#this is more of a diary entry than poetry

[gwyns-writing]

this should be peaceful

but when i am with them i am closeted

i am quiet

i am silenced

i am hidden

my quirks are suppressed

my personality is censored

my happiness is quickly extinguished

and i love them

and they love me

but not really

they don’t even know me

[cactuseri]

yeah yeah i know richard siken is woefully over-quoted on this site but “there’s a part in the movie where you can see right through the acting, where you can tell that i’m about to burst into tears, right before i burst into tears,” hey what if i walk into traffic. idk why that line rips my heart out every time but it does

[dragongirl642]

heyyy i just read the werewolf shifter hc! it’s great, along with all your others. do you think you could do donna and alcina reaction to a s/o who is very tall (like 7’6”) and is a bigger person. but can cook really well? keep up the great work! <3

Thank you Glad you like my headcanons...here's some more 😎👌

Alcina Dimitrescu

She thinks you are a god/dess. Something divine, a gift plucked from the heavens that she is eternally grateful for.

She likes the warm feeling in her chest that blooms whenever you cuddle on a couch together or she sees you getting along with her daughters.

You're just so soft, and kind, and strong, and tall, and smart, and funny, and beautiful, and talented, and...she will wax lyrical about you in her diary.

If you're a woman, her earlier entries will be plans to drain "the new maid", which then slowly morph into poetry.

If you're a man, her earlier entries will be filled with shock and anger over the "useless butler", which then slowly morph into notes on what her "filthy but cute manthing" surprised her with today.

If you have any insecurities about your body or your appearance, she will loudly proclaim how ridiculous your insecurities are and love-bomb you. She may even read you some of the poetry in her diary about you.

She appreciates your height and strength.

Will shamelessly ogle you when you're doing any chores or heavy lifting.

However, she will avert her eyes and make a comment about "decent attire" if you wear any sort of crop top or tank top and shorts while completing said chores/heavy lifting. (She is secretly swooning.)

When you're anniversary was coming up, you scoured the town and castle to find recipe books and experiment with making vampirism-friendly meals.

Black pudding, blood soup, roasted bone marrow and other organ meat meals.

Alcina won't admit it, but she almost cried when you presented her with your one-year anniversary meal surprise.

She always talks (brags) about your cooking skills with the other Lords.

She will "suggest" you write all the recipes down and "helpfully" leave the necessary materials lying around in places you frequent. She wants to have something to remember you by.

Alcina doesn't want you dead. But she knows the village (and her castle) is full of dangers. Mother Miranda. Feral lycans. Her own daughters (who don't try and eat you only because you feed them and Alcina has firmly, sternly, told them not to touch you).

Once she loves you, she lives with the knowledge she will one day lose you and secretly fears losing you earlier than the end of your natural lifespan.

The Lords will feel like they know you before they meet you.

Heisenberg will make sarcastic comments about how Alcina has lost brain cells since meeting you, but he's secretly overjoyed that Alcina keeps derailing meetings to talk about you.

Some of them (cough Mother Miranda cough) don't like the effect you have on Alcina.

If it got to the point when she had to choose between you or Mother Miranda she's not sure who she would choose.

If it's in the first two years of your relationship, she may choose Mother Miranda while internally crying over the loss. If it's after the first two years (especially after five years) she will choose you, prepare for her battling for you in her mutated form (also, she may even put aside her hate and join Heisenberg's revolution plan for you).

Donna Beneviento

You'd better hope you don't have pediophobia (fear of dolls).

Will climb you like a tree. (just kidding 😅)

But seriously, you picked her up one time (probably to, like, make sure her dress didn't get wet in a puddle or because she tripped and you caught her by sweeping her up into your arms) and she felt so safe and secure and at home in your arms that now she just wants to live in them.

Angie will also try to climb you to get a height advantage by sitting on your shoulders. She feels safe up there. Not to mention she can swear at people without fearing reproach (until you pluck her off and put her back on the ground that is).

Angie acts like Donna's subconscious without a filter and will blurt out compliments or make comments about how cool you are in meetings. She also loves nicknames.

If you're a woman, prepare to be called "Sugar Babe" and "Amazonian hottie."

If you're a man, prepare to be called "Captain Cutie" and "Mister Hunk".

No matter your gender, she may make a plush doll of you for herself.

If you have any insecurities about your body or appearance, she will use the doll to point out all the things she loves about your appearance and basically love-bomb you every day until you're brainwashed and can't remember why you were sad.

Evening cuddles are mandatory. Donna loves your cuddles.

Beware, Angie will want in on any cuddles.

A few of the other dolls might want in too, but they will just be waiting in the background sending you hopeful looks. If you aren't pediophobic (scared of dolls) and tell Donna group cuddles are okay, prepare to be swamped in multiple wooden dolls wrapped in wool and ruffles.

Donna thanks her veil every day for hiding the fact that she is shamelessly ogling you when you're doing any heavy lifting or chores around the manor.

With enough compliments and support, she will feel comfortable removing the veil around you. (Although she will hastily put it back on to hide her blushing).

She absolutely loves your cooking. I repeat, Donna LOVES your cooking.

Before you moved in, three warm home-cooked meals a day were a rarity.

If you write the recipes down, she will learn to bind books just to handmake you a book to put them in.

Tea parties are a regular occurrence in the Beneviento Manor.

You make the food and Donna makes the guests (literally).

Please, please, please let her make you an outfit for the tea party.

Actually, she will want to make all of your clothes. Prepare to be the main model, muse, and customer of the Donna Boutique.

You are Donna's favourite doll.

She thinks you're the most gorgeous person she's ever met. prepare to be given so many tailored clothes.

Coincidently, you also have a set of doll helpers/bodyguards Donna gifted you. They're little butler dolls, who's job is to follow and protect you from Mother Miranda under the disguise of being your little helpers. You can throw/launch them at anything that threatens you, they love it.

Speaking off, Mother Miranda does not like the effect you have on Donna. She will plot to kill you.

If she gets scared enough, Donna may go to Heisenberg and ask for help creating a weaponised soldier doll for you, (which is really just a terrifying amalgamation of a lifesize soldat and a doll in ruffles).

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

Do they keep a diary/a journal?

Mal - yes, actually. But no gross feelings stuff, ew. Just drawings. ...Of various levels of "disturbing". (Peak being begining of D2, of course)

Jay - nah. Better stuff to do. Also lowkey paranoid it'll be stolen.

Evie - yes, technically, multiple. She keeps one journal to jot down what was when done to any potions she's brewing (the correct scientific procedure), her fashion one, of course, for whatever designs she dreams of, and lastly, one to note down orders and payments for her shop.

Carlos - nah. He's got a collection of loose papers with important and "important" info on them. His cousins still keep finding them in Hell Hall. Jay has to move them from his parts of the room regularly. Mal found papers stuck in between her journal.

Uma - no. WAY more important shit to do, and she finds it way too sentimental. She keeps records of stuff important for the running of her crew, but doesn't consider it a journal, rather a public record.

Harry - yes. To the surprise if absolutely no one, the thing he writes most about is Uma. There are several original songs and poems for her as well. He wouldn't mind if she found it.

Gil - I wanna say yes, he tries. He's not very consistent though. The only thing he writes about is his friends and crewmates – he accidentally puts it down in the common space of the ship often, and most of the crewmates picked it up once. Cos, y'know. You see, you take. If they read it, they began blushing furiously under the excited "My friends are SO cool" Gil wrote and gave it back to him without a word.

Claudine - once she stops living with her father, yes, though it took some convincing. She doesn't write regularly, though, because she just doesn't know what to write, and is afraid of putting her thoughts on the paper. Later, she writes poems in letters so small it's illegible, since poetry masks the true self a bit.

Harriet - yes. She writes regularly, though not a lot of feelings stuff. She writes poems and vague stories draws whatever comes to her mind (mostly abstract stuff) and keeps it tightly locked up in her cabin, since that shit is DARK. Smee twins accidentally found it once and Sammy kept complaining they were afraid of her drawings for two weeks straight.

CJ - ...she tries to. It never lasts more than two days in row. But she adds new disjointed entry every time she's reminded that her older siblings do so. It's actually extremely disturbing in different way than Harriet's since she has ZERO ability to self-censor.

Freddie - two. One for music and one for dreams and card readings.

Celia - one. Dreams and Cards and Friends on the other side. Though, technically, both sisters share another one, written in cryptic code and abbreviations and moved from place to place with regularity but without a set schedule. This one is about secrets of the Isle residents, the ones they bother or dare to write down.

Dizzy - I wanna say yes, actual diary, feelings and all. To utter exasperation of all her older relatives.

