#i guess i did have a stranger things draft i wrote but i lost it and it pissed me off too bad so i let it go

[attheexactlyrighttimeandplace]

Some last minute thoughts and wishes before episode 7 comes and become the game changer that will ruin all theories.

I don't know if i lost for good my theory that the Stranger was Sauron because episode 5 ruined it almost completely but not totally.

I guess he wasn't wrong to wake up grumpy (and to kill few fireflies or bend the trees and make the land tremble in the process) after being sent like a meteorit to the other side of Midde Earth, and after ending with half of his brain so fried that he couldn't remember his name and even started eating paper.

So let's say he's an istari, possibly even Gandalf or Saroumane, asked to carry the mission to help the side of the elves and humans to form an alliance against Sauron, how did the Valar know that Sauron was going to make his move even though he was hiding under a different form all this time and acting like a deceiver? Even the eruption of Mount Doom wasn't his work unless Adar lied and he is Sauron.

Did they really sent a powerful maia for one moriondor and hundred orcs that an army of 500 Nùmenoreans has beat easily? If it wasn't for the hilt, Adar would have been completely defeated.

Did they foresee that the hilt will be discover and chaos will ensue? Then why not sent their messenger directly to the Southlands to retrieve it before the dark forces could put their hands on it? And why sent him in this miserable state? Has he been attacked during his trip by the Mystics and is it the reason of his amnesia? Was he forced to change his destination? Is the fire without a heat felt by Nori just a maia thing, shared by Sauron in Morgoth's lair?

In all cases, if this theory is crushed, it won't be my biggest regret because i wanted it to be true only for Nori's character development and the fact that she was never be exposed to corruption and deceit before him. It would have been too a good explanation of why Sauron doesnt' take the Hobbits seriously.

My biggest regret would be, after rereading all those old arguments i wrote and left in my drafts, for my other favourite theory to not be true either: Arondir as Sauron.

I don't have the time and the space to explain all my reasons but damn if he wouldn't have been the best Sauron!

I mean physically, intellectually and strategically (well except for the way he has hidden the hilt), he's so superior to everyone surrounding him, including the other elves of his company.

I've rewatched since few hours all his scenes and few facts surprised me: like he's been in every episode of season 1. The only other character with Galadriel to have been constantly on screen, and sometimes even when the the Southlanders were absent (episode 3 Adar), though he didn't have the same number of scenes as Galadriel of course.

The thought of Arondir being more than he seems hit me again while watching him defending alone Ostirith. It struck me that his speed, strength, and agility were on a level i've never seen any elf shown before, except Galadriel (when she killed the troll) As an elf, of course, he's gifted with many supernatural abilities: piercing sight as confirmed by Galadriel during her talk with Isildur, and piercing hearing as showed by Elrond when he spied on Durin and Disa, but Arondir has always been different: he has always dominated everyone else, in every way. A true image of grace and balance, of perfection even during fights. Something i imagine that Sauron would want to project, as being himself obsessed by Order and Control.

It's hard to deny that he's beautiful as a fallen angel should be and the casting magnificently reflects that. It's not a shallow comment: everything about Ismael Cruz Cordova's look conveys the idea there's something surnatural about his appearance even for an elf: from the natural elegance of his movement to his gorgeous skin color. In return he's attracted by beauty: by the human fragile beauty of Bronwyn, by the wild beauty of The Southlands. He said to Bronwyn: "beauty has a great power to heal the soul" and that's how i imagine that Sauron would have tried to heal his soul from his past actions as the "beautiful servant": immersing himself in the beauty.

He didn't want to leave the Mordor Southlands with his company. a place that combines beauty (it has recovered from the destruction of war) and darkness (their inhabitants are still the descendent of the men who are linked by a blood oath to Morgoth). Arondir has always assumed the fact that he was drawn to this land and its inhabitants, which makes perfect sense if he's Sauron considering his connection to Orodruin.

In episode 1, he went alone in the tunnels which shows an incredible confidence in his ability to survive, and surprisingly almost no fear, not even after he saw the devastation inflicted on the village of Haldern.

He never sent for help from the other elves (it's strange that nobody reacted in Lindon to this garrison that never came back home, despite the king's order to disband the outpost).

