#and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!! #my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her) #hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet. #i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!! #i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art. #i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

[dark-noctis]

Favorite tropes/AUs list to inspire writers

I personally find these posts very helpful when I'm experiencing writer's block, which I currently am, so I thought why not do something like this in the hopes of getting inspired myself along the way. If your writing has any of these tropes, tag me. I want to see them so badly

Romance:

- Angry love confession but make it a bit more angsty: Character X risks their life to save character Y and they barely make it out alive. Cut to X waking up only to be greeted with an absolutely furious Y. They ask something in the context of why are you so mad at me, dumbfounded, but Y just yells because I love you

- Hurt/comfort is top notch for friends to lovers slow burn, to be honest. BUT it's before the relationship is established, and they're touching each other way too much, the line between friendship and something more intimate utterly blurred. The hug extends longer than it should, the one who's comforting the other strokes the other's hair in a way that can't be platonic, that type of shit. The pining and inner panic. Bonus if it's queer.

- Rivals/enemies to lovers and forced proximity. Either they're united under the same goal, locked away, or any other plot device you use to improve this. The slow burn and banter this trope serves is probably unmatched.

-Character X is bilingual. Before a particularly dangerous mission or the aftermath of a catastrophic event, Character X calls Character Y a word of endearment in their native tongue (could be love, darling or anything you wish really) and Y only understands what the word meant when they hear it with context days/weeks later. (Preferably enemies to lovers again)

- Okay this one is a personal favorite. Character X confesses their feelings for Character Y, truly believing that their love is unrequited. The dialogue goes something like Say that again / Don't mock me, please / You misunderstand. I am not mocking you, [name], I am asking the person I love to tell me they love me again.

- Characters X and Y had a really bad fight that ended in X saying they never want to see Y again. A few weeks/months/years later, Y goes to X, about to die, says that they wanted to see X one more time before dying then loses consciousness. Ultimately up to you if they die or not, but I love the angst either way.

-One MC being completely oblivious to the other one's jealousy. So fun to both write and read.

Character arcs & plot:

- Fantasy/sci-fi MC going BAMF. I don't care if there's romance for this or not, I just love it. Sheer show of power. Awestruck enemies. Aftermath that leaves the MC questioning their morality. God-tier.

- Already low-key morally grey protagonist slowly turning evil. Bonus points if it's in fantasy and their actions are grander than they could ever be in contemporary. Because let's face it, the sunshine friend becoming a cheater doesn't really do much, but a hero turning against the people who they would have sacrificed everything for mere months ago? Phenomenal.

- One MC being extremely hurt, bloody and bruised, knocking on the other MC's door, saying I didn't know where else to go and collapsing before the MC can even make sense of what's happening. Except that they're the most unlikely person —either a protagonist/antagonist, hero/villain or similar dynamic— they would ever go to, but MC has no other choice but to help. Not necessarily romantic, but that also works just as well. (Again, probably works best in fantasy. Apologies to my contemporary writers, I swear I'll do you good.)

- Usually emotionally distant character being really honest and vulnerable and loving when drunk. This isn't necessarily meant for romance, it can be a friendship, mentor/mentee bond, found family, or QPR. Anyway, the MC is vulnerable for the first time in front of the other(s) and they find it endearing, their bond naturally strengthening after whatever progresses.

- The private school friend group trope will never get old for me. Especially if they're overtly pretentious and elitist, and the whole book is just a mockery of that whilst still developing the plot & character arcs efficiently.

Some other things I love:

- Literary references. This usually appears in works with Dark Academia themes like The Secret History, but your work desn't necessarily have to be like that. Quotes in other languages, references to classics, quoting poetry.

- Mythology retellings. Bonus if it's something other than the Trojan War, there are rather a lot of books on it. (And I eat it up every time, what about it?) Doesn't have to be Greek Mythology, I love seeing more unique ones, especially Egyptian and Norse.

-Poetic language. This is more about the writer's style and the scene being written, but I love flowery language at times if it flows well and doesn't outshine the plot & characters.

AUs:

(This part is for my fanfiction writers. I adore you all. Anyway, getting to the point.)

- Modern Royalty AUs for historical dramas or period pieces. When I tell you that this AU is so good if you want to write forbidden romance and angst I mean it.

- It may be the biggest cliche ever, but I'm weak for coffee shop AUs. Sue me, but they're comforting. Amazing opportunity to write fluff, if you will.

-Can't go wrong with the aftermath of torture + hurt/comfort combination.

-Reincarnation AUs. Pretty self explanatory, I think. Bonus points if it's matched with a soulmate AU if you're writing romance and they fall in love in each life time.

#writing prompts #my writing #writing prompt #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #tropes #dialogue ideas #ship dynamics #enemies to lovers #fantasy #villain x hero #hero x villain

[bluejeanlouis]

COMING SOON: The Yellow Roof, 1970s AU by kiddle

Louis is a gifted musician spending his days on the wrong side of a drive-thru window. Harry is the lead singer of a band in need of a little talent. Their big break is a thousand miles away. 

Preview under the cut:

With a deep sigh, Louis leaned his chair on its back two legs, propping one of his feet up next to the till in front of him. The sun was blinding between the trees of the neighbourhood across the street, striking his eyes through the drive-thru window. He yanked the blind closed even though he wasn’t supposed to when the Fotomat was open. But there was no one around and his ability to give a shit had decreased significantly today. Slurping on the can of Coke he brought with him, he pulled out his lyric book.

Louis was not a poet. In fact, the pretentious and dull poetry class he took in his second semester at college was detrimental in his decision to drop out a year later. He didn’t like the confusion of poetry and the rules despite being an art form that claimed to be free of them. Don’t get him wrong, he was confident in his own writing, he just didn’t want to be taught how to do it.

But one look under the cover of that notebook would reveal pages and pages of poetic garbage. Some of it was great, and a couple had even ended up as actual songs back when Louis was performing solo at bars before he gave up on that too. Most of it was scribbled chicken scratch. That was just his process.

He held the notebook against his knees, tracing dark lines across the last words he wrote last night with his pen. It was some bullshit angsty heartbreak harnessed from his high school first love mixed with the anger of being sacked from a band that he was the best instrumentalist in. Sometimes that kind of emotion makes for a perfect writing session, and sometimes it’s a diary entry you never want to see the light of day.

Louis bit the end of his pen, rereading the words on his page. ‘Heart’ had to be the most overused word in love songs, and he had it down in every verse and the chorus. Love songs weren’t even what he wanted to write about. It wasn’t the only feeling out there. It sure as hell wasn’t the most predominant one in his mind.

A loud and abrupt knock on the window made Louis nearly leap out of his seat. His notebook and pen tumbled to the ground as he dropped his feet from the desk. He yanked on the string to make the blind spring back up, knocking his Coke over in the process. He picked it up just as quick, groaning at the mess it made. All the commotion caused the stack of pickup envelopes next to the widow to splay out over the desk in front of him. Now that the customer could see him, he tried to push him all out of the way before he slid the window open.

“Hi, welcome to— Shit!”

One of the envelopes had landed in the small puddle of spilled Coke. He tried to wipe it off on his jeans as quickly as he could before returning it to the scattered pile with the others. Once he finally composed himself, he tried to greet the customer properly.

But then his face fell to disgust.

“What are you doing here?”

“You left so quickly yesterday, we didn’t have the chance to talk,” said Harry, the lead singer of Louis’ former going-nowhere band. Harry had one hand casually rested on the steering wheel, the other elbow poking out the window, and sunglasses sitting low on his nose. Louis hated how effortlessly cool he could always look. It made him the perfect goddamn lead singer.

Louis rolled his eyes. “What did you want me to do? Beg for you to let me stay? ‘You’re out of the band’ was pretty loud and clear.”

“I mean, I thought we could have a discussion about it.”

“So you showed up to my work to have a discussion about it?” He hunched over so just his head was sticking out the window, his fist squished into his cheek to hold his head up.

“You wouldn’t answer the phone last night.”

“Take a hint,” he snapped, then slid the window shut with enough force to make it bounce halfway open again. He pushed it the rest of the way closed in a huff.

But Harry hadn’t driven away yet, so Louis slumped over in his chair and refused to look in his direction. Why the hell would he show up here? Just to rub it in his face? The new guy always loses the band argument. Louis was over it, and he had the faint remnants of a hangover to prove it.

