the back of this car, but it’s taking all of your control. His hand is laced with yours and he’s rubbing his thumb so soothingly and you’re both just watching each other, longingly, desperately, needily. “Soon,” you mouth, and his head falls back against the headrest, eyes closing as he nods.

After what feels like forever, the car comes to an abrupt halt and Brendon scrambles out of the car and extends his hand to you. “Have a good night,” he calls to the driver as he closes the door. “I’ve got bad news.” He looks at you and you frown. “There’s no elevator.” You blink slowly, processing. “And I live on the third floor.” He points to a stairwell glumly.

“So no making out in the elevator,” you observe and he shakes his head. “And we’re climbing three flights of stairs.” He nods and you grin. “Race you.”

You take off, giggling and Brendon stands still for a moment, watching you in awe. “Oh, you’re on,” he calls, coming after you. You slow down as he comes up behind you on the third floor and grabs your waist, kissing you hard. “Caught you,” he murmurs against your lips. He presses you back against the wall and you arch into the embrace, gripping his shoulders firmly.

“Caught me,” you agree, grinning. “But for the record, I’m letting you win. Mostly because I don’t know which apartment is yours,” you say with a laugh.

“Either way,” Brendon laughs now too, “I win.” He’s kissing you again and fumbling for his keys in his back pocket, making a triumphant noise against your lips when he pulls them out and shoves them into the door to your immediate right. “Inside,” he urges, stepping backwards and you follow, lips still seeking his. You kick the door shut behind you as he pulls you into the living room and you glance around.

“IKEA?” You point at the couch and he nods. “I have the same one in grey,” you say with a grin and he laughs as you shove him down on top of it. “It’s a good couch.”

“It is a good couch,” Brendon agrees, stroking your hips as you straddle him. “But let’s stop talking about my couch.” You laugh and kiss him hard before moving down his neck, nipping and sucking lightly. “Damn,” he groans, and his hips move under you. You smile against his neck and the two of you pull his shirt off.

“Damn,” you echo, taking him in slowly. “You’re gorgeous.” He blushes and you grin, kissing his neck again before pulling back to look at him. You run your fingers down his arm, tracing the tattoos there. “These are lovely.” You lean down to kiss his shoulder and move across his collarbone, pressing warm, soft kisses against him. Your hands move down his chest and you press gently against the flat planes of his stomach, smiling when he inhales sharply. You slide your hand into his jeans and curl your fingers around his erection and he inhales again as you sigh happily. “Been wanting to do this,” you admit, looking up at him longingly. “Will you take these pants off?”

“As if you really have to ask,” Brendon says in a rough voice, arching his hips as his fingers fly to the button on his jeans. He shoves them down and you moan, low in the back of your throat, when his cock springs free.

“You’re gorgeous,” you repeat, leaning in to press your lips to the tip, your eyes moving up to his.

“You don’t have to-“ Brendon protests suddenly, as if he’s just now realizing your intentions. “Thought you’d get- and we’d- Y/n, you don’t have to-“ he’s cut off when you take him deep and he groans, cradling your face in one hand, the other flying to his hair. “Jesus,” he sighs as you lick over his length, your hand squeezing around him in a pulsing manner. “Jesus, that’s good.” You smile faintly and take him in your mouth, making sure to caress the length of him as he slides over your tongue and between your lips. “Your mouth, Jesus, your mouth,” he sighs, and when you look up, the hand fisted in his hair is tugging slightly. “Y/n, your hot, wet mouth, goddamn.” You moan around him and he shudders, eyes wide and locked on yours. “Oh god,” Brendon says sharply after a moment, “you’re-“ and his eyes land between your legs where you’re rubbing with two fingers as you suck noisily at him, whimpering and moaning, like you’re getting off from having him in your mouth - which you kind of are, you realize. He tastes good. “Y/n, you’re-“ he tries again, cutting himself off with a groan. “Jesus, god, you’re gonna make me- and you’re just-“ his back stiffens and he seems to reach some conclusion in his own head and his hips drop, pulling out of your mouth. You make a confused, whimpering noise, and he rolls onto his knees and crawls towards you at the end of his couch.

“You didn’t come,” you protest, and he smiles, his eyes dark. His lips meet yours and you grab his hair, moaning and tugging when his tongue caresses yours. “Wanted to make you come.”

“I like to revel in the prolonged delay,” Brendon murmurs in your ear, his hands moving over you.

“That’s fucking poetry,” you tell him, and he grins, hands slipping up under your shirt and pulling it off. He drops it somewhere on his floor and stares at you hungrily.

“You’re-Jesus,” he sighs and you refrain from making the standard joke. “God, you’re beautiful.” His hands move to cup your breasts through your black lace bra and he launches forward, kissing your neck and moving down to your cleavage, burying his face and licking and sucking and kissing greedily. “Goddamn,” he mumbles, one hand moving to the small of your back and the other going to your jeans. “Y/n, you’re so- and, Jesus, you’re just - soft and smooth and you smell good and oh my god.” You giggle and he unclasps your bra to lick and suck at your nipples, making you moan and arch into his touch. “This is okay?” You nod and he kisses his way down your stomach, tongue circling your navel and you gasp, clutching at his shoulders. He manages to unbutton your jeans and pulls them down, groaning when he takes in the black lace that matches your bra. “You were planning on fucking someone tonight,” he comments, fingers running over your panties. You nod and he kisses your stomach again. “Glad it’s me.”

“Well, not planning,” you gasp, clarifying. “Since I didn’t know the guy. Preparing. Just in case. Better to be ready.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says with a grin. “Best to be prepared. God, you’re gorgeous. You’re something else. How did I get so lucky?” You blush and he gets your jeans all the way down and you kick them off, waiting for him to come back to your mouth. He has other plans though, and he is looking at you longingly as his mouth moves lower and lower until his lower lip is brushing against the hem of your panties. Oh. He watches you as his fingers slip under the sides and he pulls the lacy material away. “Oh fuck,” Brendon sighs, and you try to steady your breathing.