In episode 3, he fought and reacted with a precision that is mindblowing and that no other elf of his company showed (not even the watchwarden): during the escape attempt, he was the only one bold enough to take an axe and destroy the tent that was hiding the orcs from the sun, strong enough to chain the warg alone, restrained it alone and killed it alone (in a spectacular move). This scene is only surpassed by his fight with the giant orc in episode 6.

In episode 4, after he was freed by Adar and returned to the village, he sliced an orc (using Galadriel's technique shown in episode 5) as if he had done that all his life, while he was supposed to have never seen one before. He said to the watchwarden that he was a sower before his assignment to the Southlands, but the region was supposed to be in peace since the defeat of Morgoth and the escape of Sauron (Adar said that Sauron had gathered all the last evil forces and lead them to the extreme north).

And later in the forest when Theo and him were pursued by the orcs, the way he avoided and caught an arrow with his bare hand and sent it back, killing the orc he targeted all while never stopping, was incredible.

But it's in episode 6 that the clues seem the most significative: one of them was when Adar was inside Ostirith tower before its fall, and Waldreg and an orc came at the same time to talk to him. The dialogues were a strange merger between these two discussions as if they were about the same person, whereas the orc was talking about Arondir while Waldreg was talking about Sauron:

Waldreg: Meaning no offense, Lord-father, but where is he? What happened to Sauron?

The Orc: Can't find tooth nor tail of him. Must've got smart and scarpered.

Adar: No. The Elf's here. I smell him.

And like i said, he destroyed alone the watchtower, plus his fight with the giant orc in the village was spectacular in every way.

I like him too as Sauron, because i like the parallels he had with Adar: the connection through the seeds, the promise of a new Eden/life made to Bronwyn after the battle while Adar promised a home to his orcs, their past meetings in which they didn't try to kill each other while having every reason to do so, the idea that instead the writers opted for a game between the two dark leaders: Arondir/Sauron trying to stop Adar to find the sword hilt and using the men of Bronwyn's village to fight for him again, unknown to them, and slow down Adar.

Not every details matches this theory of course: he was shown as being in love with Bronwyn though he never said the words, but can Sauron love or does he only fake it? He did a bad job with the hilt from his failure at hiding it to his inability to recognize it had been replaced by an axe, but did he really want to stop Adar at the end? Or was he pissed off that Halbrand was "crowned" in front of him (the camera focused on Galadriel and him in this moment: he seemed surprised/shocked by this sudden action, while Galadriel was cheering Halbrand, waiting for him to say yes when he was asked by Bronwyn if he was the king promised)? If so, it would explain why he didn''t check the hilt Galadriel gave him: Arondir was shown trying to destroy it for few long minutes before the battle. Even as a simple elf, he had very good eyes to notice details and would have recognized the difference in the weight and form with the axe, under the burlap in which it was wrapped. And if he was Sauron, he had every reason to say nothing: he wanted the land for himself and so he abandoned his attempt to stop Adar, who became conveniently the new Sauron, a fake one, but enough convincing to be shipped to Nùmenor while Arondir heads to Eregion.

I wish it was the case because there was never on the show a character as charismatic and powerful (except the Stranger), as good in term of characterization, certainly not Halbrand, to play the part of Sauron.

#the rings of power #theories and speculations #episode 6: udûn #the stranger #arondir #sauron #my trop reviews

[ibuprofenking]

have i really not written anything since 2017

#yikes #i guess i did have a stranger things draft i wrote but i lost it and it pissed me off too bad so i let it go

[joheunsaram]

To Make A Power Couple - 02 (knj)

Chapter 2 - Pizza and Life Chats

THIS IS A REPOST SINCE I LOST ACCESS TO MY OLD ACCOUNT. PLEASE FOLLOW THIS BLOG FOR UPDATES ON THIS SERIES.

previous | masterlist | next

Summary- Namjoon and Y/N go on their first date, and Namjoon is whipped.

word count- 5k

pairing- idol!namjoon x ceo!reader

rating- pg13 for now

genre- series, fluff, eventual smut, strangers2lovers

warnings- mentions of hangovers and panic attacks, tooth-rottingly fluffy

a.n- okay here’s the second part! I wrote this up fairly quickly (don’t expect this to be the norm!). This part I wanted to kind of address the stress of overworking as a young adult (GUILTY 🙋🏻‍♀️) so sorry if it gets a little serious at parts. I also wanted to switch it up so it’s from Namjoon’s perspective. I hope you enjoy it. SOFT JOON BEING A BIG OLD SOFTY.

