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We all have one foot in a fairytale, and the other in the abyss.
--Paulo Coelho
"Honey, if you're looking for someone to just talk to you, that's not hard to find. If you're looking for someone to commit to talking to you, that's a whole another story."
I stared at her, sipped my coffee and sort of half-smiled, my eyebrow raised slightly.
I was back home, at my favorite cafe in my god-knows favorite mall, sitting opposite my long-time high school friend. She'd replied to my off-beat, absentminded spew about wishing to chat with 'some guy' for 'some time' with her straightforward, no-nonsense statement, and I'd yet taken in the full bulk of what she meant.
Three months, one ruined Taylor Swift song, and a Facebook unfollow later did I (and could I) absorb the knowledge she'd passed on.
Like a dumb, damp sponge.
There's no one to blame, not even yourself, said my other cousin.
Except my visceral way of living, that instinctive, subconscious writer mind on autopilot thoroughly absorbing and attaching memories and meaning to each and every little detail, every single association.
(Because, boy, you're blacklisted now, and you ain't ever getting out.)
I'm not going to eat at that waffle place next to Oxford Circus station for as long as I could manage. Not going to go near there and sit at the bench in front of debenhams across the street while staring wistfully at the sky. Because I'm sorry that I ever felt. I'm sorry that there was ever a single iota of warmth toward you, and that I felt enough to break out the piggybank reserve to write a story that I'd sent to you way too prematurely, a story that in no way was based on any other assimilation of the truth mosaics than the waffle order, your half-half plea, and the place where we sat- because that story was Clay's and Hannah's, that was exclusively theirs and exclusively my imagination's, none yours. I'm sorry I ever felt. Enough to have you make fun of me for it (for my storywriting in public in general - I mean, who does that, you sick fuck), enough to be gullible and trusting like I am. Enough to hand over my life's work up to now, which I'm breathing in comfort knowing you barely care about me enough to dig through.
Well. There are the tags. But what the hell. My mistake. My stupidity. I don't give a fuck.
If you got the wrong idea, your mistake.
It's artistic license. It's my rights. Does not mean I'm a pervert.
We're all grown ups here, and excuse me, but at least I exercised my artistic license in lieu of porn.
Before that afternoon, I'd barely listened to Speak Now. It's been years, and now I doubt I would ever. It's middle school, perfect world cliche bullshit. I want tangible, real pinks in my life. I want actual, not verbal references to, breakfast in bed- brioche, orange juice, all that shit. I want a goddamn song played to me, for me, in my name, not some medley off the G key sung in my own voice. Efforts and dedication would make you Boceli in my eyes, I don't care.
I'm never going to Greenwich again, asshole. Not until I have a man who's going to be there with me, sitting next to me and frolicking on the grass - a bottle of Rose, a bit of Avocado on toast- instead of some jerk whining about how much he wanted to do so.
And your fucking guitar- I'm a fool if I'm going to even let it enter one inch of my door, into this sanctity that is my personal space for me and me alone. You're batshit crazy, downright delusional if you think I'm even going to touch it within an inch of my fingernail, let it sit in some corner that I'll see in my line of vision when I'm trying to extract some theme out of a passage.
I'd kept my cool. I was levelheaded, 100% insistence and truth goggles firmly on, because I wasn't on the attack front this time around. And I'd known better. I thought I'd known better. That I wasn't going to feel.
But you started it. You overstepped the line. You ruined a fucking emoji.
You don't know what it was like. Caught in a fucking limbo within Stephen King's The Mist. Me, who lives by certainty and swears by routine and control. Me, who'd had her heart broken before and had to listen to you harp on about your so-called personal misadventures of the heart.
You're laughing behind that monitor, that iPhone, at me, in a different time zone, in a different country, in a different city, in a different world, where I couldn't see you.
I was honest. I was nice. I was open. I was - well, me.
What in hell's name did I ever do to you.
If you're accusing me of letting one guy ruin all this, go ahead. It's a Taylor Swift/Lorde thing, you wouldn't understand. And artistic liberation only comes- only comes when you feel like it, I can't explain. Wouldn't be able to.
Alternatively, you could say I'm boycotting on principle.
It's toxic, it's pathetic. It's reminders of how much of a joke I must have been behind your eyes, my feelings a plaything for your amusement.
Yes, I'm serious like this. It's who I am. It's what I feel. It's how I write. It's how I think.
It's how you'll be remembered. It's my pet sin. I don't forgive. I don't forget. I won't let you forget (not that you give a single fuck about me).
You've made your damn permanent mark, now let me make mine.
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(this is alittleintoxicated's alternate blog)
Let me start by saying: do not be afraid of cliches. The notion of cliches was the first stumbling block I thought I'd face when I started tackling Harry and Felicia, and the nature of their relationship itself, (which is also the case which makes it fun), boss and personal assistant, is cliche. The way you approach/write about it, however, you can make it not be cliche.
Your prompt is quite broad, and I'm not sure if you want to work on this in a one-shot story or a multi-chapter one. Either way, you could plan a timeline of events over which you want the buildup to happen.
You're definitely correct in saying they'd start with the physical, though, that's how I feel about them. It's in their nature. That's the right way to start. For tips, I'd suggest listening to character playlists - help you get into the mood (like this one), watch films with darker storylines (Magnolia is a good one) read dark novels (I'm very into Gillian Flynn at the moment). DL a cam version of the film and study the way Dane's (and even Felicity's) portrayed Harry - he's done a wonderful job in expressing all his character's complexities, whether it's the mannerisms, the facial expressions, or the voice.
Try to get into the frame of mind of each of them by first understanding them (review the bio in Marvel Wikia for basics for starters). Test out the conversations in your head. Ask yourself if they would be the things they'd say, if they would "sound" like the things they'd say.
Imagine, from a list of events maybe, how they'd get to know each other. Crack your prompt. What constitutes love for him? What constitutes love for her? Can they ever meet in that aspect? Even halfway?
How does she deal with his dark side? How does he deal with hers? Does he act out or keep it in? What about her? Tortured. What does torture mean for him? Issues? How'd he become that way? How'd she become that way?
Hope I've helped you in some way, darling! You're always welcome to stop by!
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