He took a swig of his Coke that was now almost empty. No one ever left any napkins around here, but a few tissues seemed to do the trick to sop up that puddle. As he tried to avoid getting sticky hands, Louis could see Harry getting out of his car in the bottom corner of his eye. Then he heard the window opening again.

“Louis, listen to me,” Harry pressed. He had his hand in the way so Louis couldn’t shut it, but it did cross Louis’ mind to crush his fingers just to get him out of here.

“Go away,” he stated, pulling the roller blind between them. If only it was soundproof.

The blind sprung up again, revealing a wildly frustrated Harry on one side and an indifferent Louis on the other. He was pretending to read a copy of Vogue that one of the girls from the after-school shift left behind last night.

“We have a meeting with a record company in L.A. and they’re expecting a four-piece to show up. There’s no time to find a new bassist, so you’re back in the band.”

Louis folded down one corner and peeked his eye over Carrie Fisher’s head.

“How’d you get a meeting? The band sucks.”

Harry stared at him, angrily chewing on his lip, then turned around with a huff. “Fuck you,” he muttered, opening his car door.

Louis waited for him to start the engine and leave, but then the words “L.A.” and “record company” flashed with lights and sirens in his mind, and he imagined this opportunity driving off and never looking back.

“Wait!” Louis called out, tossing the magazine to the side and launching himself out the back door. He ran across the front of the car and slammed his hands on the hood so Harry couldn’t move the car an inch further. They eyed each other, and when Louis trusted that Harry wouldn’t speed off the moment he moved, Louis ran around to the passenger seat and got in.

Harry shook his head, both hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. “I’ve been dealing with your bullshit for ten years, man,” he said.

So maybe Louis wasn’t being totally truthful about what happened with the band.

Louis met Harry in his first year of middle school. They ended up in the same gym class, which was hell for every twelve-year-old, but for people like Louis and Harry, it was just a little too much to bear. They found skillful ways to ditch whenever possible, especially when it came to running the mile. Sometimes they’d hang out near the back of the group when everyone was filling out the gym doors, then slip out the side and circle the building before the teacher saw. The equipment closet was full of plenty of hiding spaces that begged to be taken advantage of. The best days were when they had a substitute who wouldn’t even notice that they never came back from a bathroom break in the change room.

In high school, they drifted, hanging out in the same group of freaks and burnouts, but not often with each other. They’d find themselves at the same parties and bickering in the same cars full of friends, but that initial bond had faded. Once college rolled around, they weren’t surprised to find out they’d be going to the same state school, but discovering their dorms were across the hall from each other was quite the shock.

They had become inseparable again, except for the inevitable monthly fights that left them not speaking to each other for days at a time. That went on for about two years until Louis dropped out and Harry continued with his literature degree. During that time, they hardly saw each other at all. Louis began to wonder if their friendship had only ever been one of convenience. But just as the year of 1972 was beginning, Louis got a phone call from that on-and-off best friend of his asking if he wanted to join his band.  

Harry and Louis fought from day one, but just as much as they hated each other’s guts, they loved each other too. Louis would still consider Harry his friend, but he would have no problem telling him what an insufferable bastard he was right to his face. It was a brotherly bond. Sort of.

“How’d you get the meeting?” Louis asked, turning sideways in his seat. “When is it?”

“We sent in our demo and they want to talk to us. That’s it,” he said. “The meeting is next week and they want all of us there.”

“Me included?”

“You’re on the demo.”

The demo was pretty shit if you asked Louis, but he decided to keep that to himself. They recorded it at their old college in the crummy basement studio run by students, and you could guess that by the first listen. Louis looked out at the empty parking lot ahead of them. He had memorized every detail of this parking lot. It had become the scenery for his life. He couldn’t wait until he never had to look at it again.

“Do you actually want me back in the band?” Louis wondered, sincerity in his voice for once.

“I—” Harry started, but didn’t look him in the eye. “I want to be at a place where you could be in the band without the two of us constantly at each other’s necks.”

“That would be nice, yeah,” Louis sighed.

They sat in silence, Louis weighing his options and Harry wondering if he really should’ve taken that ignored phone call as a hint.

“So, what, is this to discuss an album deal?” Louis asked, hoping more detail might help his decision.

“It’s to discuss our potential. They didn’t tell me a whole lot, but if they want to spend their time on us then they gotta have some hope.”

A car horn blared loudly behind them, an impatient customer waiting his turn to desperately develop the photos from his five-year-old’s birthday party, surely. It startled them, but that was Louis’ cue to get back to work, he supposed.

“Can I think about it?” Louis asked. He was already halfway out the door.

“Not for too long. We meet them next week.”

The horn blared again.

“One second!” Louis called out. The guy in the car flipped him the bird and Louis wasn’t hesitant to send him one right back.

“What’s the label?”

“CBS,” Harry said.

Shit, Louis thought. CBS was no joke.

“Move your fucking car!” the guy behind them hollered out his window.

Harry glanced at the angry face in his rear-view mirror, then ignored it completely. Louis looked like he was about to leave, but Harry grabbed his arm to stop him. “Before you go, take this.” He dropped a roll of film into Louis’ open palm.

Louis looked at it curiously, his other hand on the door handle. “What’s this?”

Harry laughed. “Photos I need to get developed. This is a Fotomat, is it not?”

“It is,” Louis said slowly.

“I’ll be back in twenty-four hours,” Harry said, plucking his sunglasses off the dash and sliding them onto his face. “For those photos and for an answer.”

#larry fanfiction #it should be completed this spring #i've never made one of these posts so i had a little fun with it #let me know what you think if you want!

[svycrsave]

me again! I had to completely rewrite this just now so it probably sucks, but the show must go on !!

(MAXENCE DANET-FAUVEL, CISMALE) - Have you seen SAWYER MAXWELL? SAWYER is in HIS SENIOR year. The THEATER MAJOR is 21 years old & is a SCORPIO. People say HE is GREGARIOUS, VEHEMENT, PRETENTIOUS and FLIPID. Rumors say they’re a member of KINCAID SOCIETY. I heard from the gossip blog that HE HAS SUGAR DADDIES TO HELP AFFORD TUITION.  (BEE. 23. EST. SHE/HER.)

sawyer maxwell was born into a very cushy upper class family living on the upper east side. His dad is a broadway producer and his mom is an art buyer for those even richer. Him and his sister were basically raised by nannies and tutors.

Still he couldn’t help but look up to and adore them until he walked in on his dad having an affair. It all had to be kept hush hush and thats when he learned the importance of image and how people perceived him.

But because of this sudden revelation that his parents were both self absorbed selfish people who hadn’t felt love between them in years if ever at all he felt even more disconnected and started acting out aka just partying a lot and embracing the stoner life and basically had a found family in a group of artsy pretentious stoners from school.

He went to LaGuardia high school for theater because even if he disliked his dad, he couldn’t help be be enthralled with the world of theater and acting and he really wants to direct and star in a sundance worthy indie film.

he came out as bisexual his junior year of hs

he very much has this obsessive need to be seen as interesting and adored by those around him so he’ll do almost anything that’ll lead to a good story the next day

he suffers from big hearted bitch syndrome and is actually v sensitive like he’ll def write you poetry and make you play lists and just wants to sit under the stars and get deep with you

at one point he started doing insta lives where he’d be tipsy/stoned and just talk about whatever was on his mind, but one night something/someone really upset him and he went on a mad rant airing out a lot of his fams dirty laundry and basically got cut off but shhh that last part is a secret

but he couldn’t let people know he was poor and he had to keep paying tuition so after one day getting hit up by a sugar daddy on insta he decided this was his answer. It was easy to keep discrete and money !!

Sadly it wasn’t that easy. The person he was dating at the time and madly in love with found some of his messages with a few of the sugar daddies and broke up with him and left him madly heart broken and he really hates himself because he can’t stand cheaters and yet he kind of was one.