Feedback much appreciated! 💕

taglist - @beach-bitch-bitch-beach​, @sassyuniversitytacopeanut

-

Namjoon woke up startled as his phone alarm rang. He was groggy and his splitting headache made him nauseous. “I’m never going to drink again”, he mumbled. He groaned as he got off the couch he had crashed on the night before, trying not to trip over Taehyung who seemed to be dozing happily on the floor as he made his way to his room. He hadn’t stayed at the dorms in a while, preferring the quiet solitary of his own apartment nowadays, and with his hangover in full swing he felt like he was walking through a stranger’s house.

Last month was hell. He had procrastinated on his songs and none of the vocal guides were even halfway done before the due date. Every time he tried to finish a song a new one would pop up in his head and he would start on that, leading to a hard drive full of files labelled “finish soon” and “draft”, and a notebook full of scratched out scribbles. It was like his brain had decided to abandon him, deciding it had had enough of his perpetual melancholy. He had felt drained and burnt out, a husk with no creative juices left. Luckily, Yoongi and a few of the producers had taken pity on his stressed out state and lent a hand so he had been able to finish the bare minimum three days ago - before the label pressured him further. He was never more grateful for a small break.

In all honesty, he needed a way to jumpstart his brain, and get out of the routine of home, practice, meetings, studio, home. Sometimes, he almost wished he didn’t have the success he had so he could go out and let loose a little - a club, a party, anything. But the last time he went somewhere like that he got swarmed and the police had to be involved. He couldn’t risk that, not after the trouble Big Hit went to threaten media outlets a year and a half ago, when he was caught with what they called a hickey, but was actually a stress rash.

As he brushed his teeth today, however, he smiled at the mirror. Last month may have been terrible, but last night was one of the best he’d had in the past year.

When he had heard Bang PD’s team talk about how they were attending the charity gala as he met them for notes on his songs, he was intrigued. He had read about this non-profit in the paper before. They seemed to be helping bridge the gap between people through communication and that spoke to him. So much so that he had scrolled through their website multiple times, reading testimonials and almost memorizing the mission statement. They wanted to help kids learn English for free so they could communicate globally. He really liked the idea. It was hard for him to learn the language as a kid and he knew that the only reason he became as fluent as he is from the tutors his parents paid for and his obsession with American television and music. Although he didn’t need the tutoring anymore, he did enjoy talking to the in-house tutor at the company, John, from time to time and improving his skills. The fact that this company wanted to add a John to every school in Korea starting from the rural areas, made Namjoon want to meet the man behind the movement. Little did he know, he’d be meeting the girl who’d shift his idea of the ideal.

He had never been more glad to have convinced his company to let him and the boys attend an event. He had initially suggested it as a way to break the mundane before their comeback practices started and network while supporting a cause he liked. Two days ago, he wouldn’t have guessed it would have been an actual fun night leading to him nursing a headache.

He spent the next hour reliving last night as he showered and caught up on the news. He also read the messages he sent last night over a hundred times and had butterflies each time. Wasn’t he too old for butterflies? He wanted to message you again but every time he tried, he ended up overthinking it. Everything sounded forced or cheesy, and it was worse than any writer’s block. He threw his phone on the bed in frustration watching it bounce and land on the floor, before he grabbed it and pocketed it. Hopping around to get rid of his nerves, he decided to take a break from rereading the thread he already had memorized and check in with everyone. If his hangover was this bad he couldn’t imagine theirs.

Making his way back to the living room he found Taehyung now sitting on the floor, sleep still very evident on his features as he yawned and groaned. On the couch next to him sat Yoongi, holding an iced americano and staring into space. The rest were missing but he could hear a blender annoyingly whizzing in the kitchen.

“How’re you guys feeling this morning?” He asked as he sat across from Yoongi.

