minifemslashfeb 2024 summary - COMPLETE!!
WHAT A MONTH. and here we are, at the end of it. somehow. obligatory "congrats for surviving february" to you all. it was certainly hectic for me, but I crawl on. we all crawl on.
also, yes, my cat decided to use my tablet as a sleeping pad every single time I sat down so we were dealing with some obstacles along the way. you know how it is with cats. (she was rewarded handsomely for allowing me to use her sleeping pad to draw, don't worry.)
BUT in any case, please check out all the amazing entries this month that people have contributed to the tag: minifemslashfeb2024! I'm so happy to see so many people participating this year, definitely go take a look, there's so much epic sapphic content, we LOVE to see it!! other femslashfeb events ran this year too, so go feast. go on. lots out there to discover. wonderful world.
as always, stay awesome, stay loving, thanks for keeping me company once again.
cheers to another year ♡
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Up All Night 1
Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, narcissim, probably name calling and nasty words, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (older!reader)
Note: I wasn't serious about this but now I were. Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.
Part of The Club AU
You rub your cheek as you check the time in the corner of the screen. You should’ve been gone an hour ago, you should have your bottle of shiraz and your episode of housewives to keep you company. You don’t know why you expected that, nothing ever goes to schedule, not with your boss.
You sigh at his empty office. You haven’t seen him for two days. He has an automatic reply that he’s ‘working remotely’. You know Mr. Drysdale well enough. He doesn’t work outside the office, he barely does anything at the office.
You go back to the PDF, your red notes in the margin of the manuscript. Big meeting tomorrow. Hopefully your boss got that message. You can only imagine what would happen if a publishing house missed their introductory conference with a major writer. That could mean thousands, if not millions, in losses. Somehow, you suspect you won’t have to imagine.
You finish the chapter and press your finger to your phone. It lights up but you don’t have anything more than the several reminders you set for yourself and automated notifications from apps you never use. Drysdale…
His last name rolls from your throat without meaning too. Something about him just irks you to the bone. Maybe it’s envy, or at very least, resent. You’ve worked all these years in the publishing business to become an assistant, all while he was born into his editor’s chair.
Another bubble pops up. You’re not the social media type. You never got much into it. Your generation came a bit too early for that, but you’ve found with men like Drysdale, narcissists really, it is a great tool.
You tap the notification and it opens the story. There he is, taking a shot with a pair of statuesque twins. Not the best look for an editor, on that night, of all nights.
You clamp your lips shut and flare your nostrils. Right. You close your laptop as you see Eugene making his sweep. Once security pops up, you know you’ve got to go. You pack up your things and say hello to the man in the blue uniform on your way out. He knows you by name too.
You shift your glasses on your nose, the little rubber pieces starting to squeeze your bridge. You come out the front of the building and make your way to the only car left in the lot. You throw your bag in the back and drop into the front seat.
No wine for you. You’ll have to stream the episode when it comes out on Prime. You set a new alarm for the morning, early enough for you to make sure Mr. Drysdale meets his obligations.
📗
As expected, you don’t have a single call from Drysdale. You’ve left several messages since your alarm blared and broke through your four hours of sleep. You see his last activity on Insta from three in the morning and you want to throttle your own phone. This isn’t good.
You have only enough time to get yourself ready. Your morning routine of a perfectly portioned breakfast and precisely brewed dark roast is nixed. You get in your car with coffee in a travel mug. You have only one thing on your mind.
As you draw up the long drive to the ultra-modern facade, the revulsion courses from your stomach into your throat. There’s something about his style that makes your eyes roll. So obnoxious and absurd. He’s exactly a caricature of a silver-spooned brat.
You park behind the beamer and take a draw from your insulated mug. Ugh, you need caffeine, you need strength and patience. You put it back in the cupholder and force yourself out of the peace of the front seat.
You stride up the white stone walkway and hit the doorbell. Once. Twice. Five times before you admit you will not receive an answer. You bring up the emergency file in your phone and key in the door code. Drysdale would shit if he knew his mother sent you it but she is a lot smarter than him. It makes you wonder how the apple rolled so far away after falling.
You let yourself in. It’s quiet but for the catch and skip of a forgotten record. You go into the front room. Open bottles of liquor forgotten on the glass table, a broken glass on the floor, and the record player crackling through the speaker.
You pull the needle off and pause to look out through the transparent wall that gives a clear view of the entire room. You know Drysdale to be shameless but really?
You put your phone away and approach the stares. The large gap between each gives a sense of vertigo to your ascent. You get to the top and head down the hall, glancing down over the entryway as you do.
You carry on and open a door; closet. The next, a bathroom, the other, a bedroom but not used. And finally, you find the door you’re looking for. On the other side, Mr. Drysdale sleeps with his ass naked in the room, upside down on the bed with his head hanging off the foot. The same woman from his Instagram are entwined with him as they sleep the right side up. Ugh, you don’t want to picture it.
You go into the en suite bathroom and take the sleek black plastic cup from beside the sink. You fill it with cold water and unhook the amber satin robe from the door as you pass. You march to the bed and dump the water onto Ransom’s head, watching it splash down his back.
He yipes and whips his head up with an unattractive snort, “what the fuck–”
“Robert Laing is due at nine. It’s ten to eight.” You drop the robe over him carelessly and spin on your heel, “let’s go., Mr. Drysdale.”
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Rick leaned so hard into the incest for the first few books. There’s so many of these scattered throughout the books, causally mentioning that all of the campers share facial features and the traits their godly parents like the most. Not to mention calling each other by familial names (cousin, sister, uncle, etc…).
He should have just leaned into it instead of trying to retcon it and then retconning his retcon in the same paragraph.
“But the thing is, the godly side of your family doesn’t count, genetically speaking, since gods don’t have DNA.”
Well, that’s not what the other four books say but alright. We can pretend that this is what Rick meant all along. Problem solved. oh wait, there’s more…
“A demigod would never think about dating someone who had the same godly parent. Like two kids from Athena cabin? No way.”
But they’re not related. You just said they aren’t related. Most of the campers are also only there for summer, so they aren’t “like siblings” or “raised together as siblings” and they aren’t adopted. Why wouldn’t they date if they wanted to?
“But a daughter of Aphrodite and a son of Hephaestus? They’re not related. So it’s no problem.”
Yes, we know they aren’t related because gods don’t have DNA and because they aren’t “like siblings” or “raised together as siblings” or adopted. Kind of like how Annabeth and Malcolm aren’t related, aren’t like siblings, weren’t raised together as siblings, and aren’t adopted. So there’s no problem with Annabeth and Malcolm dating.
🙄
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