Anthony - no, keeping tabs on the salon is enough, thank you.

Dulcia - look, my girl deserves a Burn Book.

Ginny - not really. If she absolutely NEEDS something noted down, she tells Anthony. Exception being medical notes at the Escape but she delegates paperwork away any time she can. Also, I feel like her handwriting is borderline illegible to anyone but her and the three people she shares mental disturbances with (Maddy, Anthony, Harriet)

Maddy - she keeps tabs on the Apothecary and like Evie, writes down the shit she's synthetising. It's only correct to do.

Ivy - Yeah she gets a burn book too. She deserves it <3. It's in one notebook with scraps from fashion magasines and and some kaligrams. (Again, that's a form of self-censure. Can't read it, so it isn't there.)

I think I ran out of Isle kids, so AKs (all regarding a diary):

Audrey - canonically she does, I have nothing else to add.

Ben - he tries to, but he doesn't manage to write regularly, what with being a CHILD KING and all. It's healthy for him tho. Took the habit from his mother.

Chad - I refuse to believe this boy has a diary. He views it as "useless" and "too feminine".

Jane - yes, actual diary full of feelings. Starting each entry with "dear diary". She locks it religiously though, since her mother can and will read it if give an oppurtunity to.

Ally - yes and frankly it should be studied and/or published (with different names for the sake of privacy, but i'd pay a lot to read a diary of Ally Liddel of Wonderland)

Lonnie - ...no. she tried to, few times, but never quite managed more than few entries in a row. She doesn't particularly like sitting still, and fancies the thought of someone actually reading what she thinks about certain stuff even less.

Jordan - ...she uses her blogs and vlogs as a diary. The more private ones. Not her Drama Channel.

[hrrtshape]

things i love in my FAME DR

⋆  drinking champagne on a random tuesday just because i can.

⋆  driving a vintage convertible with the top down in LA traffic, blasting my own songs.

⋆  being so known that people quote my lyrics like poetry on social media.

⋆  the absolute artistry in my vogue italia cover shoots.

⋆  randomly flying to paris…or milan…..or berlin for a dior, miu miu…HERMESSSS fitting—because, duh, i’m their muse.

⋆  seeing my movies being studied in film schools like they’re modern classics.

⋆  sneaking a cigarette on the balcony at the oscars after winning.

⋆  walking barefoot backstage because my heels were killing me.

⋆  getting unhinged fan edits that make me cry and scream at the same time.

⋆  performing at coachella while visibly high off my rocker—and nobody caring.

⋆  writing songs that feel like therapy for me and my fans.

⋆  tom blyth. 

⋆  always having a stash of…uhm….special powder in my gucci clutch—classy, chic, unhinged. very 50s star.

⋆  wearing vintage chanel on grocery runs just to feel extra.

⋆  posing dramatically on yachts during european summers.

⋆  owning a gallery-worthy art collection in my mansion.

⋆  crying during interviews and still getting called “so brave and real.”

⋆  that iconic met gala moment when i wore THAT dress everyone still talks about.

⋆  my diary entries being turned into art—fans eat it up.

⋆  tripping on red carpets and making it fashion.

⋆  messy nights in ibiza.

⋆  doing photo shoots with baby animals just because it’s cute.

⋆  dressing like a modern marie antoinette for a themed gala.

⋆  fans tattooing my lyrics on their skin—forever.

⋆  spending a whole weekend at a spa retreat just to recover from partying.

⋆  hosting insane house parties where EVERYONE shows up.

⋆  scandals.

⋆  being so unapologetically messy that it’s endearing to the public.

⋆  being a walking contradiction—diva but down-to-earth.

⋆  leaving paparazzi photos with my mascara smudged everywhere—aesthetic.

⋆  showing up late to events but making an entrance.

⋆  my hair being an absolute serve 24/7, even messy buns.

⋆  touring the world, performing while fans scream every lyric back at me.

⋆  married men.

⋆  the unshakable LOVE from my fans, who see me for all my messy, beautiful, insane glory.

⋆ accidentally causing global trends—like wearing a mismatched outfit and suddenly it’s high fashion.

⋆  randomly disappearing from social media for weeks and sending fans into a frenzy.

⋆  posting cryptic captions that spark 10,000 conspiracy theories.

⋆  photographers constantly snapping candid pics of me reading some obscure classic novel in public. book club incoming ???

⋆  wearing diamonds that literally weigh more than my head. hell yea.

⋆  constantly being compared to old hollywood icons like elizabeth taylor, but with a “modern tragic edge.”

⋆  writing poetry on napkins during nights out.

⋆  sneaking into museums after-hours because art IS just better without people around.

⋆  my team dragging me out of the club because i have a press interview in six hours.

⋆  my, my, my, my!!! name constantly being whispered on red carpets—“she’s here.”

⋆  dilfs, part 2. did i stutter?

⋆  fans screaming louder for me than anyone else at film premieres. i’m a bit of an attention whore if u haven’t decoded that already😔

⋆  causing heated debates over my most “controversial” songs (when I’m just vibing).

⋆  dropping albums with no promo, knowing it’ll still hit #1 in 47 countries. attention whore part 2.

⋆  literally JUST EXISTING and still being considered the cultural moment.

[the-orange-solace]

Somethiing that allows us to heal as a system is writing interactions that happen in headspace or place into words what we're doing as individual people and how that affects others

It's similar to a diary, which we also have, but more narrative

Here's an example from one of our recent entries that embody the two types pretty well:

“You haven’t eaten. The body is fatigued.”  Silence.  “Bakugo threatens to force feed you,” Shadow continues, arms crossed naturally upon his chest, the white puffs of his fur hugging the limbs, thick and fluffy for the winter.  Atreus senses remnants of adoration and affection from afar regarding the change in look. They smile softly at another’s emotions as their own spike of anxiety burns the back of the reincarnate’s throat. “There isn’t anything he can make right now.”  “There is plenty,” Shadow reasons, images of ramen, eggs and seasonings appearing in their mind's eye. 

Guilt washes over Atreus, their eyes boring holes into the circular wooden table before them, Shadow watching them intently as images flicker of well cooked meals, soups and rice before they promptly disappear. Shadow says nothing about the quick closing of their imagery-based communication, an action much too common much to everyone’s chagrin when interacting with their Warden about anything regarding themselves.  Though, it frankly makes reading them easier at times. It was all pattern and recognition, the endless repeating tells. The lack of their bird-like features, hidden away so no one could gaze at their uncared for state, their lack of eye contact and words easily testaments to bubbling shame, guilt, and fear, tense body ridged from unease, frustration and stress.  It wasn’t new, unfortunately. But the light banter and response meant it wasn’t as bad as it could be. Such times usually meant that no one could reach them, find them. Headspace and their abilities intertwined more tightly than Atreus would ever admit outloud, shielding everyone from them while continuing to bare everyone else's' existences.  They didn’t seem to know it consciously either, only adding to the struggles to reach the avian, though never entirely fruitless. Atreus was quick to ease others, even if it meant taking care of themselves to pleasing someone else, to place less of themselves on others shoulders. 

Usually, placing interactions, events, feelings, and our thoughts into words like this (if not poetry for some of us) helps build stronger connections with each other and understand one another much more intimately

A lot gets lost in our brain, but when it's solidified into something like this, it is much less likely to escape our memory or be brushed off

Perhaps this can help someone else or another system?

[thottyimagines]

Who in Naruto would stand on business and not text their ex or situationship back and who actually would

ABSOLUTELY texting their ex:

Naruto, which is canon, I think. I've little knowledge of Boruto, but I'm pretty sure he and Sasuke exchange carrier pigeons, like, all the time. Naruto would text an ex without any prompting, let alone texting them back.

Sakura has shockingly little self-esteem or respect or dignity when it comes to romance, and she's more than willing to entertain anyone interested in her who isn't a total uggo (re: Rock Lee and any other not-conventionally attractive suitor).

Deidara has no concept of boundaries or closure. He thinks he can just keep sending a stream of consciousness. If his ex ever texts him first, he's going to town on the diary entries sort of texts. He's opening his notes app and copying and pasting all the weird poetry he's been writing since the break up.

Sasuke, but ONLY if it's Naruto.

Kakashi wouldn't text an ex back, but if he got a text, he'd show up in person and just...see what happens.

Choji wouldn't know how to not text back, because he'd feel mean, given their shared history. It's anyone's guess as to whether or not he still has romantic intentions.

Rock Lee is texting back with pleasure. A splendid new friend out of the ruins of romance has emerged!

Hashirama and Madara. Just...just look at them.