“This is why I don’t drink. Why did no one stop me?” Taehyung whined as he rose from the floor to leave, massaging his head.

“We tried. You were very excited to try all the disgustingly sweet drinks the hot bartender was making for you.” Yoongi replied with a sigh. “How was your date, Namjoon? You glad I forced you to go to the bar to talk to her?” he snickered, sipping his coffee before exhaling loudly in contentment.

“Honestly, I owe you big time. She was… amazing. I don’t think I’ve talked to someone that comfortably in a while” Namjoon sighed wistfully.

“I’ll add cupid to my resume,” he deadpanned. “Is she tolerating you for another date?”

“Yeah. We’re getting dinner on Tuesday, but I want to message her now. Argh!” He ran his hands over his face in frustration. “What do I even say? ‘Hi I’m the guy who was too scared to kiss you all night so you had to do it for him, what’s your favourite colour?’” Namjoon was annoyed at himself. It’s bad enough that he was having writer’s block in his music, did he have to have it for something as simple as texting too? This was ridiculous!

“Or you could just ask her how’s her hangover today. Jeez! Do I have to draft each of your messages? Stop being a dumbass and text the person you like.” Yoongi scoffed, clearly over Namjoon’s sudden and uncharacteristic insecurities.

Namjoon gave a resigned sigh as he reached for his phone and wrote out exactly what Yoongi suggested. Hey, he was his hyung for a reason - he had a full 6 months of life experience on him.

Namjoon: Hey! Hope your hangover is not too bad today.

As soon as the message was sent, he started getting nervous. Tapping his foot incessantly while he stared at his phone, willing it to buzz, annoying Yoongi enough to leave him alone on the couch in the process.

Y/N: Hi to you too! I actually don’t get hangovers so I’m doing great lol. What about you?

Namjoon: What do you mean you don’t get hangovers?

Y/N: I don’t know. Can’t get dehydrated if you’re always dehydrated!

Namjoon: That… makes no sense. Do I need to start reminding you to drink water?

Y/N: Only if you’re better than this app on my phone…

Namjoon: I can guarantee you I’m better than any app on this planet.

Y/N: Wow. Big claims! We’ll have to put it to the test I suppose.

Y/N: You never told me how you’re feeling. Oh and how’s Taehyung? Is he okay?

Namjoon: He’s doing fine. Made a pact to never drink again and if i’m being honest, I’m going to join him. I am shocked that your head is not exploding as well.

The messages continued easily after that, filled with updates of each other’s activities, playful flirting and even photos of dinner. By the time Monday rolled around, you had been messaging each other constantly, with no end to the conversation in sight and the only long pauses being when you were both asleep or working. It seemed like you would never run out things to talk about. Namjoon hadn’t messaged someone this frequently since he got out of his last relationship. It felt nice to relay his mundane day to day events to someone and he found himself excited to hear about your mundane, like how you decided to mix two different types of bad coffee blends to make a shockingly worse one. He was surprised again at how fast he felt comfortable around you. It was even starting to scare him a little - he only knew you for three days and it felt like he had known you forever! What was this weird spell you had on him?

The conversation Monday, however, was fairly sparse, and Namjoon was eager to set up plans for the next day, so that night he decided to call you.

After the first three rings, he was overthinking his decision. Maybe it was too soon to call? Maybe you didn’t like talking on the phone? What if it went to voicemail? Would he have to leave a message? What would he say? His inner monologue was quickly halted at the sound of your voice.

“Hello, this is Y/N” you sounded distant, almost too formal. He felt nervous.

“Hi… uh… this is Namjoon. Is this a bad time?”

“Oh Namjoon! Sorry I didn’t check who called when I picked up!” Relief washed over him at the change of your tone. “Sorry one sec can you hold on.” he heard you say as your voice got mumbled. He waited while he heard you talk to someone about proposals and deadlines. Were you still at work? He checked his watch - it was 10 pm. He didn’t know whether to be impressed by your work ethic or worried that you were overworking.

“Hi sorry about that! How are you?” He relaxed at your airy tone and smiled.

“I’m good. Are you still at work?”

“Yeah it’s only like 7 so it’s no big deal. I usually leave around 8” Were you serious?