He became very moody for a while after the break up, very into getting very shit faced and sleeping around and def had a rebound or two, but now he’s trying to get his act together to try and win his ex back.

ok idk what else, theres still more to be fleshed out but we’ll leave it at this

some wc:

THE ex - this is a big ol’ wc because it had such an effect on him, he’s still so in love with them and would do anything to get them back, this will have so much angst pls give me this !! 

ex from freshman year - idk we can do whatever you want I just love ex plots

Best friends with feelings - these two have been super tight ever since the day they met and they basically act like they’re dating but they’ll deny any feelings…until… who knows let’s make this spicy and angsty and soft and all the thing !!

stoner buddies - this is pretty self explanatory, but v vital to his social life

the golden group - a group of friends who all met senior year and have just stuck together ever since, probably go on trips together and just always getting into trouble by each others sides

fwbs - sometimes he do be a hoe, give him some solid hookups

a group of theater friends - have you read if we were villains? kind of like that, but without the murder... allegedly

#yatesintro #and here it is !!

[not-poignant]

okay that uni AU with augus gwyn and the raven prince intrigues me but how do you manage so many story ideas? i hope your doing well also i do wonder what uni course TRP would take because he's always seemed a bit mystical to me thank for all your writing x

okay that uni AU with augus gwyn and the raven prince intrigues me but how do you manage so many story ideas? 

Mostly by being really strict with myself, lmao.

I’ve never had a problem with idea generation, I can only watch other people say ‘how do you come up with ideas’ and think PLEASE TAKE SOME OF MINE THOUGH because I go through these ‘idea generation’ phases where I come up with like idk, 30-40 things I want to write at a time and of those 30-40 things there’s like 5 I really want to write. My writing folders are filled with plot bunnies, including Fae Tales AUs from 6 years ago that I still think are good contenders (some still have playlists, like Hard Edges - a Gwyn/Augus/Ash OT3 human AU where Augus and Ash work as prostitutes and Gwyn is in the military and needs to keep his being gay on the down low because of his family).

If I start talking about or mentioning an idea, or brainstorming it, then chances are I really want to write it and it’s at the top of my ‘to do’ list, but that still doesn’t mean it will get written, because I am very loyal to my current stories. I feel like serials and longer stories are like a commitment you make to a person, if I decide to put the characters through my particular brand of hell, then I owe it to them (and the people invested in that story) to give them a happy ending and not abandon them. Ethically, that’s how I feel, it’s like an ethical choice, it’s very weird and dskaljfsda yeah. This is why I don’t abandon long stories halfway through (I may stop early on, and I can abandon PWPs but they’re both different for me). It’s also why I have to be so strict, my loyalty to current projects is always first.

It’s not even something where I get like, bored of current projects. I really don’t. I am 100% into The Ice Plague and Eversion and Spoils of the Spoiled and wish I had more time for those too! I just...have a lot of ideas. Tbh a lot of my life is like, as soon as I finish a project, doing a really crunchy assessment of what I really want to most work on, what is logistically a smart thing to work on (as much as I would like to spend all my life writing different fanfic ideas I cannot make an income off that and I think some of my original ideas are pretty good too!), and then idk, stare at like the 10 different ‘PLEASE DO THIS ONE URGENTLY’ list I have (and the 30 below that, which are like ‘PLEASE DO THESE ONES TOO’) and then I get to pick one thing and that’s...I mean that is the hardest part, always wondering if I’ve picked the right thing, and knowing that once I’ve picked it, that’s 1-3 years of my life gone to that project (longer, if it’s an original serial). 

This is why at the beginning of a project I’m often really angsty about whether people like it, if I should stop the project, if I need to quit, and I’ll go through a lot of agony and anguish and stupid anxiety over it like ‘oh god people hate it why am I even doing this I should pull out now because I won’t let myself once I hit chapter 10 so quick, quit now you made a MISTAKE.’ (It really doesn’t help that my beginnings are often the weakest parts of my stories, no matter how much work I’ve put into this, it’s still true even if it has improved).

(Btw - I never have regretted it, I’ve never regretted a single project I’ve put a lot of my time or myself into). Still, it’s when my poor beta/friend needs to offer the most tangible reassurance, and I turn into a pathetic lump over it, lmao. It’s especially hard if, around the same time, I’m getting asks like ‘when are you going to do more RotG stuff? When are you going to do more TGATNW? Are you ever going to work on this AU idea?’ because they cause major ‘OH GOD I AM, I AM DOING THE WRONG THING’ episodes. Tbh, starting to write Game Theory and committing to it, when - at the time - most of my asks were still about SAL for ages, and ‘when are you coming back to RotG’ and literally ‘I don’t want to read your original stuff so when you come back to RotG I guess I’ll come back and read’ - was probably one of my most trying times, but also taught me a really important thing: I have to write for myself, because other people want me to work on about 60 different things, and some of those things aren’t good for me to be working on. Like, I want to make everyone happy. I can’t.

At least I can (and do) work on more than one thing at the same time!

As for the Raven Prince, I’m not sure what course he’d take! It’s fun to think about though. I know Augus is probably taking botany, and I’ve had some thoughts about Gwyn, but the Raven Prince I think would end up around hard sciences like chemistry, bioengineering or chemical engineering with like, a minor in poetry or literature. He’d want something that was literally a chance to experience alchemy, and the chemistry sciences are the closest one gets to that these days.

But a human Raven Prince (whose first name would be Corvus, and yes, he legally changed it himself heh) in this universe would be in some ways very different to the Fae Tales Raven Prince. Like, he needs a completely different back story, and he simply can’t be as wise or learned as he is in the canon, so he’s probably going to be pretentious uppity dickhead with emo fashion sense and obscure taste/s in music and literature, and I already love him :D

#asks and answers #pia on writing #fae tales #fae tales AU #shell games #the raven prince #tbh i don't mind people expressing an interest in old or new fandoms #or being like 'when are you going to work on this?' #or 'i'd like you to work on this' #but if it happens right at the beginning of a new project #my brain breaks a bit #because on the one hand it's like 'omg you're interested in me writing for this thing you like that's so COOL' #and on the other hand it's like 'but...i am already writing...all these things...pls send help' #lmao #anyway #tl;dr being strict and writing down the ideas that i want to write the most #administrator Gwyn wants this in the queue #Anonymous

[queerpieceofmind-blog]

Being Thankful for the Worst

I’ll be honest: I’ve been on a (public) writing hiatus. It’s been almost two years since I’ve done...well, much of anything significant creatively. In that time I’ve been hospitalized twice for suicidal thoughts and talked through a LOT of therapy. I am in no way “cured” or in “remission” if that’s even considered a possibility when it comes to depression and anxiety. 

I’ve learned to accept that no great shaman or therapist or “higher power” is going to give me directions in a world of GPS. Only I can steer the driver’s wheel of my life and end up somewhere. So far, refusing to go anywhere until I can figure out exactly where I’m going hasn’t been working out so well.

Insanity is doing the same thing (or nothing) and expecting different results. It’s exhausting, numbing, and can be fatal--spiritually, physically, mentally, and especially romantically (ha!)

So here’s my first attempt to turn such insanity on its head: radical thanks for all that is keeping me from moving forward. Full disclosure: there were originally over ten points to this list but I whittled them down to the three big ones.

What I’m thankful for:

My depression

Living with depression is a constant mind fuck. I still have people in my life who try to get me to explain it. The best way I can describe depression? It’s like a constant argument in your head about whether staying alive is worth it. The coping skills I’ve gained from therapy are immensely powerful. Without my diagnosis I would have never found the type of therapy that really benefits me. While I still have that other side of my brain occasionally teasing me with “it’d be easier if you just didn’t exist,” the voice I give more power to is the one that says, “Whatever, I have things I gotta do.” I shrug off that mean bully in my head because that’s what it is. A bully. And bullies are full of bullshit.

Moving back home

I swore when I left my parents’ house at eighteen that I’d never live in Florida again. I’ve even found notes in my old journals that are so pretentious in nature that I actually made fun of future-me because I never imagined a scenario where I’d be back in my high school bedroom. If I hadn’t moved back home though, I’d probably be dead. That might be a blunt truth, but it’s mine to own. I needed somewhere safe, even if it was immensely uncomfortable. It turns out my family needed me as much as I needed them. I changed my driver’s license on Election Day 2016, and as depressing as that night and subsequent day (and months, and years...) were, the rest of 2016 brought the toughest months I’d ever experienced and I GOT THROUGH IT. My stepdad was a wreck which meant my mom was a wreck, and as much of a wreck as I was on my own, I was able to channel what was left of my energy into making sure we were all getting the help we needed. I didn’t think about it like that at all at the time. In retrospect, my family was holding onto one another, struggling to stay afloat. We held tight, and the storm passed.