Jiraiya, in hopes of a booty call coming out of it.

Tempted, but should pull through:

Ino would love to text back just for the drama, but has a healthy amount of self-respect. If there's no reason to reconcile, there's no reason for her to talk, she can sadly admit.

Hinata would, ordinarily, want to text back, but she might just get too stressed and her teammates could find her in time to rebuke the ex's efforts.

Similarly, Itachi has poetry at the ready to send through, but Kisame might just eat his phone to prevent the Young Adult Meltdown that would ensue.

Hidan, if his feeling are well and truly hurt enough, wouldn't text back. But...well, he might show up to their location and give Jashin a real good day.

Kurenai went years without Asuma showing his face, whilst he was running around defying his father, so she should be fine ignoring the siren song of an ex text. But then...

Oh, Neji has paragraphs upon paragraphs to send living right there in his notes app, but he shan't. He won't. He'll just send them rancid vibes whenever they encounter one another in public for life.

Not texting back:

Shikamaru hasn't the energy to entertain this. Things ended for a reason, and he shan't make himself miserable doing a back and forth in the aftermath. Blocked.

Kiba's sister won't let him text his exes back. She blocks them on his phone as soon as the break up happens. Kiba has no idea they tried to reach out.

Asuma has no interest in texting unless it's for a booty call.

Gaara is too afraid of his wounded pride unleashing the monster within, so he doesn't entertain highly emotional interactions like this.

Kakuzu is straight up tracing the text back to his ex and turning them in for bounty, no matter how meager it is.

Shino agonizes over it, but he prevails.

Tenten talks it over with Neji, who just beats up her ex for her instead.

Genma has deleted their number as soon as they stopped hooking up. Who dis?

[the-guilty-writer]

I'd Better Ask Emily

Request from anon: Hear me out😅 Spencer Reid x daughter!reader where the reader is a lesbian but is to scared to tell Spencer and Spencer someone find out by accidentally reading her diary or something?

Spencer Reid x daughter!reader

Summary: When Spencer goes looking for your school notebook and accidentally reads your diary instead he goes to the BAU bisexual badass for help.

A/N: I really wanted to do this justice so there's angst and fluff and bisexual Emily Prentiss because she had more chemistry with women than any male love interest. I’m also a sucker for Reid and Prentiss friendship so there is a good chunk of it in here.

CW: reader is gay, Emily is bi, let’s be honest everyone on the team is a little fruity, suggestions that Emily wasn’t supported, coming out of the closet, reader goes to social justice march.

---

“And my math homework is on the table for you to check over!” It was a Friday morning and you were in a rush to get out the door. There was a social justice march beginning at the national mall in half an hour and your AP government teacher had convinced the principal to cancel classes so every student could participate. Plus you were getting extra credit.

“What about your reading summaries?” Your dad asked you. Spencer always proof-read your graded assignments, per your request. It helped to have his genius input, though sometimes you wondered if he went easy on you. Since you were a child, you’d never made a craft or drew a picture or wrote something that your dad didn’t love.

“In my notebook on my desk,” you said hastily. “Bye, love you!”

“Love you too. Don’t get-” The door slammed shut. Spencer sighed. “Arrested.”

He made his way to your room. For the most part you were tidy, but your desk was a mess. Colored pens and highlighters, loose leaf paper with to-do lists, a stack of books that was falling over onto the jumbled surface. Spencer began to sift through the clutter, fixing the stack of books, putting your writing utensils in a pile, looking around for your notebook- but of course you hadn’t clarified which notebook. By the time he was done sorting through the mess there were five of them total. He began to read through them, trying to identify which one you wrote your reading summaries in.

It was down to the last two. Spencer grabbed the next one in the stack and opened to a random page:

I’ve never been one for poetry, but I find myself wanting to write verses on how her eyes crinkle when she laughs and the way her hips sway as she walks.

That sounded English-y and promising. Spencer kept reading.

I imagine her skin is soft, like velveteen, and her hair like expensive silk. The smell of her perfume is that of vanilla and honey; it reminds me of summer.

The sound of her voice is like a siren’s music. When she calls my name I can’t help but get up from my spot in the cafeteria and-

Wait.

There weren’t cafeterias in the book you were reading for school.

Spencer read the passage back again and again. He couldn’t help himself- he flipped to the front page to start from the beginning and finished reading the entirety of your diary in two minutes. There were entries spanning over two years, but one thing stuck out to Spencer more than anything else:

You talked about girls.

You talked liking girls.

Of course the diary contained passages on other things, like the day you visited your dream school and a cute dog you had met at the park… but you were dreaming of cute girls. And you never told him.

Spencer closed the diary and put it on your desk. His only thought: I’d better ask Emily about this.

---

Emily added a small amount of creamer to her coffee and went to sit down at her desk, highly regretting that she’d put her paperwork until the last minute again. The stack of files on her desk was beginning to rival Hotch’s, and that was not a competition she wanted to win. She sat down at her desk and opened up a file, pen in hand ready to go when-

“Um, hey Emily. Can I ask you something?”

If it was anyone but Spencer, she probably would have told them to ask her during the lunch break she wasn’t going to take, but there was a hesitancy in his voice that made her stop. Emily knew she looked like she might bite someone if they bothered her- Morgan had already gotten a taste of her mood that morning- but Spencer never seemed to notice when her annoyance rose to the surface. If he was uncomfortable it was because he had his own problem. He needed her help.

And she needed his speed reading to get through all the files on her desk.

“Morning, Reid,” she said, her annoyance turning to concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Well, I- uh- I kind of saw something I shouldn’t have this morning and I wanted to ask you about it.” He rubbed his neck nervously.

Emily tried to keep a straight face as she thought of every embarrassing teenage incident captured on video or sin-to-win photograph that could possibly be out there for Spencer to come across.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her voice wavering ever so slightly.

“You like women romantically, right?”

Okay… that didn’t rule out embarrassing adolescent mistakes or weekends in Atlantic City.

“Yes.”

“Because I accidentally read (Y/N)’s diary this morning and she writes a lot about being attracted to girls but she hasn’t told me yet and-”

“You read your daughter’s diary?!” Emily wasn’t sure if she was more shocked that Reid would do such a thing, or relieved that her privacy was still intact. “Reid-”

“It was an accident!” he said. “I was looking for her reading summaries for school and she told me it was in the notebook on her desk and then I just saw it…”

Emily hoped the devastation on Spencer’s face was for the right reasons.

“Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

Yeah… it was for the right reasons.

Emily sighed, leaning her elbows on her desk. “I’m sure that you demonstrate your open-mindedness at home-”

“I do.”

“And I’m sure you tell (Y/N) that you love her no matter what-”

“All the time.”

“But that doesn’t make it any less scary.”

Spencer didn’t respond.

“Coming out isn’t easy. No matter how sure you are that you will be accepted there’s always a little bit of doubt. There’s always the fear that it’ll change the fundamental way a person loves you and that you’ll never treat them the same.” Emily pushed away memories- memories filled with pain and relief and anxiety and frustration. The only thing that eased the thoughts were that she knew you wouldn’t have to go through what she did; not with Spencer as your dad. “She’s probably feeling really afraid, even if she doesn’t show it.”

“How can I make it better?”

Spencer’s genuine love for you- a love that every child should get to experience- made Emily feel as though she was falling apart and being put back together again all at the same time.

“Just let her know you love her,” Emily said. “A little goes a long way.”

---

As you walked up to the door of the apartment you felt like you were floating on cloud nine; for two years you had been crushing on this girl you shared classes with. You knew she was openly and unapologetically gay- making it a point to post pictures of herself on social media with pride flags and holding hands with her now ex-girlfriend. They had broken up about eight months ago and ever since then you’d hope that she would notice you. For three months the two of you had hung out in group settings- getting to know one another with other people there as a buffer- but you’d gathered your courage today to ask her out on a date. And she said yes.

“So I guess the march was good?”

You were so distracted from the events of the day you hadn’t even noticed your dad was home.

“Oh, yeah,” you said, startled. “It was good. Really good. Lots of… social justice and things.” You cursed yourself for not having a better answer. You should have been good at faking feelings and answers by now, having been raised by a profiler. Even then, Spencer always saw right through you.

The high you were on came crashing down- your dad always saw right through you. There was no way you could go on a date, let alone your first date, without him catching on. Discomfort grappled with your stomach and anxiety bubbled in your chest. You tried to reach for the courage you had earlier, but it was gone.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Your dad walked over and put a gentle hand on your arm.

“Uh-” You swallowed. “Yeah- yeah, I’m fine.”