“Y/N… It’s 10:04…” He was shocked at how nonchalant you sounded, and suddenly he had his answer - he was worried, not impressed. He had known you for three days and already you were setting his caretaker alarm off. He wanted to scold you for being careless and overworking, like he’s used to doing for the boys, but he knew it was too soon. He doesn’t even know why he’s feeling that way all of a sudden and tried to suppress his protective instincts.

“No it’s not! It’s…” He could hear your voice going further away as he imagined you moving the phone in front of you to check the time. “Oh shit you’re right. What the hell? Okay sorry I’m gonna put you on hold again.” Before he could say anything he heard your voice again, distant again but loud. “Oh my god. Guys, it’s 10pm. Go home! Why did nobody tell me? No it doesn’t matter we can do that tomorrow. Please go home. Pack up now! You too Siwon, don’t worry I’ll go home after I get off the phone. See you!” He smiled at the sternness of your tone - it reminded him of a teacher dismissing class.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t realize I overworked my team. Had to send the troops home” you laughed and Namjoon felt his heart flutter.

“I don’t wanna keep you from going home. I can call you back once you get there,” he offered. He felt bad that you were staying in an empty office on his account.

“Oh don’t worry about it. It was a lie to get Siwon off my back. I’m probably gonna be here till like 1 or something. I still have to get this done” you said matter-of-factly, like it was the most normal thing in the world. He knew that tone fairly well, having used it multiple times himself when he locked himself in his studio, running on nothing but coffee and energy bars.

“Okay I know we’ve only just met and we have our first date tomorrow, but do you want some company?” He asked before he could stop himself. The line was silent for a bit, and he felt self conscious, scared that he had overstepped and driven you away. Before he could check his phone to see if you had hung up you spoke.

“It’d be pretty boring for you to watch me just type away. Are you sure? It’s pretty late.” He was sure his cheeks would hurt from how wide he smiled.

“It’s not a problem at all. I was going to work tonight too.” He wasn’t. “We can just work together. I’ll bring food. Did you eat yet?” his words tumbled over each other.

“How very college of you.” He could hear you giggling on the line. “Now that I think about it - I’m starving.”

“Okay text me the address, I’ll be there soon.”

He had never been this excited to pretend to work.

He spotted you as he walked through the doors of the 13th floor, pepperoni pizza in hand. You were sitting at a long desk near the middle of the room. He was surprised as he expected you in an office, but he found you typing away at your desktop. Your hair was tied up in a bun and you were dressed in an oversized beige t-shirt, eyebrows furrowed head bopping to the hip hop track playing through the speakers. You seemed to be in your own little world. He felt like he was spying on you as he leaned against the door watching but he also liked seeing how you acted when you thought no one was watching. He was about to announce his presence when the track changed to a Childish Gambino one and you whooped and started to rap along.

You were now fully head banging and rapping the verse at the top of your lungs. He would be impressed by your fairly good amateur skills if he didn’t find the entire scene so endearing. His heart was doing somersaults as he watched you now fully engrossed in the song, typing forgotten as you got up and started to pretend you were on stage, an imaginary mic in your hand asking haters if they “eatin’ though”. You looked so adorable that he couldn’t help but squeal a little “cute!”

That’s when you saw him, eyes wide. He felt a little bad when he saw how embarrassed you looked, immediately stopping and slapping a hand to your mouth before bursting out in nervous laughter. He could write a whole album with that laugh. Oh he was so whipped, he thought to himself as he made his way to you.

“You know you’re not half bad!” He exclaimed as he set the pizza on the table, pulling a chair next to yours and settling down.

“Do you think your fake compliments will save you from the fact that you were spying on me?” you asked, crossing your hands across your chest, pretending to scowl but failing to do so.

“First, real compliment. Second, would pizza save me?” He opened the box and proudly smiled, loving the way your eyes lit up as you reached for a slice.

“Yes it will!” you exclaimed as you took your first bite, lightly moaning at the taste. “But erase that memory from your brain please.”

“Nope. Never. It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen and I’m going to save it forever” he said as he also started on his slice. You pouted up at him, cheeks puffed and it took all the self-control he had to not kiss it off your face. He hadn’t felt this way in so long, it was like you were his first crush. Trying to control his pulse, he asked “What are you working on so late?”