“You don’t have to- I mean- that’s a little intimate for our first time- so you don’t have to-“ You’re stammering and Brendon looks up at you, confused.

“It’s the exact same as you blowing me,” he points out, and you consider this. “Which you did. Besides, this isn’t me returning the favor or doing this because I ‘have to.’ I want to. Can I?” You hesitate and he kisses your thigh. “You can say no and my feelings won’t be hurt.” He grins suddenly. “My pride might be, but my feelings will be fine.”

“If you really want to, you ca-“ but you interrupt yourself with a sharp cry of pleasure as he licks you swiftly. “Jesus god in heaven my god that feels so good,” you groan, and Brendon chuckles, kissing your inner thigh before pulling back and standing up.

“I didn’t change my mind about this,” he tells you. “I’m just taking you to bed.” You nod and he scoops you into his arms, setting off down the hallway. “Good thing you like IKEA furniture,” Brendon comments as he pushes the door open with his foot. “Because my bed is definitely from IKEA. But my mattress isn’t,” he adds. You laugh and he places you on his bed gently, staring at you, naked in his bed, giggling and writhing in your need, reaching for him. “Jesus, I want to be that guy.” You look at him curiously. “That guy coming into bars and telling bartenders and random guys to stop hitting on you. If you’ll let me be.” You smile and nod, bringing his mouth down to yours. His fingers walk down your stomach and pause, making you painfully aware of your wetness. “Yes?” You nod desperately and he smiles, wriggling down the bed to lick at you eagerly again. “Yes,” he repeats as a moan now; it blends with yours and you’re both gasping and swearing as his tongue and fingers bring you close. You can’t believe you almost denied him - yourself- this. He’s so good. He’s moaning and thrusting against the bed as his tongue goes deep; he looks up at you from between your thighs and winks at you. You swear; he licks you more urgently before pulling back, his lips swollen and shining. “You taste...my god, I could get drunk off of you, you taste so good.” His voice is low and smooth, and he’s kissing the inside of your thighs; he’s letting his tongue move over you sloppily, just licking and tasting as his eyes flutter shut blissfully. “Can I make you wait for it too?” He stares up at you from between your legs. The question is soft and his pupils are fully dilated and he’s licking his lips and you might die from lust. But you nod regardless and he crawls up over you and kisses you gently. “I won’t make you wait long, promise.” Still kissing you, he reaches for the bedside table by your head and pulls the drawer open, hand rummaging. “Ha!” It’s a triumphant noise and you kiss him as he plucks the foil square from its box. You take it from him and rip it open, your hand curling around him and rolling the latex into place. “Ready?” His voice is low and you nod, legs spreading wide so he can settle between your thighs. He rocks into you gently and you both moan. “Y/n, you sound so fucking good,” Brendon murmurs in your ear. “So good, moaning for me. And you feel incredible.”

“Brendon,” you whisper, clinging to his back. “Feels so good. So fucking good. Please, please,” you beg, nails raking across his skin. “Please.” You’re not even sure what you’re begging for; he’s thrusting smoothly and steadily - he’s hardly denying you anything. One of his hands is on your hip, keeping you in place for him to work; the other is tangled in your hair at the base of your neck and he’s propped up on that hand’s forearm, murmuring dirty promises in your ear. His hips pick up the tempo and you whimper when he moves his hand from your hip to your thigh. His hand moves further between your legs to tease your clit and you shriek, thighs tightening around his hips. He only nods his encouragement, still breathing hard and whispering filth in your ear, promising to make you come, to make you feel so fucking good. “Rub my clit just a little,” you beg and he obliges immediately. “I’m gonna fucking- oh god, right there.” Your eyes snap open and you’re clinging, clawing, clutching at him desperately as your back arches and your climax rips through you. Your lips part wordlessly and he takes the opportunity to kiss you deeply, tongue rolling over yours. “Yes,” you murmur into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut when you feel him come, despite the condom.

“Oh holy fucking hell,” Brendon whispers in a choked voice before crushing his mouth back over yours, his own climax making his hips rock into you gracelessly, rhythm long gone. “Yes, Y/n, yes, I’m coming for you. You’re making me come, Jesus.” He’s gasping this against your lips and you moan, wrapping both legs around his waist and matching his thrusts with your hips.

As both of your peaks subside, you’re still clinging to each other and he kisses you softly, moving from your lips to your ear, where he nuzzles your skin with his nose and whispers sweet things to you. “So good, so fucking good,” he tells you. You nod wordlessly, urgently. “Best I’ve ever had,” he murmurs against your neck, eyes flicking up to yours.

“Oh hell yeah,” you laugh softly. “Me too, definitely. Jesus Christ, no guy has ever made me come so fast.” He grins and rolls off of you and you curl into his side, stroking his chest idly as you snuggle under his arm. You’re both exhausted, justifiably so, but it feels so right to just hold each other like this, breathing softly and occasionally kissing lazily. “I’m so glad you started this, with that round of lemon drop shots,” you tell him, snuggling in closer. He nods, fatigue evident in his every move. “Relax,” you tell him. “Get some sleep. Next round’s on me.” You wink and he laughs, eyes fluttering shut.

“Please tell me you mean morning sex,” he murmurs with a grin and you nod. His smile widens and he runs a hand down your side, pulling you flush against him. “Then we should get some rest,” he whispers, and you yawn your agreement. He chuckles and pulls the blanket up over both of you. “Goodnight, Y/n. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning.” He kisses you one last time and within moments, you’re both asleep.

Flash fiction sequel