Your dad suddenly looked weary. It was the same look when he told you he was going to miss your tenth birthday because of a case, or when he got a call that your grandmother’s medication wasn’t working as well as they had hoped.

“(Y/N),” he started. “I love you. I really hope you know that. And I’m glad you had a good day.”

“I love you too, dad,” you said, waiting for him to break bad news. But it didn’t come. He just gave you his awkward tight-lipped smile before tucking your hair behind your ear and turning away.

There was something about the gesture and the words that called the courage back to you. Well, some of the courage.

“I’m going on a date,” you blurted. Spencer turned back to you. You tried to look for clues on his face or in his body language that would tell you what he was thinking or feeling, but you were too caught up in your own head to make sense of any of it. “I asked someone out on a date and they said yes.”

Your father smiled wide. “That’s great, honey! Is it anyone I know?”

“Oh- um-” Spencer didn’t know many of your friends in person, but he knew them from what you told him, and what Garcia could dig up on them. “Yeah. They’re in some of my classes.”

You waited for your dad to call you out on the vagueness of your language, but he didn’t. He only continued to smile and encourage you to go on- is it a study date or a real date? Real date. Weekend or after school? Weekend. Are you taking the metro or do you want him to drive you? Actually it was a walkable distance.

The more you talked, the more excited you got. You were still careful to control your language, but the bravery was beginning to grow. You thought about taking a deep breath, but you didn’t. Instead you just said, “And she’s a girl.”

The world stilled for just a moment- your heart which was beating fast with excitement was now racing with panic. Your stomach was in knots and you felt your hands begin to shake. “I’m gay, dad.”

Spencer placed a gentle hand over yours, stopping it from quivering. The look in his eyes couldn’t be described as happy, but it wasn’t sad. No… it was peace. It was content.

“I know,” he said.

“You- you do?” The weight began to lift off your shoulders, but it was replaced by a bit of shock.

“Yes.” Spencer smiled. “Next time you should clarify which of your notebooks you wrote your assignments in.” Both of you chuckled, and you felt your body unwind as tension left your muscles. “And if it’s any consolation, I think your poetry is great.”

You smiled. “You always love everything I write.”

Your dad pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Because I love you.”

There was no more tension now- no more fear and no more doubt- just you and your dad being excited about your first big crush and your first big date. And it didn’t matter that it was with a girl. Spencer would always love you no matter what.

"So," he said. "What are you going to wear?"

You thought about the clothes you had, but none of your outfits seemed just right.

"I think I might go shopping for something new," you said.

Spencer smiled. You had a shopping buddy- the same one since you were little.

"So I guess I'd better ask Emily."

[soracities]

Hey i hope your day is peaceful 💗

I have been thinking about writing and poetry lately and i wonder if all poetry out there or most of the writings are from the writer's personal experience and suffering/pain/joy i mean do u think some writers just write (aside from fiction stories ofc) about a thing they don't truly feel it resembles them or they haven't gone through (or not going through) but they heard about it or liked the idea of it so they write about it?

In general, I do, but I also think it really depends on the poet, the subject and the poem itself. A lot of the time though, I think it's probably a mix of both. Keats had this thing he called "negative capability" which, if I remember correctly, is about a poet's ability to be receptive to the world and objects around them & express an emotional landscape or reality separate from the poet's own identity & life as an individual person. It's what allows you, as a writer, to put yourself in an alternate experience and imagine the world from a completely different point of view.

I don't think everything a poet writes about pertains directly, or literally, to events in their actual lives--I do believe, though, that a lot of poets have particular themes, questions, ideas and images that move them and that they often come back to or examine in different ways, from different perspectives. But not all of those perspectives relate to something happening to them specifically (do you have to go to war to write an anti-war poem, for example?). Some poets are more personal & intimate in their poems; some aren't. Some poets weave the personal and non-personal in so tightly the question of literal biography is a pointless venture. It really depends on the writer and what the poem, as a space, as an act of engagement, means to them.

I think the whole "sit at a typewriter and bleed" mantra has made autobiography seem like something that is inherent to every poem, but I don't believe that's true; I think the only way you can address the question of "was this real?" is on a poet by poet basis, by looking through their work and their recurring preoccupations, their life and what they themselves have said or explained. But as a default, I don't think it's a fair reading because so much can be happening in an individual poem (emotionally, structurally, linguistically) and it runs the risk of obscuring the larger questions we could be asking about the poem or missing where it's trying to take us. At the end of the day I think framing it as "what is this poet curious about" rather than "did this actually happen to them?" is a far better way of getting acquainted with the world of a particular poem, if that makes sense?

We look at poetry as this deeply intimate form of writing, and it can be, but, again, every poet is different and every poet has a completely different relationship to that writing. It's intimacy is not the same as a diary entry. A poem is also, ultimately, not a piece of reportage: it's a work of art and the work part often gets missed: it has just as much intention, construction, rewriting and reworking and creative license as a novel or a painting. Sometimes a particular event will have inspired something and sometimes that event is front and centre ("Mid-Term Break" by Seamus Heaney, for instance). Other times the event is nowhere near as important as the questions it poses and those questions, in turn, lead somewhere completely different. That's my view on it, at least x

[andromeda4004]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by @carry-the-sky, thank you!

How many works do you have on ao3?

7 (8 by the weekend!)

What's your total ao3 word count?

276,499

What fandoms do you write for?

Exclusively Good Omens at this point, not that I don't enjoy others. But the more I give myself permission to write for fandoms, the less likely I am to ever get around to finishing off my own OCs' story.

Top five fics by kudos:

Morningstar Abbey (Regency AU, T rated, 116K)

Mission: Ineffable (spy action AU, M rated, 25K)

Vaster than Empires (non-angsty S3, E rated, 5K)

The Serpent of the Loch (historical crack, T rated, 8K)

Antoinette (1920s wives AU, T rated, 118K)

Do you respond to comments?

As much as possible, although it does sometimes take me a while. I prefer to do them at my laptop than on my phone (typing is quicker) so sometimes I catch them up in a batch.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

That would be The Truth I cannot Speak, a post-1827 Edinburgh diary entry from Aziraphale where he reflects on all the things he cannot tell Crowley, and might not ever get the chance to now. That one has poetry!

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I do tend towards the happy ending for preference, but I guess Morningstar Abbey would be happiest, since it ends drinking wine in the garden the day after the wedding 💕

Do you get hate on fics?

Not yet, I haven't.

Do you write smut?

I do now! Vaster than Empires was the first E rated fic I've shared, and I have a new one coming out this weekend for the High Pollen Count sex pollen event.

Craziest crossover:

Mission: Impossible, probably! Although that's not a crossover, it's a human AU. I haven't written a classic crossover yet, and I don't know that I will, it's not quite my style.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of, and I've only been doing this just over a year, so seems unlikely.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not yet, but one lives in hope!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I would love to! I do like beta reading and providing some collaborative suggestions when people are looking for them, so I suspect I'd enjoy formally co-writing something with an author I clicked with.

All time favorite ship?

It's got to be the Ineffable Husbands/Wives/Partners. The ship that keeps on giving!

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I try to focus as much as possible when writing, to avoid having too many half-done works at once, so I don't have any WIPs which are languishing at the moment. Except for my original work, but that will get finished, just quite slowly!

What are your writing strengths?

Plots and dialogue. I like to tell a story, a whole thing, with lots of developed characters and psychology and subplots, which leads me to the weakness...

What are your writing weaknesses?

Stopping! All my fics end up longer than I was hoping because I can't stop writing them! And on the smaller scale, simple things like working out where to stop a scene, I just can't do it! Rather, I can because I've worked at it, but it has been effort to get better at this.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

Love it. I'm fluently bilingual, and have basic functional language skills in two or three more (or I do with a bit of warm-up!), but verbal is not the same as written, so I do try to get a native speaker to beta anything more than a word or two.

First fandom you wrote in?

In the beginning... the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

Yep, first fandom I remember writing things for was H2G2, back in the 90s when everything was on paper. Although I have been in fanclubs since Discworld as a teenager and further back I think Redwall as a kid?

Favorite fic you've written?

No, don't make me pick! They're all lovely! Although probably Mission: Ineffable, because I'm currently enjoying revisiting that AU to work on a sequel.

tagging! (no pressure!): @afrenchwriter @sabotage-on-mercury @suavissimapenna @hotcrosspigeon @homemadeapplecider @voluptatiscausa and anyone else who sees this and wants to play :)

[otherpeoplesheartachept-2]

day 1: A Record of You and I

A diary from the mid 1700s kept by a man named Simon Snow, a farmhand for the Grimm estate. He records the death and the subsequent vampiric transformation of his close friend, and heir to the Grimm estate, Basilton Grimm.