“Oh I have a proposal due for a meeting tomorrow at noon and I’m only halfway through it,” you frowned wistfully at the screen as if willing it to type on its own.

“Can I help?” He asked, knowing fully well that he couldn’t. He just had an overwhelming urge to make that frown disappear.

“You being here is help enough,” you smiled sincerely as you looked at him and he felt his heart explode, a blush creeping on his cheeks as he smiled bashfully. “What are you working on?”

“I have a few songs I have to finish the lyrics for. Been procrastinating” he rubbed the back of his neck as he pulled out the notebook from his back pocket.

“Can I help?” you echoed his question to which he echoed your response grinning. He wasn’t lying though. Even though he had planned to not really work, as the night progressed he found the change from his usual writing spot inspiring. Sitting next to you, the sound of the keyboard clicking was soothing leading to words pouring out of him. He filled pages as he stole glances at you concentrating on your proposal, tongue peeking from between your lips, still bobbing to the music which was now playing from your airpods instead of the speakers. He smiled at the sight, before focusing on his notebook.

After about an hour or so of hard work, he finished three songs that he had allotted himself the whole week to do. This was the most productive hour he had all month. Antsy for a break, he looked over at you and found you staring at him, a hand under your chin. As he met your gaze you smiled.

“You’re really hot when you concentrate. Has anyone ever told you that?” you commented. He was taken aback by your remark, heart fluttering at your smirking face. Not missing his chance and spurred on by the comment, he scooted closer in one sweep till your knees touched and you were face to face.

“You’re one to talk. I couldn’t stop looking at you this past hour.” Gazing into your eyes, he was amused to see your smirk disappear as it was now your turn to be shocked. He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind your ear letting his hand linger, enjoying the way you sighed as he did. “Can I make good on my promise now?” He whispered, his face centimeters away, looking at your lips. The way you bit your lower lip made him want to take you there and then. The desk looked big enough. Hell, even if it wasn’t he could make it work.

“Promise?” you whispered as he watched your eyes flutter to his lips.

“To kiss you first…” Too impatient to wait for your answer, he brought his lips to yours, relishing how soft they felt under his own. He was thrilled at you returning the kiss, deepening it as you grabbed the collar of his shirt to bring him closer just like you did after the party. He was beginning to think this was your signature move, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t immensely turn him on. He moved his hand cupping your face to rest on your neck and he could feel your heartbeat mimicking his. He put his other hand around your waist pulling you closer, wanting to be as close to you as he could get. He traced his tongue over your lips, his head cloudy with endorphins as you opened your mouth inviting him in. He had never tasted something so euphoric, his tongue exploring yours in a rush.

He could feel you pushing forward as he leaned back and allowed you to straddle his lap, your legs on either side of the chair. As soon as you were on his lap, he pulled you closer, both arms around on your hips, your chest flushed with his. He kissed the side of your mouth as he made his way down your jaw to your neck. You smelt like vanilla mixed with a fresh flower garden, and he was sure this smell was better than any drug in the world. He could hear your breathy moans as he sucked where your neck met your collarbone, licking to soothe it before moving further. He wanted to taste all of you. Your hands were in his hair and each tug made him groan into you, making him harder. He could kiss you like this forever. He wanted to save this moment so he could come back to it and relive it. He traced his hands up and down your sides, moving under your shirt but remaining on your waist, enjoying the feel of your soft skin.

“Namjoon… Namjoon… slow down” he heard you say breathlessly as he felt a slight push. He looked up at you, your eyes half lidded and lusty as you grabbed his face and brought it to yours. You were sending him mixed signals, but he didn’t care as long as he could keep kissing you.

“We have to slow down or I’m going to want to fuck you right here.” You whined as you both came back up for air, but you kissed him again nevertheless. Hearing you say that made him want to do anything in his power to make that happen.

“I don’t mind, baby,” he said against your lips, kissing you with urgency, biting your lower lip and pulling it gently to elicit another moan from you. To his disappointment, you seemed to have better self-control than him as you pushed him back, both of you panting as you struggled to catch your breath. He moved his hand back to your hips tracing little circles, feeling comforted by you smoothing his hair you had pulled earlier.