Avoiding writing

Counterproductive? Absolutely. Yet, I found my way back into reading books for pleasure instead of lurking the internet for articles that would tell me how to live correctly/happily/decently. Not writing was torturous. Not reading was where I found true despair. At a young age I found myself terrified of forgetting who I was and what I felt. I wrote angsty poetry and kept track of those important moments so I’d have something to look back at. When my depression was at its worst, I wanted nothing to do with remembering what that felt like. Wanted no one to know what twisted dark thoughts were swirling around in my head. I thought I’d thrown my life away and there was no way to go about getting that back. I anticipated dying or at the very least not existing for much longer. I didn’t want anyone to find the ramblings of a sad, apathetic me. Letting that reality go took a long time, but it made me realize how much I missed the things that matter the most. I’ve got a lot to catch up on. Thankfully, I’m confident enough now not to let that creative side of me go to the wayside. I’ve grown and will continue to water this seed of understanding to form a bigger, better picture.

#musings #personal #depression #anxiety #mental health #writing #reading #moving back home #creativity

[theblobmaster]

first part fic rec: got7

GOT7/JJP

(very unfinished js)

the ones with hearts are favourites :)

All In A Day’s Work | Multiple Pairings, Youngjae-Centric | 2.749w

Youngjae woke up one morning to the feeling of sweat trickling down his back. Considering he was on his side, it was not a comfortable feeling.

Definite Soul | JJ Project | 81.467w

In this world, people just wants to be acknowledged. Praised for their acting. Applauded for their singing. Or just by doing their job well. But a select few just want to be remembered.

Wilder | JJ Project | 76.619w

Newly graduated, Jinyoung is determined to try new things. New parties, new boys, and when Mark asks for a favor, even volunteering as a counselor at summer camp. But new experiences can get complicated, and he quickly finds himself a little out of his depth.

the grandfather paradox | JJ Project | 32.822w | ♥

Jaebum locks himself in a cyclic normalcy of work, home, life, and the two people he now loves most in the world- his husband Jinyoung and six-year-old son Yugyeom. So when a mysterious teenager shows up in his life and messes all that up, to say that he's just a little displeased by the change would be an understatement. But Jaebum soon discovers there's more to this quiet, truthful boy than meets the eye, and knows that he has just about four days to find out why.

tea lights | Mark/Jackson | 72.146w

in his first year of high school, jackson joins the astronomy club and meets a quiet, star-loving boy called mark.

pushing daisies | JJ Project | 68.639w

in which jaebum insists he's never seen jinyoung before, and jinyoung insists he doesn't care, and the beginning of spring is late, but there are flowers everywhere.

hooked | JJ Project | Ongoing | ♥

Jinri is one of the newest cast members of We Got Married. Jaebum, of course, is Completely Fine With This. (Coed GOT7 AU)

you have stolen (me heart) | JJ Project | 13.275w

In retrospect, maybe a stripper would have been a better alternative to getting a hybrid as a pet.

read you like a magazine | JJ Project | 42.515w | ♥

Ever since Jaebum passed auditions and he didn't, Jinyoung's been hell-bent on hating the guy. Now that they're in uni together, it's like destiny is screwing up all of his plans.

Better Late Than Never | JJ Project | 45.302w

An AU in which Jinyoung and Jaebum are both pretentious rich boys who go to a prestigious college. All their lives they've hated each other, constantly competing for attention and approval from each other's parents and peers and just generally despising each other. But when Jaebum suddenly disappears in high school, Jinyoung doesn't have to worry about him anymore--until Jaebum shows up at Jinyoung's college five years later and everything goes straight to hell. Disastrous photoshoots, drunken camaraderie, and aggressive makeout sessions.

Of douchebags and pretty boys | JJ Project | 7.151w

You steal my parking spot all the time and I was just heading out to leave a strongly worded note under your windshield wiper but oh no you're hot AU Starring Jinyoung the kindergarten teacher and Jaebum the (arrogant yet dorky) business man

we never go (out of style) | JJ Project | 5.027w

(you’ve got that james deen daydream look in your eyes)

Jinyoung and Jaebum don’t have bad blood, you heard it here first

soloist!JB and actor!Jr au

Mark of the Monster | Jackson/Mark | 11.192w

Jackson turns quickly, face still skywards, and he watches with fascination as Mark takes off. He's not sure he's ever seen anything more beautiful.

Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters/X-Men AU

This Christmas (I’ll give you my heart) | JJ Project | 33.736w

Jaebum and Jinyoung have a fight at the supermarket in the morning. Jaebum and Jinyoung find out they're arranged to be married in the evening. Jaebum and Jinyoung fall in love, but only in time.

OR

Shouting match over the last Christmas goose at the grocery store AU

yellow heart | JJ Project | 1.813w

there are quite a lot of mistakes a person can make when people shift up and down their snapchat best friends list, and it happens by chance that jackson fucks up the order on jinyoung’s phone by sending him endless videos of himself lip-syncing to old pop songs.

aka au where jinyoung sends jaebum nudes by accident

(why don’t you) speak it out loud | JJ Project | 9.477w | ♥

either way, jaebum suffers.

write your story | JJ Project | 3.505w

"Do you ever stop and worry sometimes about what would happen if you suddenly get hit by a car, and when you lay there bleeding out on the ground, the first thing anyone sees on your phone is a lesbian OT3 fic from the kink meme," Bambam wonders.

"No," says Jinyoung, because the thing he worries about the most isn't lesbian porn, but of anyone finding his growing collection of Jaebum's dick pics accumulated over the years. "I don't."

Or: a fandom/fic writer AU.

How to Get a Dick Pic in Five Steps | Mark/Jackson | 3.221w

It was three weeks since Mark hooked up with a guy he's been nonstop texting. With some pressuring from his asshole friends and a helpful five step list from Youngjae, Mark gets a dick pic.

keep it upstairs (for the grand finale) | Hyung-Line | 6.201w

Jaebum sees romantic, sexual, all and any other partners - Jaebum has always seen them as point a or point b, as parallel lines, separate entities. You pick one or you pick the other.

Jinyoung, on the other hand, puts point a and point b in a circle together, Jinyoung draws lines that criss and cross. Jinyoung pushes people together until they fuse. An alchemist creating something new.

king missile | multiple pairings | 6.721w

Jaebum and Jinyoung returned to the study room only to see five crying boys in front of them. Bambam was on his hands and knees, bowing repeatedly to a screaming Mark, who was being held back by Jackson.

Yugyeom was shaking underneath the table, cradling his head in his arms as he rocked back and forth. Youngjae was face down, another sticky note on his forehead which read, “He’s dead, I killed him.”

or: They have a group project final that everyone forgot about.

The Line That Separates Us | JJ Project | 19.659w

When Jinyoung turns eleven he can't wait to join his best friend Jaebum at Hogwarts. He isn't expecting something as trivial as being sorted into a different house to divide them.

opportunity cost | JJ Project | 4.377w | ♥

kim yugyeom, 25, is PA to park jinyoung, 29, feared ceo of park powers (this sounds marginally less ridiculous in korean). a lot more intellectually insulting and ghei than it sounds.

Love So Sweet | JJ Project | 6.763w

Jinyoung has a secret admirer that leaves him candies with messages on it. All he wants to do is to find out who it is, thank them for the affection, reject their feelings and then go back to thinking of Im Jaebum 24/7.

look  at me for a sec (don’t be too awkward) | JJ Project | 10.021w

in which a bludger shatters jinyoung's shoulder and jaebum ends up volunteering to feed him breakfast.

when i was a young boy | JJ Project | 8.011w

Gryffindors and Slytherins Do Not get along, every one knows this. It's bit unfortunate for Jinyoung and Jaebum, childhood friends sorted into the two rival houses.

Jaebum might not handle it very well.

(Alternately: Jaebum makes overdramatic generalisations and probably writes angsty early teen poetry.)

Untitled | JJ Project | 9.7K w | ♥

Flirting through the drive through radio

#jjp #jj project #got7 fic #fic rec #markson

[hes-a-rainbow]

The Hoet

Requested by Anon from this drabbles list!