Rating: M

Length: 4,321

Warnings: main character death/undeath. non-graphic (maybe slightly graphic) depictions of violence/blood, mentions of animal death, implied sex

Read on AO3 or below the cut

September 3rd 1742

I've never had a journal before but Basilton tells me it will help with my reading and writing. He's taught me all my letters and wants me to practice on my own now. He says he’ll continue reading to me if I like. He’ll keep helping me with handwriting too, but Basilton insists that having a personal record will do me good. Even so, I do not know what to record. Though I must not waste this lovely gift. Basilton says to write about my day, my thoughts. He must have more thoughts within him than I, for I am already out of things to say, and Basilton adds to his journal at all hours of the day. 

September 6th 1742

Today I milked the cows and took them out in the field to graze. I ate fresh bread with a lot of butter.  I did some other chores. It is late. I do not wish to write more.

September 7th 1742

Today I had porridge for breakfast, and some tasty stew Ebb made for supper. Charlie, the cattle dog, found a new favorite stick out in the pasture today, he hasn't stopped chewing it since this morning.

September 8th 1742

I hope Basil will forgive me for my short entries. It's not as if he’ll read what I put down here. Personal journals are to be personal, he tells me. So I’m just meant to speak to myself? I will keep at it, if only to gain more surety in my handwriting. 

September 9th 1742

It is Sunday, I went to Mass. Basilton came to the cabin after the service. Brought me some scones Vera made. Sir Grimm does not approve of his son spending so much time with a farmhand, Basilton told me of another scolding he got earlier this week. I do not know why he spends time with me, against his father’s wishes, but I will not stop him. We ate lunch together. I enjoyed the food, and the company more. Basilton would call me a liar if he read that, my love of scones is rarely bested by anything, but Basilton is a good friend to me. 

Everything feels so easy with Basil. He can make me laugh no matter what, even when he's poking fun at me. We talked for hours yesterday, and he listened when I spoke about my days, my observations of the cattle. Basil worries I work too hard, but I don't do much really, and I enjoy the labor. Besides, what else am I to do with my time? We discussed a poem Basil had read to me a few weeks ago. I am not usually one for poetry, but Basilton speaks about poems in a way that makes sense to me. I thought him unbearably arrogant when I first started working for his family, speaking of literature constantly and looking down his big nose at me. He still is arrogant at times, but now that we are friends I know he is also kind and caring and truly intelligent. He speaks of his sisters often, and how he worries he won’t meet his father’s expectations. He remains unmarried and this troubles Sir Grimm. 

But Basilton has land to inherit and good social standing. He has many admirable qualities, and it goes without saying that he is handsome. He should have no trouble finding a wife. I said this to Basilton today but he became uncomfortable. Quickly, he brushed it off and picked up a new topic of conversation. This has happened before, I do not know if it’s the subject of marriage, or if he is too modest a man, but many times I have stated his good qualities, only for Basiton to blush and deny them, or leave the conversation. 

September 20th 1742

I ate Turkey for supper yesterday. One of the bulls charged at me today because I looked at him wrong. Bastard. Gareth made me help him till the field today. Another bastard. He said he couldn’t get it done in time without help, despite the crops being his and his sons’ job, and the cattle being mine. 

Went to the pub with Ebb, the goatherd yesterday. She told me a great joke about goats but I was drunk and can't remember it now. I might ask her to tell me it again.  

September 22nd 1742

Today was an easy day, I fiddled with my carving knife while out in the field. Made a little wooden Charlie but when I showed it to him the blasted dog chewed it up. I tried to stop him but then I just laughed. I suppose I’m glad he found my carving nice enough to devour. 

September 30th 1742

Basilton visited today. He brought me some of his books, said I could keep them, since I mentioned how much I liked the last one he read to me. I thanked him for the books, he is so kind to me. I do not know if I will ever read them though. Perhaps I should not have taken them. It’s not that I am ungrateful, I just didn’t know how to tell Basilton I mostly enjoy hearing his voice read to me, more than I care about the contents of the books. I am sad as this probably means he will not continue reading aloud to me. 

October 1st 1742

I’ve not been writing as much as I feel I should. I fear my life is just not that interesting. Basilton tells me it’s plenty interesting. He’ll listen to my stories about cattle and Charlie without complaint. Gareth tells me my stories are boring though. “Who cares if a calf was born with a spot that looks just like a field mouse?” he said to me when I told that story at the pub last week. As if throwing seeds on the ground makes for great stories. 

October 8th 1742

I found some poppies in the field, the first of the fall. I picked a couple of the red flowers. Gave them to Basil when he came round my cottage in the evening. He tried to resist them but I insisted. I told him it was repayment for the books he left with me. That wasn't all true, I just wanted to share the beauty of those little things with him. Basilton accepted the flowers then, I do hope he likes them. I cannot offer him much more, though I wish I had more to give to my friends. 

October 10th 1742

I tried carving a flower out of wood but I cocked it up. I might try again with a thicker stick.

October 12th 1742

The cattle are well. The sun is shortening our days. I heard a bird song I did not recognize today, while out in the field. It was lovely. I must start saving up for a new winter coat, mine is threadbare and has not been keeping me warm enough as the world gets colder. Basilton tells me he’s going deer stalking with his cousins in a few days. He will be gone for at least a month. It will be their first hunt of the season. 

October 15th 1742

Basilton left today. I tended to the cattle. I tried to brush off the sadness that seemed to hang over the day. Perhaps the cloudy days are affecting my mood, or the cold weather. I might just sleep early today. 

October 30th 1742

He died. On that trip he

November 25th 1742

I went to Mass today. I sat alone. I tried to welcome the Holy Spirit but I feel so alone in this world. I grieve Basil every waking moment. I thought this would pass, it’s been nearly a month and still the wound is as fresh as the day I learned of his death. I’ve never had someone to lose before, like this. I loved him deeply, as if he were my own family I have come to realize. I find myself almost grateful that I did not know my parents, that I will not, one day, have to grieve them as well.

The Lord’s Day is the most painful, God forgive my soul for saying so. I cannot distract myself with work. I try to pray, but my mind wanders ever back to my lost friend. I grow tired of writing, but I will not put down this journal forever, Basilton wouldn't want me to.

November 27th 1742

I woke up this morning to something strange. I found one of the cows dead in the field. I hadn’t noticed any signs of sickness in the herd, but there were also no signs of an animal attack. There was no wound I could find, no blood. She looked strange, I cannot say why, though. It was as if something was missing, from beneath the skin. I told Sir Grimm, and the other farmhands, in case there is sickness in the herd. I’ll be keeping a closer watch on the cattle.

November 29th 1742

I visited Basilton’s grave this evening. It did me no good. I only felt the pain of loss much stronger standing there, reading his gravestone. It was as if there were a stake ran through my chest. I could hardly breathe through the sobs that came out of me. It was so strange, knowing Basilton was so close, only two meters or so below where I stood, and yet he was impossibly far. 

It does me little good to dwell on these negative feelings. 

November 30th 1742

I try to fill my days with actions. I inspect the cows twice, three times over, to check for any signs of decaying health. I pace the perimeter of the field while they graze. I help Gareth work the land when I should be resting. I chop enough firewood for this winter and the next two. I stay too long at the pub and drink more than I can afford. I imagine spots in my cabin that need cleaning, and I scrub and scrub and scrub until the pain in my hands is all that I can feel. And yet, I still ache for the companionship of Bailston. What am I to do with myself?

December 1st 1742

I cannot stop thinking of Basilton. Truly, I never stopped thinking of him, even when he was alive and with me. The Grimm family told us he was trampled by his own horse, fell off it while hunting. In quiet moments my mind creates imaginations of his last terrible moments. When I lay in bed, if I am not drunk as a lord, I cannot sleep for hours. I pray to God for a miracle, but my pleas are left unanswered. I know it to be foolish, but I cannot help myself. I would do anything for Basilton. Anything to see him again. 

December 4th 1742

I do not want to write this, but I feel I must. I saw Basilton last night. I know, I know that he is dead, and God willing, he is at peace in heaven. But I came home from the pub late last night, crawled into bed, then, I saw Basil in my room, as if he were alive. He did not look ghostly, no, he looked as if he had new life coursing through him. His skin flush. His smile wide. There were no signs he had ever been dead. 

I cried out, I could not help it. He came to me, to my bed. I sat up to meet him. And he held me. A hand pressed to my chest, the other wrapped around my back. His dark hair against my chin as he rested his face to my collar bone. We did not speak. I feared I would wake from the dream. And it must have been a dream. 