“There are cameras here. I’d rather not make a sex tape on our first date.” You giggled as you pointed to the black sphere in the corner of the room. He had never hated the obsession buildings had for security more, but the crudeness of your comment made him laugh. He had almost forgotten this was your first date, it felt like he had kissed you a thousand times before. You tasted like the relief of an awning in the middle of a summer downpour.

“I think we need to cool down,” you say as you climb off of his lap. “Let’s go.”

He followed you as you led him to the little kitchenette near the end of the room, unable to resist the urge to wrap his hands around your waist in a back hug. He knew he was being too clingy for a first date, but the way you giggled and put your hands over his gave him assurance.

“Lemonade, coke, or water,” you asked as you peered into the fridge.

“You.” He smirked kissing your neck, feeling bold off of the high from your makeout session.

“Joon!” you pretended to sound scandalized as you turned in his arms, smiling warmly. The nickname made his heart swell. It added a familiarity that he didn’t know he missed from you.

“You haven’t called me Joon before. I like it” he smiled as he pecked your lips.

“Hey! We are cooling down! No kissing! Now pick” you chided and Namjoon couldn’t help but wonder if you were this assertive in bed too, a million scenarios playing in his head. Okay, you were right, he needed to cool down.

“I’ll just have water, thanks,” he said as he grabbed the bottle you passed him, opening and gulping half of it. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was for something other than you. You both made your way to the tables, sitting across from each other.

“So did you finish your proposal?” He asked trying to cool himself but failing as he noticed you running the cold water bottle against your neck, the beads of condensation dripping on your shirt. He cleared his throat as he tried to focus his attention on your eyes, a mantra of stay focused playing in his head.

“Yes! Finally! It’s perfect.” you smiled proudly and somehow he felt a wave of pride too. “What about you? Made any progress?”

“Actually yes. I kind of finished my entire week’s writing in that one hour” he was still amazed by his own progress.

“Okay, Mr Overachiever” you joked and he chuckled.

“To be honest, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything, but I don’t know your presence is kind of soothing. It helped me focus.” Watching your smile grow wide, he continued, “I’ve been having pretty severe burnout this past month and it has just been hard to put down my thoughts, even non-lyrical ones.” He fidgeted with the water bottle as he looked at it, avoiding eye contact.

He didn’t know why he was telling you this. He recalled when he told you about his struggles as a leader during your first conversation. Somehow being around you led him to vomit out his feelings. It was… unlike him. Namjoon was usually not this honest on dates, or relationships, as much as he would hate to admit it. That’s the reason he broke off his last one. He felt bad lying to her about a busy schedule when he just wanted to be alone. She would have understood, she was kind and thoughtful, but it just felt easier to lie and not put the effort in to explain his thoughts. Even when they broke up, he lied and told her that it was because he couldn’t handle being in a relationship at the moment, when in reality things had cooled off a while ago and he felt guilty as his feelings faded.

He felt your hand reach out and grab one of his, intertwining your fingers. He felt comforted by the gesture as you rubbed your thumb across him before you spoke two words that warmed his heart. “I understand.”

“You know it’s hard to work at full speed all the time. It’s okay to not be at a hundred all the time. The valleys feed the peaks” you continued. It was a simple remark, but it sounded surprisingly poetic to him. He hadn’t felt this understood outside of the boys for a long time. It was refreshing. It was terrifying. He resisted his natural urge to run and hide.

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asked, needing to divert the attention away from his own vulnerabilities.

“Yeah. I had it pretty tough a couple of years ago. Too much pressure from myself, too many expectations. Led to too many vices and panic attacks” you shrugged as you continued and he squeezed your hand to comfort you. “It creeps up from time to time but my therapist and I have it handled” He looked at you in awe. You hadn’t given him a throwaway answer or switched the limelight back at him. You wasted no time in being as vulnerable as him, if not more. He knew at that moment that regardless of where this thing went, he wanted you to know you better.

