cecexwrites

[cecexwrites]

So if anyone was curious the event in question was Readers Take Denver and it was such a dumpster fire that like 200 authors and vendors have dropped out of next year and from what I understand they took 2025 info off their website

It was awful. Just getting registered took like 3 hours. Not everyone got the goodie bags, they didn’t have any water at registration and apparent didn’t offer signing authors any water at any point?

There was no organization and no security which was proven when some men from a military event being held at the hotel got into the masquerade ball and SA’d one of the attendees (I didn’t go to the ball but it has been confirmed that it happened and the event runner and her husband completely victim blamed and tried to minimize it because all he did was touch her over the clothes in an unwanted way, so nbd according to them)

Y’all I am at a book convention and this is wild. They definitely sold more tickets than they could handle because it’s a whole mess

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I love this because it’s giving

Finally! A good picture with all four of them!!! Also, I’m not sure what I did to make them all look at me. Maybe it’s my bed head. Lol.

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So I’m going to do a whole post about this after I get home but y’all this is- getting worse by the day.

Y’all I am at a book convention and this is wild. They definitely sold more tickets than they could handle because it’s a whole mess

[cecexwrites]

Y’all I am at a book convention and this is wild. They definitely sold more tickets than they could handle because it’s a whole mess

[cecexwrites]

I’m at the airport and the TSA was wild. They didn’t have us take our shoes off, they didn’t have us take electronics out of our bags. I’m- confused?

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What if all fanfiction writers had the same attitudes that so many readers do? What if we treated our stories like content?

Readers: I won’t read WIPs, only completed work and LONG fics.

Writers: I will only post finished works once a year, you will never see 90% of my ideas and have no part of the creative process.

Readers: I will only read works that have tons of views/kudos/bookmarks.

Writers: I won’t update unless I have interest in my story. I’ll post a new chapter for every 100 kudos, 10 comments, and 5 bookmarks.

Readers: I can do whatever I want with fanfics, sell bound copies and criticise them publicly.

Writers: I will delete my fics without warning and never share more.

This is how you end fandom culture. This is how you lose AO3 and access to so many incredible stories for FREE.

✨Fanfiction is NOT content to be consumed! It is community and creative expression. ✨

[cecexwrites]

I had a dream that the king and the queen of a small country had a daughter. They needed a son, a first-born son, so in secret, without telling anyone of their child’s gender, they travelled to the nearby woods that were rumoured to house a witch.

They made a deal with that witch. They wanted a son, and they got one. A son, one made out of clay and wood, flexible enough to grow but sturdy enough to withstand its destined path, enchanted to look like a human child. The witch asked for only one thing, and that was for their daughter.

They left the girl readily.

The witch raised her as her own, and called her Thyme. The princess grew up unknowing of her heritage, grew up calling the witch Mama, and the witch did her very best to earn that title.

She was taught magic, and how to forage in the woods, how to build sturdy wooden structures and how to make the most delicious stews. The girl had a good life, and the witch was pleased.

The girl grew into a woman, and learned more and more powerful magics, grew stronger from hauling wood and stones and animals to cook, grew smarter as the witch taught her more.

She learned to deal with the people in the villages nearby, learned how to brew remedies and medicines and how to treat illness and injury, and learned how to tell when someone was lying. 

Every time the pair went into town, the people would remark at just how similar Thyme was to her mother. 

(Thyme does not know who and what she is. She does not know that she was born a princess, that she was sold. She only knows that one night after her mother read her a story about princesses and dragons, her mother had asked her if she ever wanted to be a princess.)

((Thyme only knows that she very quickly answered no. She likes being a witch, thank you very much, she likes the power that comes with it and the way that she can look at things and know their true nature.))

The witch starts preparing the ritual early, starts collecting the necessities in the winter so they can be ready by the fall equinox. Her daughter helps, and does not ask what this is for, just knows that it is important.

The witch looks at Thyme, both their hands raised into the air over a complicated array of plants, tended carefully to grow into a circle, and says, sorry.

Keep reading

[cecexwrites]

🌹

"My mother always said someday I'd have a daughter that would teach me why she hated me so much- and I hate that that bitch was right."

[cecexwrites]

🐮🐮🐮

My first instinct is Harry Potter. Maybe something Werewolfy from the Fantastic beasts movies?

I think it's the belt but it's giving Shadowhunters.

I might have to do more Shadowhunters stuff

[cecexwrites]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐄𝐑𝐀 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐏𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐔𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃

❝ There wasn’t a person attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry who didn’t know the name of Ptolemus Lovegood. The silver-haired young man was his own particular kind of famous in the halls of the ancient wizarding school, but it wasn’t exactly for a good reason - everyone knew Ptolemus as the strange boy who seemed to live in his own head, sitting in every class with a faraway look in his eyes and making the strangest comments about auras and creatures no one even thought existed when he did speak at all. His only redeeming feature in the eyes of his peers was his skill as a painter and sculptor, the incredible magical artworks he created - other than that, he was nothing more than Ptolemus, the odd boy who said and did strange things and only seemed to be aware of the good things in the world, always seeing the beauty and light and looking past the horror and darkness.