I woke up this morning half expecting to see Basilton about the grounds, as if his death was a nightmare I could finally wake from. But he was not here, of course not. My mind has been so fixed on Basilton it only makes sense he would creep into my dreams.

December 5th 1742

It happened again, last night, I was not asleep this time. I was changing into my night clothes, when Basil appeared to me. I did not hear him come in. My candle cast his shadow against the wall. He must have been standing there as flesh and bone, not as a ghost or a vision. He wore regular clothes, not the burial shroud–made from his own family’s wool–that he was laid to rest in. He had on his purple vest with yellow embroidered flowers. It was one of his favorites, he told me years ago. Again he did not speak, but he touched my hand. He was so cool. a welcome feeling; I was so hot. I pulled him into an embrace. I whispered his name, I did not know what else I could do. I swear to God, he spoke my name in response.

Suddenly I felt so tired, so drained. Likely the day’s work catching up to me. I tried to fight the urge to sleep, but my eyes closed before I could watch Basilton leave, or say anything more to him.

December 6th 1742

Another cow, and one of the bulls have died, for the same mysterious reason as the first cow. The herd was restless yesterday, as if they could sense misfortune in the air, but I could not do anything to prevent their deaths. I do not even know what I need to be protecting them from.  

I am worried, and unsettled.

December 8th 1742

The night before this last I stayed up, hoping to see my old friend again, though he never came. But last night I saw Basilton again. He spoke this time, only my name. My heart filled with joy to hear my friend’s deep voice call me Simon after I was sure we’d never be able to speak to each other again in this life. He sat beside me on the bed. I told him I had missed him. He placed a cool hand on my cheek, looked into my eyes. His were a familiar light grey, but he wore an expression I couldn't make sense of.

Then, he kissed me. I hesitate to write these words. He must be a sodomite. I have always heard such men are evil, but I could never think of Basilton that way. He's always been so lovely. 

And the worst part is that I kissed him back. The best part is that I kissed him back. I have not kissed anyone before. He was so soft against my lips. So cool. His hand held my jaw, and his tongue pressed against my lips. An elation sprung up within me that I cannot describe. I held him tightly, wanting more than anything for this moment to last forever. I couldn’t help but think he should have done this sooner. We should have done this when Basil was still living. 

Oh God! I weep remembering that he is dead. 

Basilton kissed farther down my neck, across my collar bones, left kisses on my chest so hard they hurt. I did not stop him. He didn't go farther than my bosom, but-

I wanted him to. I felt as if under a spell, wrapped up in a world of pleasure balanced by the slightest pain. I wanted more, wanted all of him , but before I knew it I was awake, and alone, as the morning sun shown through my window. 

I was slow in my work today. Gareth noticed, told me I should not be so lazy. My body betrays me, I feel so weak.

December 13th 1742

Basilton visits me nightly now. I welcome his touches, his hard kisses. I walk through my days now, dreaming of night. 

The cows have begun to distrust me, they put up a fight when I try to milk them, and a few are no longer eating. I do not know why. Sir Grimm, despite having experience with livestock, seemed just as perplexed as I when I brought up the strange deaths and behaviors of his herd. Though, I know his mind is elsewhere, the mourning clothes he and Madam Grimm wear are a constant reminder of their loss.

I hear whispers at the pub of ghost sightings. I hear gossip from the house servants that the Grimm children wake up screaming in the nights now. 

December 19th 1742

The weather gets worse. I feel frozen to the bone. My hands hurt daily. My work gets harder, as more animals under my care drop dead, and my strength seems to dwindle with each moment. The waking world has no joy, no pleasure left. But I go through each day, waiting for night. Only at night can I remember what happiness is. Basilton comes to me. He holds me, and we kiss for hours. Basil leaves marks and bruises on my skin but I welcome it. My hands praise the skin he uncovers for me. We commit sins I never knew could bring such pleasures. 

December 20th 1742

I admit, I have not allowed myself to consider how or why Basilton appears to me alive, when I know he was laid in his grave two months ago. I just cannot think of it, I cannot search for reasons to distrust this gift I have. I may be a fool, or a doomed sodomite, but I cannot find it in me to fight what is happening. I cannot consider this to be anything but good or I might truly lose myself. 

December 24th 1742

Last night was disturbing. Basilton came to my room as usual. We kissed, and lay together, and I felt so joyous, but quickly the tides turned. He pinned my naked body to the bed. He sat over me and tore at my flesh with his bare hands. I cried out but I could not stop him. Some dark part of me did not want to stop him. Basilton lapped up the blood that poured from my chest like a starved dog. The unGodly sight did things to me. As if possessed by something, I craved his bloodshed.

I do not know what is wrong with me. 

I awoke with deep wounds on my chest. A mess of horror and lust arose within me as I touched the raised flesh, the dried blood. I know this is not natural, this is not holy. I should seek out a doctor, or a priest, but I can't stand the thought of losing my dear Basil again. I would open up a vein for him. I would tie our hearts together for eternity if it meant Basilton could be mine. 

December 25th 1742

It is Christmas Day. A holiday that should be full of cheer. Basil once told me it was his favorite holiday, so it holds an extra special meaning for me. I wish he had been here, enjoying the day. I try not to be too sad, he will be here soon, arriving with the stars in the sky.  

Ebb spent the day with me. I gave her a small wooden goat I carved. She does not say it but I know she misses her brother most around this time of year. I tried to be there for her, as I pretended not to notice the tears running down her red cheeks. But I found it hard to care. All my thoughts were consumed by anticipation for my next visit with Basilton. I know that is terrible. I tried to fight it, to focus on the friend I had with me at the moment, but I struggled. My mind, and my heart are trapped in a world with only Basilton and myself. A world no one else could understand. 

December 26th 1742 

Basilton attacked me again last night. My neck, chest, and stomach are covered in signs of his violent affection. Oh my dear God, I try to feel remorse, to summon disgust at our actions, but it is just not there within me. My mind is a haze of painful pleasure, my thoughts, along with my flesh and blood, fully consumed by Basilton. He is a fallen angel. He is a monster, and I must be one as well, but I have no will to change that. 

I love him. I’ll love him no matter what we become. 

I found more cattle dead this morning. Now nearly a third of the herd is gone. This time they have markings to match the wounds on my chest. 

I told Ebb about the deaths, she told me a few goats have passed as well. I will tell the baronet tomorrow. 

December 27th 1742

I went to tell Sir Grimm about the dead cows this morning. 

In the manor I overheard the baronet and baronetess speaking of another attack last night. I stopped myself short of the doorway into Sir Grimm’s study. I stood in the hallway, slowing my breath to hear them through the door. 

“Mordelia saw Basilton again last night. He hurt her, picked her up and left scratches on her back,” Daphne said to Malcolm. Sir Grimm stated he’s seen their son some nights as well. I became jealous upon hearing these words, at learning I was not the only one Basil is giving attention to. A foolish thought, of course he would want to see his family. But they spoke of him in fearful tones. They do not know my sweet Basil is only full of love. 

“He is a vampire,” Sir Grimm said. I had to stop myself from crying out. Madam Grimm gasped, begged him no. Sir Grimm mumbled something comforting. “It must be done. He’s not our son anymore, Daphne, he is an evil creature.” 

A vampire. The livestock dying, the frightened children, and my nightly visits from Basilton, all signs of a vampire. Dear God, Basil did not deserve such a fate!! I know what they will do to him: dig up his grave, stake his heart, cut off his head, and burn him to ashes. 

He will be gone forever. 

I cannot bear the thought! 

I know now what I must do, and I must do it quickly. 

Later on the 27th

Hastily, I have made my preparations. I could not risk Sir Grimm getting to Basilton first. I am prepared to go tonight. 

December 28th 1742

I went to Basilton’s grave late last night. I was the only soul awake besides the owls. I brought along a lantern, a shovel, a small pack with all my coin and what few possessions I care to keep, and a small wheelbarrow I took from the barn. The light of my lantern guided me through the familiar trees and headstones, until I found the name Basilton Grimm carved into stone. 

The rain poured down endlessly. The wet earth offered little resistance to my shovel, but digging was not quick work. The wind put out my lantern thrice. I gave up relighting, nothing would stop me. I had a singular purpose. I felt as if I’d been guided here, to this moment, to save my love. 

After hours of labor, my shovel kissed the wood of a coffin, I nearly collapsed from relief, and exhaustion. Prying the lid from my Basil’s prison was harder than I had expected. Once I had it off, I threw it from the hole. 