25.“Drunk me is like regular me, except with more grammar errors and a deeper meaning to everything.” (I changed up this quote to work with the story better.) 26. “I’m glad to know you think of me when you’re drunk.”

A/N: I used Bukowski because I vaguely remember Harry talking about reading his work once. Enjoy! 

P.S. This has not been edited, only re read by me so sorry if there are any grammer/spelling mistakes!

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Angsty, blink and you’ll miss it NSFW

“I will remember the kisses ...our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me. And I will remember your small room...the feel of you...the light in the window...your records...your books...our morning coffee...our noons, our nights. Our bodies spilled together; sleeping. The tiny flowing currents. Immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg. Your arm, my arm. Your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.”

You rolled your eyes as you watched your friends hang to Harrys’ every word. He always did this when he was drunk. After a few drinks (usually three) he would start becoming some sort of amateur poet, except none of it was his original work. He had a way of remembering things. Song lyrics, movie lines, etc. But his specialty was poems. He could somehow remember them perfectly. And he could somehow remember them drunk. This was his go to poem from his go to poet, Charles Bukowski. It irked you just how pretentious and predictable he could be some times.

Your eyes roamed over the faces of the girls practically fanning themselves on top of him on the couch they all sat at. Usually you would call Harry out for his bullshit poetry sessions, but it was the day before his birthday so you thought you could at least give him this one. It was also his sure fire way to getting laid, which meant he was definitely looking for someone to warm his bed tonight for a little bit of birthday fun. Your stomach knotted at the thought of who it would be in your close knit group of friends and how you would still have to see them after their night rolling in the sheets. Everyone would know it had happened but no one would bring it up.

Harry was one of your closest friends and of course, just like everyone else, you had fallen for him somewhere along the line. You never told him but you were sure it was obvious. He was a smart man and he could always somehow know exactly what you were thinking.

A part of you hoped maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he was just oblivious because it was you, but you knew that was wrong. He noticed every blush you made at his cheeky yet sweet comments and he noticed how your body tensed under his touch. The great thing about Harry was that he was so good at reading people; he knew what would make them uncomfortable and vice versa. So he never bought it up and you were thankful for that, not wanting to hear his rejection. (Which would probably just be another quote from Bukowski or one of those rom coms he was always watching.)

The night had been fun so far. Harry had invited his closest friends to his house for a dinner party. His closest friends included about fifteen people.

He had said he wanted to be “an adult tonight and a teenager tomorrow”, referencing the club hopping he wanted to do the night of his actual birthday. But of course, like clockwork, Harry started reciting lines of poetry that you have heard a thousand times before. You knew you weren’t the only one in your friend group who had a crush on him, but it still bothered you to see them so blatantly all over him. At least you were somewhat subtle about your crush. At least that’s what you thought.

“Wow, Harry that was amazing, did you write that?” Your friend seated next to Harry placed her hand on his knee, ignoring all the other people around them. You knew what was going to come next, Harry’s speech about how he didn’t write it but he felt it. He would go into such detail about how he had felt a spiritual connection with Bukowski and how he would swear up and down they had met in a past life.

You rubbed your forefinger and your thumb against the bridge of your nose, trying to calm the annoyance you always felt when he got this way.

You pushed yourself off the wall you were leaning against in the far corner of the room and made your way into the kitchen, you didn’t need to watch these girls fawn over him any longer. Not to mention, this would probably all happen again tomorrow night.

A few of your friends were sat around the kitchen table, talking among themselves, completely unaware of the poetry session being given in the living room.

Their conversation didn’t falter as you entered the room. You walked straight toward the make shift bar on Harry’s kitchen counter and poured yourself another glass of wine, nearly downing it all in one gulp before filling it up some more.

It was nights like these that were the worst, knowing you were going to go home alone while Harry was spending the night with someone else; you being the last thought on his mind.

You always fantasized about him randomly confessing his feelings for you one day and then taking you right there, where ever you were. (You mostly fantasized about him bending you over on this very counter).

You leaned your hands against the counter. The warmth of your body nearly sizzling when it came in contact with the cold granite. Taking in a deep breath before letting it out through your lips.

“You shouldn’t frown like that love, you’ll get wrinkles.” Harry’s voice came from behind which caused you to jump. You were so deep in thought you hadn’t even heard the click of his boots as he walked up behind you.

He was so close that when you turned to face him your back grazed his chest. You hoped he chalked up your red cheeks to the alcohol.

You stared up into his eyes, wishing he would just go away and leave you to your thoughts. Why was he even talking to you anyway? Shouldn’t he be schmoozing up somebody else? Somebody he’s actually attracted too?

“You know you become a real pretentious asshole when you drink.” The words were out of your mouth before you could even think about the repercussions. His eyebrows lifted in surprise but soon a small smirk tugged at his lips.

He leaned down a bit so he could whisper in your ear, “I could say the same about you.” He didn’t pull away right away, but when he did, he had that shit eating grin that you were well acquainted with.

“I like you better sober.”

“Sober? Drunk me is like regular me, except with a deeper meaning to everything.” You scoffed at his words, side stepping passed him and out of the room. You had decided you had enough of him for one night. You just wanted to go home now.

“Where are you going?” He called after you. This time you could definitely hear his boots clicking behind you. The both of you ignored the stares your friends gave and the occasional questioning of your names as he followed you up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. You walked over to his bed, picking up your jacket and purse before turning around and nearly breaking your nose against his chest.

“Where are you going?” He repeated in a more stern voice this time. He towered over you, making you feel like a small child about to be reprimanded.

“Home.” You tried taking a step forward but he just moved with you, blocking the path to his door.

“Why? It’s not even midnight. Don’t you want to ring in my birthday with me?” His breath smelled of the expensive wine he had gotten tonight.

“I think I’m good, there’s more than enough suitors downstairs to help ‘ring in’ your birthday.” You emphasized your point with obnoxious air quotes. Again, you tried to make your way passed you but again, he didn’t let you. This time he put his hands on your shoulders, holding you in place.

“Harry.” You spoke sternly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to look more intimidating but failing completely.

“Babe,” His tone was more mocking which made you even madder.

“Seriously, why do you even care? It’s not like I’m going to be the one you fuck tonight!” You knew you would regret your words tomorrow, but right now you were going to stick with them no matter the result.

He leaned back a bit, obviously confused by your statement. He let his hands drag slowly down your arms, raising goosebumps along the way, until he reached your hands. He casually linked your fingers together,  rubbing his thumbs across the back of them in a soothing manner.

“Well love…” Your teeth clenched at the pet name. He slowly raised his eyes to meet yours. “Who said I don’t want to fuck you tonight?”

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was the wine or the close proximity but the room suddenly felt increasingly hot. You didn’t respond, words racing through your head trying to find the perfect response. It didn’t seem like he was joking but he had to be, right?

He sucked in a breath through his teeth causing your eyes to flicker down to his lips, the same lips you fantasized about a thousand times. He raised his hand to rest on the side of your face, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. You just stared at him, trying to calculate his next movement.

“Ya know, I’ve wanted to kiss you for the longest time…” He let his thumb swipe over your bottom lip again, this time pulling it down a bit to expose your teeth before letting it bounce back into place.

“You are just one of those people who don’t know how incredibly sexy they are. It truly amazes me…” He moved his hands down your shoulders again before landing them on your waist, rubbing calming circles into the soft skin on your hips.

“I think that in some way, you not knowing only makes you more beautiful.” He pulled you closer to him, connecting your bodies by your waists until there was no more room left in between you two.

Your breath caught in your throat at the feeling of him pressed up against his jeans. He rolled his hips against yours causing you both to let out a sigh. He had a look of pure concentration on his face. He was biting his bottom lip and his eyes looked they were trying to see inside your soul. You hadn’t noticed that your hands were clinging on his biceps for dear life, most likely leaving marks from how hard your finger tips were digging into his skin.

“Well-” Your voice cracked. You were trying to sound confident but it only came out whiny and pathetic.

Your mind was racing. You had a million thoughts per second and you had no idea if this was real or some very cruel, realistic dream.

You squeezed his arms one more time to make sure he was really there.

He was as real as could be and this was really happening.