He was the perfect person for Tom Riddle to corrupt.

In Tom’s mind, someone like Ptolemus, a boy of considerable power from a pureblood family of considerable renown, would be the perfect partner for his schemes of rising to power and taking over the wizarding world. If he could just corrupt the Lovegood boy to his ways of thinking, turn him against those not of pureblood ancestry and convince him that this world would be a better place if wizards had mastery over Muggles, then he would no doubt have a strong partner in his bid to become the ruler of the magical world. And so Tom made his way into Ptolemus’s world and his heart, plying him with sweet words and gentle touches and midnight meets as romantic as they could be at a boarding school, all the while thinking that it would only be a matter of time, he just had to get Ptolemus to trust him that little bit more, before he could begin to plant the seeds of his wicked ideas.

Only, he never seems to be able to do it. Because with every gentle smile, sweet kiss, and drawing gifted to Tom by moonlight, the Riddle boy finds that the pure light that is Ptolemus has started to break through the darkness that surrounds him, the Lovegood boy’s unending calmness and compassion beginning to wash away the anger that has been festering in him his entire life. No matter how much he wants to resist it, Ptolemus is making his gentle way into Tom’s heart, chipping away at all the walls he has built around his soul.

For years, the only thing that has kept Tom Riddle going, the only thing that has soothed the roiling black pain he has felt his whole life, has been his dreams of taking over both the wizarding and Muggle worlds, of forcing everyone to bow to him so that he can never be looked down on again. But the longer he spends with Ptolemus, the more he finds his pain fading and the more he finds himself genuinely falling in love… and Ptolemus, without even truly realizing it, has begun to bring the boy who has planned on becoming the Dark Lord into the light. ❞

Wizarding World Taglist: @manyfandomocs, @of-asters-and-roses.

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs, @endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginnystilinski-reblogs, @luucypevensie, @ginger-grimm, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, @eddysocs, @lucys-chen, @ocappreciationtag.

#amazing #I love him #daughter of melpomene #other peoples ocs

[cecexwrites]

hitting a point in my job where I just want to scream all the time, at the top of my lungs until I have nothing left

#it's been a day #I'm fine

[cecexwrites]

Plot Bunny: Gossip Girl + Anne Hathaway?

I love Anne.

Alicia Bass Volkov Taylor Rossdale Taylor Howard

Alicia had always wanted to be more. Born and raised in New York City, she saw the stars of Hollywood and dreamed of a life in the spotlight. When she was 19 she met Bart Bass, an older man with a young son. She married him and thus started her series of unfortunate relationship.

After Bart she met Alexei, with whom she had two children. Then she left him for Hollywood, where she met and married Jon Taylor. While with Jon she got her big break, on a police procedural that quickly led to bigger and better things, as well as her youngest child. From Jon, she ended up marrying musician Jaxon Rossdale- but Jon still held her heart. So she went back to him. Until his unfortunate passing from a heart attack.

Now, in her early 40's with a career most people would kill for and a trail of broken hearts behind her, Alicia is headed to New York, to be with her children as well as a new branch of her life- starring on Broadway.

She is in both the og and the reboot. In the Original she comes in and fucks a bunch of stuff up for Lily and Rufus because I feel that's what they deserve.

[cecexwrites]

Plot Bunny: Gossip Girl (or Reboot), Dacre Montgomery or Cody Christian

Sorry, I think the connection is bad- you said And right? Right.

Ryder Volkov

The son of a famous actress and her Mafioso 2nd husband, Ryder was born with a golden spoon in his mouth. Dangerous and volatile, he moves to New York to keep an eye on some... problems in the area.

Niko Petrov

The son of right hand of the boss, Niko knows his best bet in life is to become the right hand of Ryder, the future boss. Generally valued more for his muscle than his brains, Niko is often underestimated, as he's just as sharp and capable as Ryder. But only Ryder seems to notice or care. When the opportunity comes to go live in New York, Niko jumps on it. Because he knows for a fact that his online pen pal lives in the City.

#gossip girl ocs #do I know who the penpal is? #no

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Just got off the phone with a guy worried because I mentioned when his twenty year old son drops off his car for repairs there will be a paper he needs to fill out. I told him it's just to tell the mechanics what's up, it's super easy. his son can do it. He says 'oh, it doesn't need to be filled out by an adult?'

Your... your son is 20. Babes, he is an adult

#customers are a wild ride

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Fun Fact, Maite?

Maite wears basically the same thing all the time because she is afraid of looking dumb for trying (she does eventually get over it but it takes time)

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🐮🐮

Oh the Teen Wolf Vibes. This is fantastic. Oh I love

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my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.