I wept. There was my dearest Basilton asleep in his coffin. I relit the lantern. I fell to my knees, sharing the cramped space with him. The light revealed a blood-stained mouth and burial shroud. His hair was a little longer, more lustrous than in life, his skin ruddy and plump. I worried I would find his face smashed, his body mangled from horses’ hooves, but he was unmarked and as beautiful as ever. His hands were free from his shroud, also bloody. 

These are all signs of a vampire, but I could not care. I had to reach out to touch his cold flesh.

I had to kiss him. 

My lips met his, and in that coffin, surrounded by earth, over the sound of the attacking rain, Basil softly moaned. I swear I heard it. I swear his lips moved against mine.  

Elated with indescribable joy I tried to wake him more, desperate for proof he really was living. He did not open his eyes, or speak to me, or move. But when I pressed my ear to his chest I heard the drum of his heart beat steadily. 

My sweet Basilton alive! Now that I have him, I will let no harm come to him. I will keep Basil safe from those who want to kill him again. 

It is early morning now, the sun is just starting to peak over the land in the East. This will be my last entry. I shall leave my journal here, in my Basilton’s empty grave, in case anyone is searching for us. I care not who reads these words, they will not find us. I will be far away, with my love, finally happy. 

(A note placed in the back of the journal)

Dearest Simon, 

I hope this journal will be of use to you. I do believe keeping a journal will help you continue improving your literacy. And perhaps it will aid in other ways. I find it helps to have a private place for one's thoughts and feelings. My journals are a great comfort to me. 

Beyond that, I must admit I do enjoy the thought that there will be a record of you and of I. That people may know who we were, and that we were good friends.

Yours truly, 

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm

[in-kyblogs]

top 5 iwtv quotes, go!

Oh this is delicious!

1) “What rage you must feel as you choke on your sorrow” - like. The entirety of that monologue is just unmatched. “Be all the beautiful things you are and be them without apology” ???!!! Kissing the writers on their beautiful brain. (I’ll cheat this counts as one quote being in the same scene ops)

2) “He asks, standing in the ashes” is genius I think, it has all the desperation of Armand losing his coven, a beautiful level of poetry so true for the way a vampire grown up in the renaissance might talk and his immediate understanding of Lestat as a person that is at the core of their dynamic (which basically is an ‘I hate you, but who could love me and understand me more than you, since we are the same breed of monstrous?’ thing)

3) “as if I had walked my entire life as a dead man and now, dead, could finally receive the secrets of existence." I don’t know something about the freedom vampirism could represent for Louis and then how all of it crumbles down on him and instead cages him in himself always gets to me. That’s why I liked the end of his arc in the finale, with him calling vampirism a gift and finally reclaiming it.

4) I don’t remember the exact quote and I can’t find it but the entry from Claudia’s diaries that goes “Maybe I wanna be joyfully joyless”. I love how that quote alone makes us see how unhealthy and codependent Louis and Claudia’s relationship has gotten, and how they are resentful of each other as a result.

5) “with no obvious sense of why I follow them, except meaning slowly disintegrates without them.” Maybe my absolute favorite. It’s just so tragic but also mixed with the obvious love they have for each other, and that love ultimately doesn’t change anything. I’m a slut from tragedy clearly

Honorable mentions from episode 1.01: “You’ve grown old, Daniel”. It just has a whole new layer of meaning after 2.05. And “I laid down with the Devil. And he has roots in me. All his spindly roots in me” Jacob. Jacobbbbb. (I didn’t want to pick all the quotes from the same episode but honestly 1.01 is just the most beautiful writing ever)

Honorable mention from season 2: “The wilderness that is our daughter”. Makes me think of this Jacob quote:

Yeah big season for children of parents over all lol (cries)

Ask me my "TOP 5/TOP 10" anything!

[burningvelvet]

Byron simping for the Irish orator, politician, wit, and lawyer John Philpot Curran

Byron in a letter to Thomas Moore dated October 2, 1813:

"I have met Curran at Holland-house — he beats every body; — his imagination is beyond human, and his humour (it is difficult to define what is wit) perfect. Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, when he mimics; — I never met his equal. Now, were l a woman, and eke a virgin, that is the man I should make my Scamander. He is quite fascinating. Remember, I have met him but once; and you, who have known him long, may probably deduct from my panegyric. I almost fear to meet him again, lest the impression should be lowered. He talked a great deal about you — a theme never tiresome to me, nor any body else that I know. What a variety of expression he conjures into that naturally not very fine countenance of his! He absolutely changes it entirely. I have done — for I can't describe him, and you know him."

In Greek mythology the female virgins of Troy would go to the Scamander river (which Scamander supposedy lived in after going mad and throwing himself in) and bathe in it while ritualistically praying for Scamander to take their virginity (sources: Theophoric Names and the History of Greek Religion by Robert Parker and Neilomandros. A contribution to the history of Greek personal names by Peter Thonemann).

In an 1816 entry from his diary Detached Thoughts:

"Curran! Curran's the man who struck me most. Such imagination! there never was any thing like it that ever I saw or heard of. His published life — his published speeches, give you no idea of the man — none at all. He was a machine of imagination, as some one said that Piron was an epigrammatic machine. I did not see a great deal of Curran — only in 1813; but I met him at home (for he used to call on me), and in society, at Mackintosh's, Holland House, &c. &c. and he was wonderful even to me, who had seen many remarkable men of the time."

In his later destroyed memoirs, quoted by Thomas Moore:

"In his Memoranda there were equally enthusiastic praises of 'The riches,' said he, 'of his Irish imagination were exhaustless. I have heard that man speak more poetry than I have ever seen written, — though I saw him seldom and but occasionally . . ."

[ow-old-men]

Faces / Changes

Two immortal shapeshifters find each other. Again

——————————⋆♱✮♱⋆——————————

The first time Jaime becomes painfully aware that he is lovely, Kassem wears an unfamiliar face.

It’s not the first time. They’ve stumbled across each other with bodies fresh and impermanent, faces morphed or hidden before and it won’t be the last either. Time has slung them into each other’s orbit uncountable times already. The first time - at what Jaime has heard other, more temporary beings, describe as ‘the dawn of time’ - he’s pretty sure neither of them were much more than formless clouds of heat and potential. If Jamie had figured out how to give himself anything resembling eyes a few millennia before he did, there’s no doubt in his mind that Kassem would have been beautiful, even then.

No, the newness is not anything newsworthy in and of itself and that is not why the realization suddenly carves through his chest like a knife.

Kassem is leaning back on his hands in the shade, his face remade in a cascade of unfamiliar angles, his hands suddenly slender and free of the freckles Jaime spent a week mapping out sometime last century. He would recognize him anywhere.

Jaime puts his hand to the small of some woman's back, parts the sea of people gathered on the square and walks. He knows that Kassem has seen him, knows where this ends and that it still has to begin somewhere. So he stops a couple of meters away from the low table Kassem is sitting at. He wavers on his feet, two women dressed in flowy robes pass between them.

“You look good,” he says and can’t help that there is a breathy, too honest quality to it. Like he’s run miles through the cold, breath stuck in his throat and cheeks flushed. Kass just looks at him, smiles mostly with his eyes. Eyes that, Jaime suddenly notices, have retained their teint of burned amber. A flash of sunset though his midnight gaze. He would have been no less terrifically beautiful with eyes made wholly anew, and yet Jaime finds a pang of gratitude tingles through his spine.

“Thank you,” Kassem says, and like always, he manages to say it like it’s hiding some shared joke, “you too.”

Jaime runs a flighty hand over his own biceps, shrugs almost unapologetically. “Same old, same old.”

Kassem smiles until his eyes nearly close with it. He nods, almost imperceptibly. “Come sit anyway.”

Jaime does.

“What have you been up to?” Kassem asks and raises a teacup to his lips while Jamie shuffles carefully down beside him. Their knees do not touch under the table, but the few centimeters of air between them buzzes like a beehive.

He shrugs. He makes it a point not to count the years and simply let time bubble past like a river. He knows not how many years he is accounting for now, and right now he remembers only dimly exactly what he’s been. Briefly he was a wildfire along the coast of North America, wading through the flames that felt as much a part of him as this current face he wears. For an even shorter amount of time, he planted corn and traveled slowly further south, wearing a man’s face and a wide brimmed hat pulled down low. Mostly he’s waited with no real sense of what all this waiting will net him. At times he wrote flighty diary entries, through the fire scorched the majority and all were in some script he no longer thinks anyone but he could decipher.

“I hear you went on tour?” he says instead and that makes Kassem hunch his shoulders with a sudden burst of laughter.

“A tour?” he asks and the laughter bubbles in his throat and in his voice. Jaime adjusts how he’s sitting, feels the buzzing pride in his hands.