You moved your hand upwards so it could rest on the back of his neck. He finally let go of his bottom lip; his tongue sweeping out to wet it. You lightly pulled him down so he could be closer to you, closer to your lips that you wanted him to kiss so badly. You saw his eyes close but you kept yours open, still vigilant in case this was all some big joke and in a minute everybody was going to pop out and say “Surprise! He never wanted you, bitch!”

That one thought alone made you rethink everything. Just as you felt the ghost of his lips on yours, you pulled away, successfully putting distance between you two and getting out of his hold.

His eyes shot open. You almost pitied him for how pathetic he looked in that moment, but your brain reminded you of the facts of the situation.

He was drunk.

You just so happened to be in the right place at the right time for him to make his move. You were only his friend who he would only want for one night and you knew you couldn’t put yourself through that. You knew that if you gave in you would only want more from him, and you knew that was not something he could offer. Your brain was a cruel place, always putting you down instead of lifting you up. But this time you thanked her for being the only rational part of your body at the moment.

Harry opened his mouth to say something but you cut him off immediately, “I’m glad to know you think of me when you’re drunk.”

This time you did sound confident. You were suddenly stone cold sober and completely aware of your thoughts and actions. How could you have almost kissed him? How could you have let it get this far? You were both drunk and that was all. He didn’t mean a word he had just said, or at least that’s what your brain told you. And she could be such a bitch sometimes.

“What are you-I’m not drunk!” His voice raised a little too loud, something that he did when he was, indeed, drunk. He looked confused and hurt but you had convinced yourself it was because he realized he wouldn’t be getting any tonight, well at least not from you.

He took a step towards you, “Okay, I may be a little tipsy, but I meant what I said!”

Emotions were a weird thing. So weird in fact, that at this very moment all you could do was laugh. His face twisted in bewilderment as he tried to figure out what was going on.

“What the hell?” He whispered, more to himself than to you.

When you finally got your giggling under control, you leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek.

“Oh, Harry. You’ll realize the mistake you were about to make in the morning. Trust me, I stopped something terrible from happening.” You place your hand on his chest and added, “Happy birthday, H.” You walked out of the room before he had any time to react of respond to your words.

Thank you for reading! I left it a bit open ended so there could be a chance of a part two. (Also because I’m a hoe for cliffhangers)

Masterlist

#harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #one direction #one direction fanfic #one direction smut #one direction fluff #one direction blurb #one direction one shot #one direction imagine #1dff #original writing #harry styles x reader

[findteenpenpals]

hello!

hey! i’m tia, i’m 14 and i’m live in a shithole small town in the uk. my life’s pretty boring tbh so i’m the queen of making things sound more dramatic than they actually are. also i must mention that i’m pretty gay so i love wholesome gay memes a hell of a lot.

interests: oh jeez i like a load of things but i’ll just list a few. i like drawing but if i’m honest i don’t think i’ll ever be able to do figure drawings. i like reading, mostly realistic teen fiction (not the romance kind but not the super pretentious either) or books about feminism and radical women. i like writing stories and bad angsty poetry a lot that i will probably look back on and think is really stupid years from now. also i like singing + playing on my ukulele although i’m not that good at either of those things

music/film/tv shows: i rlly like twenty one pilots - but i’m trying to broaden my music spectrum, so if anybody wants to recommend music to me that’s cool. i’m getting into sorta like lofi instrumental hip hop and just generally chill indie music and obviously my fave is hayley kiyoko. as for film i love disney like a lot - i’m going to disney world in summer. my fave disney film is probably moana or zootopia and my fave pixar film is inside out which gave me life. but also dead poets society you literally cannot comprehend my love for this film i love it like too much and it’s probably my favourite film tbh. i’ll watch basically anything on tv although cartoons are my preference - i really like steven universe, gravity falls and i think we bare bears is pretty chill and cool.

penpal: rlly hoping for a german speaker ‘cause i’d really like to make my german better because right now my speaking is pretty limited and my grammar can be a bit dodgy sometimes. but if you speak english (like as an only language, i mean) still talk to me if you’d like to but why would you tbh. i’m looking for someone around my age (14/15 ish) who’ll wanna be like long term friends. also if you’re sapphic that’s pretty cool man. if we become friends i know that i get attached super easily and i’m a pretty needy and annoying friend. i’m either gonna be super hyper interested (and super hype about something) or really like apathetic so yeah.

i’m gonna use internet because i don’t know if i could send mail and i don’t really want people knowing where i live but if we become super ultra best friends then i might try and figure a mail situation out 

so yeah pls don’t be shy just hmu if you’re even like a bit interested

email: softlow_aesthetic @ hotmail . com

instagram: softlow_aesthetic

tumblr:  softlow-girl

#pen pal #pen pals #penpal #penpals #pen pals wanted #Internet friends #friends #13 to 14 #submission

[foremost-of-noble-ladies]

Do you write much? I write poetry and fiction the most but occasionally I think about what it would be like to write a drama or a musical. Do you like musicals? If so what is your favorite? RENT was the first musical I ever saw live so it has a special place in my heart, even if I really like other musicals more in some senses.

I, like many, wrote a lot of poetry when I was a teenager. Being that this was at the height of my goth/emo phase, most of it was angsty and morbid, and honestly, VERY pretentious. I don’t write much poetry anymore (except for the occasional Lik the Bred meme).

I’ve been writing prose ever since I could hold a pencil. The first short story I ever wrote was when I was in kindergarten, and it was about a good witch being raised by her three evil witch aunts who were trying to turn her evil too (as I was five at the time, my concept of ‘evil’ was essentially being mean and having bad manners). She asks her friends at monster school (a vampire and a ghost) what she should do, and eventually she gets adopted by the vampire family who are good vampires.

I still write from time to time. Last year I wrote a short novella about a princess who’s obsessed with mermaids. I have an ao3 account, and I’m working on a Friends AU where Rachel doesn’t get off the plane to Paris.

I LOVE MUSICALS. sooooo much. My favorites are Into the Woods (the stage version, not the Disney one), Singing in the Rain, and Bells are Ringing. I’ve only ever seen one musical live, and that was Les Miserables and it was amazing, so I know what you mean. Even though Les Mis isn’t my favorite, per se, it’s still really special to me.

[eirabach]

This Be the Verse

Angsty modern AU Lieutenant Duckling for a CS Writers’ Hub prompt. Probably the most pretentious thing I’ve ever written, and that really is saying something.

With apologies to Philip Larkin and dedicated to Sascha, wherever he may be.

1.8k. T for language.

She doesn’t really notice him until he starts bleeding.

She’s used to keeping her head down, always the new kid, always the weird kid with the hand me down clothes and a permanent scowl.

She’s never had time to worry about the other weird kids, not when her own school career has been punctuated by cruelty and laughter, and bruises that bloom like flowers, hidden under too long sleeves.

He’s probably the weirdest of them all. Scrawny and pale, with lank dark hair that hangs in his face and eyes like shards of glass. Nobody seems to know where he’s come from - not from round here and that’s for sure - his accent sharp and bitter and different, just like him.

The kids see difference and they sneer at it. Some half-wild feral boy, unloved and unwanted, his clothes half rags and his cheeks hollow; easy pickings for the gangs of roving jocks with their sly, piggy eyes and their whey protein muscles.

It only takes one of them to hold him, class rings digging into thin shoulders, while three more thump and pound and laugh and holler.

It only takes one punch back to stop them laughing.

So it is that the first time Emma Swan really notices Killian Jones, he’s bleeding from a slash on his cheek and sporting a split lip, his eye purpling as his chest heaves and he spits bile on the floor at his feet.

But more than that, more than gore and bravery and sheer stupidity against the odds, she notices fury.

After all, she knows what it’s like to be angry.

–

“Why’d you do it?” she asks afterwards as she dabs blood from his chin, his tormentors dispatched with the careful placement of her knees and dire warnings about being beaten by a girl. “Did you think it would make them respect you? Cause let me tell you, kid. It doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t it?” he asks, teeth gritted as she reaches the cut on his lip. “They didn’t appear keen to suffer your disapproval.”

“I’ve been around longer,” she says with a shrug, leaning back to admire her handiwork. “They know I can handle myself.”

“I can handle myself,” he says petulantly.

Emma hands him the bloodied tissue, her mouth twisting into a smile.

“Funny way of showing it,” she says.

He stares at her, his eyes blue as cornflowers now they’re not narrowed in anger, and she thinks she sees his lips twitch as if he’s considering a smile of his own.

When he leaves, he doesn’t say thank you, and she doesn’t say goodbye.

–

She notices him more after that, even though he rarely looks her way. Rarely looks anyone’s way, as far as she can tell, instead wandering the halls like a rain cloud, only stopping to scrawl furiously in some dog eared notebook or start fights he never seems to win.

She’s never sure if he really wants to, but then she’s not in a position to ask. Not when she’s got her head down just as far, her own personal cloud always threatening to burst just over her head.

When he does look her way, he’s bleeding again.

“What are you in for?” he asks as they sit side by side outside the principal’s office, the knuckles of his left hand swollen and bloody. “You look pretty good - should I see the other guy?”

She shrugs, leaning her head back against the wall to examine a water stain on the ceiling.

(Looks like Michigan, she thinks. She’s never been there. Maybe that’s next. Maybe it’s a sign.

Maybe it’s just a burst pipe.

Maybe that’s the sign.)

“Katie MacVee lost her cellphone.”

His eyebrow ticks up.

“And you’re accused of stealing it?”

She smiles, rolling her head to the side to look at him.

“Not yet.”

“Do you get accused of theft a lot?” he asks, sounding almost affronted on her behalf.

“Only sometimes,” she sighs, and then laughs shortly. “Sometimes I just get caught.”

When he smiles, he’s almost beautiful, and when he’s called through, she almost misses him.

–

He writes poetry, the type that doesn’t rhyme, and she pretends to scoff - he hasn’t been to class in a month, he’s not fooling her with his tortured intellectual act - but it speaks to her in a way she can’t express except through the crumpling of the paper when he tries to pull it back, the smudges of ink on her fingertips as she refuses to let go.

They’re like that, the two of them. Drawn together although they’ve only ever known how to be alone. She, quite literally abandoned and unwanted from the off, and he the feckless, useless second son of a yet more feckless father.

They curl up under the bleachers, rain dripping down the backs of their necks, taking damp puffs on clove cigarettes as they hide from a world that doesn’t care to look.

He’s quiet, mainly, so she bitches about her foster father and picks at the scabs on her forearms. He um‘s and ah’s and threatens to kill him in all the right places, until eventually she’s staring up at him, her face slack from shock.

“No one’s ever done that before.”

“Done what?”

“Listened.”

He takes a deep drag, blowing rings that rise above their heads, sooty halos for nobody’s angels.

“Nobody ever does,” he says.

“Except you.”

When she kisses him he tastes like smoke, and she wonders what it feels like to burn.

–

She knows it’s his birthday, finds out when she’s stuck in the principal’s office again, abandoned while her case worker pleads for another chance, another semester, that she already knows she won’t get.

The file isn’t even hidden, lying out on the desk like that so if she peeks - Killian and troubled and alone and just like her - if she peeks no one can blame her.

(They always do, anyway, so why does it matter?)

There’s no time and there’s never money, so the best she can manage is sneaking through the library stacks, keeping half an eye on the librarian as she runs her finger down the spines of books only he’d ever checked out. She finds her prize, tucking it under her jumper with its security tag hanging limply from the underside of the shelf, and wraps it in the bathroom with two sheets of an assignment she’s never going to hand in.

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad,” she tells him when she meets him by the lockers, thrusting the package into his hand with a hasty, half cocked smile. “That’s how it goes isn’t it?”

He catches sight of her caseworker hovering over her shoulder, the cardboard box at her feet and her sour expression, and let’s his fingers linger on hers, pressing them down into the book as though she might yet leave an imprint behind.

(She never does.)

“That’s how it goes,” he says.

It always is. It always, always is.

When she leaves, he doesn’t say thank you, and she doesn’t say goodbye.

–

She doesn’t think of poetry for years.

Not during the next move, nor the one after that. Not even when Ruth Nolan finally makes her her own, giving her a new name and a new brother and an education she actually cares about.

She think about him, though. He’s a hazy memory in damp leather who escorts her through smoky bars. The invisible presence by whom she judges a bad boyfriend whose kisses never taste right. Two bad boyfriends. Six. Ten.

She mentions it one night to her brother’s wife - the teenage crush with the bloody knuckles and a mind like quicksilver.

“Can’t you find him?” Mary Margaret asks, her romantic soul soaring at the thought of a reunion that fills Emma with dread.

“Can’t remember his name,” she answers, shrugging off the lie and sipping her wine.

Killian, she remembers, Killian Jones. Killian Jones who was perfect when no one else was, who thought she was perfect when the world crumbled at her feet. How many could there be? How hard could he be to find?

(How much would it hurt to fail. How much would it hurt to see him turn away.)

She finds people for a living, but she never finds him.

–

The library is an accident.

She’s chasing a skip through slicing rain  when she slips and falls, leaving half the skin of her kneecap on the sidewalk. She hobbles through the nearest open door, spitting invectives as she drips onto the marble floors.

“Are you alright?” somebody whispers, and she looks up to meet the soft brown eyes of a young woman who sits behind the huge mahogany desk, tiny on her upholstered throne.

“I’m alright,” Emma says, still favouring her uninjured leg. “Could I?”

She gestures towards one of the long tables set between the stacks, and the woman smiles, nodding her permission as Emma gingerly settles herself to examine her knee.

“Yeah, but did you see him?”

“Of course I saw him, I thought I was going to faint.”

“That neck!”

“That face!”

“I wanted to bite it!”

She can hear the glare the librarian is sending the gang of high school girls who are gathered at the end of the long table, their faces flushed pink as they squeak over some likely unsuspecting boy, and it’s enough to send her limping away through the stacks looking for a quieter spot to lick her wounds.

Little puffs of dust appear at her feet as she wanders deeper, led by some sense she can’t name to where anthology and collected works rising around her, their leather bound spines warm under her fingertips.

It grows darker, gloomier, the books older and thicker and mustier, until she’s swallowed up by the strange unreality of it all, her heart beating faster and faster until she’s almost ready to run - run back to the gossiping girls and the prim librarian, some nameless, faithless ghost at her heels -

And then the ghost looks up from his sea of words, catches her in the snare of his too blue eyes, and she knows that she’s doomed.

“This seat taken?” she says, but it sounds like I missed you.

He pulls out her chair with ink stained fingers, and it sounds like I know.

–

He still smells like leather and cigarettes and rain, still writes in the same looping cursive, still calls her Swan in that accent that’s only grown rougher with age even though she tells him “It’s Nolan now.”

“No wonder I couldn’t find you,” he says to that, smiling as he presses a tissue gently against her bleeding knee. “He’s a lucky man.”

“There’s no man, lucky or otherwise,” she says, and his smile grows, creasing the corners of his eyes and reminding her just how very many years have passed while they’ve lived their separate lives - marginalia in each others biographies.

He tells her about reform school, the navy, the dishonourable discharge and the hand that’s not quite right. He tells her about how his perfect brother died an ignoble death on foreign soil, how his father bled out in a bar fight - a hundred thousand grazes she wasn’t there to salve.

“There hasn’t been a day go by I haven’t thought of you,” he tells her earnestly, and what can she say in reply but the truth?

“Good.”

(They don’t say goodbye.)

#cs ff #captain swan #cs crew #lieutenant duckling #cs au #cs angst #clare vs writers block #this be the verse

[lazerbeamzlifeblog]

To be honest.

“When people tell me that they’ve been accepted to a college or something, I’m usually “congratulations!” but I don’t really mean it (for most people anyway). I say that because I truly didn’t doubt them. I knew they were going to be accepted because I knew they were capable, brilliant, and well-rounded. Of course I would be happy too if I was the one receiving an acceptance letter but secretly I knew it would never happen. The only time I’m ever going to say “great job” sincerely is when someone does something totally unexpected and/or something that will truly impress me.

I don’t know why I’m lying and being fake when I say “great job.” I know it’s the fear of being hated on and likely being told “well you didn’t get an acceptance letter from UF, you’re going to a community college, so who are you to talk” or I’m going to be told to be happy for them. Yea yea whatever. I just don’t know why I have to care or why I actually do care about what other people think of me and how I should control my behavior. I just want to be myself and actually show my true emotions in situations like this where I don’t have to fake being happy or sad for others. I wish society was more accepting of that than creating these standards on how to act for like every situation that happens. 