“You wrote, last time, some poetry” he says and is again betrayed by the tone, wistful and secretive like he hadn’t planned for it to be. “I’d hoped you got to share some of it?”

And this time it’s Kassems turn to shrug. He twirls the teacup once, then twice, looks up and Jaime is treated to the freckles suddenly scattered like secrets high on his cheeks. “Most of them weren’t meant for other people.”

At times, Jaime feels crude, almost unfinished, compared to the man beside him. He is a creature of heat and fire and malleable sudden change, and yet he finds that he’s become primarily a creature of habit.

His face is easy, now that he’s learned it’s shape. It stays intact and rarely flickers. He tries, for fun or out of boredom, to reimagine what he could be and finds that he catches glimpses of himself suddenly in mirrors and he’s become the thing he fought to change.

His self seems unavoidable. The shape of his nose the only one he can seemingly dream up. And yet he knows that he changes, right then and there. No blooming freckles, no glint blazing through his iris, but there is something.

“Well, I thought it pretty great.”

“Of course you did.”

He raises his hands reflexively. “I know great art when I see it.”

He’s not sure, but he’s pretty sure Kassem rolls his eyes at him. One of his hands lands on the table with the distinct clink of a ring wrapped around one finger. And it’s like the sound dislodges something in Jaimes chest. Or dislodges something hanging above his head that’s lingered there for a while. He stares, transfixed, at Kassems hands and finds, for the first time consciously, that he is beyond lovely.

Beautiful in a way that defies the very definition of that word. He could be anything - has been anything and then some - and yet the thing that is not beauty would still cling to him. It settles like a dying star in the pit of his stomach. It is almost unbearable when Kassem at last looks over, one brow slightly raised. It is both a question and a declaration that he already knows. Mostly it’s a dare.

Behind them, the crowd shuffles on through the market square.

“Would you care for a walk?” Jaime asks after a beat, exactly like he’s been prompted too. Kassem measures him up once, a darting heartbeat of a look over. Then he nods and stretches a hand out to the side after his cane. The eye contact never wavers.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The sun is still enormous and orange. Jaime knows from the taste of the air, that the sea isn’t far, but he has no idea what narrow streets he’d have to walk down to get there. It doesn’t feel important anyway. There sits a bubbling laughter in his throat and a flighty restlessness in his palms while Kassem walks and retells most of the time they’ve spent apart.

Then he falls silent. Jaime can almost hear the waves, at least he thinks so. The very air glows in soft orange.

Kassem runs a hand across the back of his skull. One of his thumbs digs into the strong tendon right where the skull and spine become one. His hands are soft.

“I think I’d know you anywhere,” he mumbles and pulls Jaime close until their lips meet. Hungry and soft and familiar. Halfway, Jaime wants to pry his eyes open and see if Kassems face changes and yet stays the same.

He doesn’t. He keeps them screwed shut and takes and takes. His hands find their way to Kassems shoulders, seemingly without needing any instructions. Holds him careful and desperate. He knows, can feel and in no way control, how his own face morphs - folds and becomes. It doesn’t matter. He’s learned by now he can’t become something that doesn’t look like the thing he is. Can’t become something that wouldn’t fit in the way Kass cups a palm around his jaw.

So he stays the same. And changes.

[alchemy-arts-bookstore]

It took me years to see the connection between David Bowie and the occult – more specifically, chaos magic – that was already visible to those who had spent more time studying him, or listening more exclusively to his music. I knew he was an amazing musician, but it took time for me to see that there was more to him than that. For me, the seed was planted when I saw the ‘David Bowie Is’ exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago in 2014.

One thing that really struck me about the exhibit was a display that explained how Bowie took inspiration from everything around him, from all kinds of sources. As stated in the exhibit catalog, ‘His exceptional breadth of interests alongside his acceptance of the mantra ‘the medium is the message’ have opened him to inspiration by others – but as we have seen, he takes inspiration from an exceptional breadth of subjects and creates from them something entirely new.’

It really impressed me to learn that that anything Bowie saw or heard or experienced could become inspiration. The exhibit was filled with evidence of this: sketches, diary entries, stage costumes, photos, and so much more. As many people have said, he was a chameleon. He recreated himself on a regular basis, in ways only he could imagine, as he encountered new ideas and merged or rearranged them.

Years later, I came across a different version of this process when I became interested in chaos magic. According to Wikipedia, ‘Chaos magic teaches that the essence of magic is that perceptions are conditioned by beliefs, and that the world as we perceive it can be changed by deliberately changing those beliefs.’ Or in other words, belief is what gives magic its power, not the details of how it’s presented. My personal view of chaos magic is that you can use elements in your practice, or your rituals, that are not from any traditional magical system. They can be taken from another source. (Literature, pop culture, music, etc.) What makes them magic is your belief in them as such. Again, anything can become inspiration.

I started seeing the connection when I started studying my favorite chaos magic book, Hands-On Chaos Magic by Andrieh Vitimus. The author states, ‘anything can be used for magical work.’ He discusses using images from anime, from the movie Dr. Strangelove, and from Harry Potter, among others.

Reading this, I remembered the David Bowie exhibit, and the biggest lesson I took from it: pay attention to everything around you, anything can be inspiration for art or music or other creative endeavors. As a then-novice, this idea made me feel much better about my evolving magical practice; it was telling me there wasn’t really a single ‘right’ way to do things. It let me know that it was acceptable to do things in a different way, a way that worked for me. It might seem strange or hard to understand to others, but it wasn’t wrong; it was chaos magic. I’ve gotten ideas from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings movies, from popular music, and from poetry, and I’ve begun experimenting with adapting magical practice to the virtual world Second Life. I try to stay open to new ideas, wherever I might find them. I try to follow Bowie’s example and not limit the things that inspire me.

A final quote to sum up, from “David Bowie and His Mysterious Connections to the Occult and Paganism” by Jacob Shelton on ranker.com: ‘Chaos magick isn't about creating a sack of money, or getting a record contract. At the end of the day it's about creating a reality that's more in line with your imagination. With that in mind, it's clear that Bowie is the most successful chaos magician ever. Through his work, which was a multi-decade ritual, he made the world more open to the oddities of life.’ That’s the kind of magic we could use more of.

[alicelioncourt]

greeting as Haarlep for textual ask

Haarlep couldn't stand Cania, its nasty cold and the creatures frozen in glaciers. But he hated even more to return here on Mephistopheles' orders with another report on whether his dear son was looking for ways to seize the crown or had already given up; to laugh or to laugh harder and at the same time cry from how painful it was for his mouth to smile.

Instead of playing on one side, Haarlep chose both. Simply because it was more fun, and the problems of devilish fathers and children and the devils' race for power in general raised his spirits no less than a new set of leather body harnesses and freshly processed claws. All this helped him feel better, to be ideal for his "Masters" both internally and externally.

And if the big devil inspired chthonic horror, then the small devil with a passion for poetry and writing texts about himself, but at the same time very ambitious - touched. Raphael was a little easier to tolerate than Mephistopheles and his possible wrath. In addition to Raphael, at least there was a boudoir, a beautiful pool with clean water, hookahs for every taste and a huge soft bed that you just had to warm yourself up with before the arrival of the Master of the House of Hope. It was certainly better than the cruelty of Mephistopheles with his permafrost on the circle.

But he still absolutely did not like being a living gift to someone (as if he was an animal for an overgrown child), he did not like having another name that made him feel like he was just a reflection in a crooked mirror, and even more so, he was not delighted, with all his incubus potential, to simply be in the guise of his Master.

Once again at home, Haarlep relaxed a little. It was warmer here. Many times warmer. Not that the view from the window was good, but STILL WARMER. And sometimes he could go out somewhere on the surface and frolic in the "Sharess caress", for example - literally a luxurious tavern with a table full of delicacies. A real joy for an incubus.

Haarlep stretched, warming up to the very tip of his tail. Raphael would return relatively soon, which meant he had to mentally prepare himself to listen to his grandiose plans for Tav, the crown, the nine circles again…

The incubus sighed. He had gotten used to it and almost tried to find advantages in his stay here…

"At least here I live almost like a princess, always well-fed, looking great and can have fun. I still miss Enver," he chuckled nastily, remembering how he teased him and hurt him, forcing him to do dirty work. "I wonder if there's a new entry in Raph's diary…"

He'll have something to occupy himself with for a while until the Master comes: draw funny, vulgar pictures in the diary and point out the incorrect wording of sentences in the texts. Maybe he'll be punished for the pictures later, but he'll always be able to get something good anyway.

And anyway, Raphael is to blame for trusting him too much.