I’m sorry I’m being pretentious but I don’t give a fuck. I’m being honest right now.”

That was from February 13, 2016 at 7:39 AM. It is January 13, 2017 at 9:48 PM and counting. I’ve come across this note I’ve made on my phone like all others I do. I progressed from writing on deviantart to an actual journal to writing on my phone and now here as well. Anyway, I occasionally look through my poems and philosophical ideas I put on notes on my phone and I thought it would be a good one to think about for this week and reflect how I’ve changed since this moment. I also look through it for journals here but most of them are recent or even if it is old, I still have the same opinion on it. This one, however, I think I’ve changed from it. Reading that makes me cringe. It sounds so juvenile and stereotypically teenage angsty-esque even though I’m still a teenager. Now, I feel like I am more honest and open with people. I still say “good job” when I don’t mean it but less frequently (probably because I don’t really talk to anyone since I haven’t really made friends in college but still). I say things on my mind and whatever I want more without caring what other people are saying while still maintaining being professional with teachers and my boss. I’m more open to who I am with people, even if I don’t really know them. I am out at public more and I don’t really care if I meet people from high school there. I feel more free and honest to myself and others and that makes me happy. Just one year can change a person. I wonder who I’ll be in 10 years.

I hope you enjoyed that and seeing my thoughts from a year ago to now. It was interesting to me. Thank you for reading and please like and reblog if you liked what you read. I also posted another poem this week on my blog, “lfernandezpoetry” so please check it out, it would mean the world to me. I usually post on Fridays at EST on this blog and my poetry blog so if you ever wonder when to expect when new content comes up, well now you know! Thank you so much!

13. January. 17. LF

#lfernandezlifeblog #lfernandez #philosophy #changing #perspective #teenager #older #journal #life #college #high school #expression #honesty #to be honest

[purplesaline]

Frost

An original piece from around 2002. Vastly different from what I tended to write which was usually very immediate and about intense emotion and connection whereas this was much more aloof and reserved. More distant. I thought that it lent itself well to the story, matching the emotional atmosphere with the physical atmosphere.  The ambiguous gender identity of the MC was characteristic of my writing during that period. Sometimes done purposefully, other times unintentionally. The MC’s bias against ‘intellectuals’ is their own and does not represent my own feelings.

It’s late December, or so the conventional calendars read. To be honest it feels more like January to me, but then my weather sense has always been off kilter from living in the south for too long. I judge winter by the first snow, which leaves me feeling deprived of a summer more often than not as we tend to get at least one or two short falls in July and August.

But no, it was late December and with every step I took I could hear the crunch of ice and snow beneath heavy arctic boots and could feel the moisture from my breath freeze on my face, an unpleasant feeling and the possible onslaught of frostbite unnerved me a little. The day had barely begun, sun still sitting low on the horizon with a ruddy orange glow that should have given the illusion of warmth, yet somehow in this bleak tundra it only served to make things feel even more empty and cold.

The few clouds that were in the sky were a crimson stain against the lightening blue, vivid colours framed above a stage of white that could have been beautiful in its own right if I’d been feeling more charitable towards the stuff. I did, however, find the thick ice shell coating everything in sight to be quite enchanting, a crystalline embryo that glittered in the early morning rays as if in some fantasy world where everything was made of precious gems.

“It’s pretty.” I’ve always been known for my understatements and stating things in such a small and simple manner tended to frustrate those I surrounded myself with.  Intellectuals spoke with the same heavy, cumbersome words they wrote with, defining each sight to the extent where one no longer even needed to see it. I preferred to let people see things for themselves and so treasured the simplicity with which I pointed them out. I would be lying though if I didn’t admit to the pleasure frustrating my colleagues brought me.

“What is?” My companion; overly serious, intellectual, and blind to any wonder of the world that didn’t have a sign above it stating and explaining its wonderfulness to mankind. I suppose the frustration I delighted in wreaking upon my colleagues was vengeance for the frustrations I suffered at their hands, specifically at the hands of the man currently claiming my mittened one tenderly in his own bare and calloused version.

“The Hoar frost. I like the way it catches the light.” I pointed it out to him as a child might point out a rainbow seen for the first time, the same naïve and innocent delight coating each of my words the way the frost coated the trees. I giggled while my companion looked around without really seeing anything, the sight of the frost bringing to mind an old cartoon of a caveman caught unaware of the ice age and frozen into a rather compromising position.

“Lady of the Night frost.” His words caused me to miss a step in momentary confusion and I felt myself tugged slightly forward as he continued to walk along the well-trod pathway, my hand still caught firmly in his.

“Lady of the what frost?” I was fairly certain that hoar frost was the correct term for the thick ice that encased everything, reminiscent of the way the rock candy experiment back in elementary school science coated the piece of string. I regained my balance and rhythmic motion, looking up at the face that hadn’t glanced back at me to see if I was all right.

“Lady of the Night frost. Hoar frost is no longer politically correct.” It took me a few moments to realize that despite his completely straight face and lack of any sort of teasing tone the man was cracking a joke. That was another thing that frustrated me about his kind, their overly dry sense of humor and the smug look they get when another person finally understands the joke.

“That’s ridiculous.” I was feeling particularly childlike this morning and my voice came out sounding sulky and petulant at taking so long to comprehend his jest. My companion merely smirked and let his long legs continue to propel him along the pathway at a pace that left me having to speed up my own steps to keep up. The man had no consideration.

“So is political correctness, with people spelling woman in such a way as to eliminate any form of spelling man and teachers being chastised for using the word ‘niggardly’ to describe a character in a book.” I nodded slowly as the words sank in, pondering the meaning behind them in silence as the morning journey continued. My companion apparently felt it unnecessary to further the conversation, lapsing into a silence that held much the same consistency as my own thoughtful musings.

“Why?” I had a tendency to tilt my head like a small bird when I asked a question. I’d been told it made me look endearing and adorable, neither classification pleased me but that was only because I disliked being classified to begin with.

“Politicians. That’s why it’s called ‘Politically’ correct.” I would have directed a withering gaze his way but it would have bounced off with little to no effect. He was speaking in his condescending, teasing tone again, which meant that he was only pretending I was an idiot that needed everything spelled out for them. I hoped he was pretending anyway, it was hard to tell beneath the superiority complex and overwhelming arrogance.

“Politicians get paid to make people happy.” He went on as if I had asked for further clarification, likely for the best since I didn’t think I could keep the exasperation out of my voice. I bit my tongue and looked down at my feet as we walked; linking my arm through his so I could sidle up a little closer to the heat he gave off while I half listened to his explanations.

“They actually can’t do anything to make them happy because society can’t make up their minds on what they want, and that would be far too much like work anyway, which we know politicians avoid. So instead they make up new ways of speaking that won’t offend anyone.”

I had to admit that it made some sort of sense, in a twisted intellectual way. It was so simplistic in its delivery that I wondered if I was rubbing off on him or if he was still too tired to dream up a convoluted explanation that would require hours of translation by dictionary.

“I suppose.” I said, and he went on to explain how the politicians always overdid everything, making themselves look pompous and ridiculous in the process but refusing to give up on what could get them re-elected. I’d already stopped listening to him, recalling an idle story my mother once told me about a pot and a kettle, once again focusing my attention on my surroundings.

“Lady of the Night frost.” I spoke into the silence he’d finally lapsed into. He’d been speaking to hear his own voice until he realized that I hadn’t been listening, which was likely why it had taken him so long to notice my inattention. For the first time that morning he looked down at me, a questioning gaze that asked in the lover’s secret code ‘What the hell are you on about now?’

I giggled in that childish way I had, amused and gleeful. “I like it.” I said, and he grinned at me then pulled me a little closer to his form as we continued on with our walk.

Thought I would toss something up while I’m working on the next installment of my Sanvers - One Night Stands fic. If there is interest I can put up some more work from my archives. I’ve got a few short stories, some flash fiction, and some truly angsty/emo/pretentious poetry from my teens and early 20′s. I’m sure not all of it is as bad as I remember ;) If you’d like to support my writing and/or photography consider donating to my ko-fi fund which is currently being used to help catch up on some bills accrued during a mental health lapse.

#writing #prose #short story #original content #into the archives