“Thank you for being honest.” He brought your hand to his lips and kissed it gently. It was an intimate gesture but he wanted you to know how much he appreciated your words - how much he appreciated you - in that moment. You both sat in comfortable silence for a little while, playing with each other’s hands that were still intertwined, till one of you yawned loudly causing the other to giggle. With the weight of the conversation lifting, you both fell back into playful banter as you decided to pack up and call it a night.

“Do you want me to walk you to your car?” Namjoon asked, wanting to drag the night on longer despite it already being almost 2 am.

“Don’t judge me but I actually don’t know how to drive. I was just going to cab back.” he saw you giggle bashfully as you pulled your backpack over your shoulders.

“Oh, no judgment here! Me neither” he laughed. Why does everyone think it is such a big deal to not drive? It’s better for the environment! “Do you want to take one together? I don’t really want you to ride alone this late.” He rubbed the back of his neck, hoping he didn’t come off as if he was trying to dictate what you did.

“I’d really like that,” you said as you walked towards the elevators. He held your hand as you both got on, liking the way you moved closer to him at that.

In the cab you both sat closer than necessary, his arm wrapped around you as you both made plans for your scheduled date later that day, trying not to doze off. When the cab stopped all too soon at your apartment, he kissed you gently as he told you how much he enjoyed your company.

That night laying in bed, his heart felt full as he read your goodnight message. He was sure of it now. He really wanted you in his life.

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#thebtswritersclub #houseofddaeng #btsnoonanet #thetruthuntoldnet #ficswithluv #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #namjoon fluff #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #namjoon series #rm fluff #purplearmynet #rm smut #rm angst #rm series #bts series #bts fanfction #rm fanfic #namjoon fanfic

[a-dorin]

stranger

pairing: the mandalorian x medic!reader 

word count: 2.69k

warnings: cursing, canon typical violence, blood, wounds, burns, references to killing/violence, the taste of blood, sewing a wound up, yearning, pining, an idiot who wears only a beskar helmet and takes on more than he can handle 99.99% of the time

a/n: hi i wrote this in like no time at all so i hope you guys like it. (also at like 2:05 in the morning) also, this takes place during season one, and diverts a little bit  away from canon because he doesn’t have all of his new beskar armor yet (oops) also, sorry if the ending line is shitty i have a hard time with it sometimes 

“i thought this was the last time you were going to pull shit like this on me karga,” you dig your index finger into his chest, your jaw clenched, lips curled in a sneer, “you always say it’s going to be the last time shit like this happens and guess what? it doesn’t ever fucking end does it? i help you one time and--”

the leader hangs his head, raising a hand in defeat, “i am well aware of how you feel about me and the way i do my business. however, this is someone i can’t turn away. and you’re the only person i trust to fix him.”

exhaling, your eyes squeeze shut, “who is it?”

“someone who has been working with me for quite some time,” greef pauses, taking a moment to gauge your reaction, “he’s a skilled bounty hunter, one of the best, actually. typically, he fixes himself right up, but his injuries are far too severe to just ‘sew up’ and go about his business. trust me, i had to do some convincing to even bring him to you.”

through the entryway, a draft rolls in, causing you to shrink into your clothes, “it’s a little too chilly to talk out here. come in, we can discuss my payment, and then i’ll make my decision.”

greef takes a step forward, clearing his throat, “i’ll pay you, and so will he. i am well aware of how you feel about giving my men medical attention. but you do know that i will pay you well for this, right?”

you nod slightly, rubbing your temple with your fingers, “how much are we talking here, karga?” 

“i would like for you to assess his injuries first,” he counters, “then we can talk about payment.”

“fine,” you mutter, crossing over to your table, “please, just bring him in. if he bleeds out on my table, it’s your fault karga!” 

“hopefully there will be none of that,” karga shakes his head, the words so low that you could barely hear him, “i’ll bring him in. let me know when you’re finished.”

swiftly, you gather up your supplies, your hands gathering as much as you could. from the sound of it, things weren’t looking good. reaching out, you pull your cart towards you, practically tossing the supplies on the metallic surface. cursing under your breath, you search for your gloves, eyes frantically searching your surroundings, yet they’re nowhere to be found. 

guess you’d have to get a little messy with this one. 

a long-winded groan startles you from your task at hand, and your heart sinks the moment karga brings him in. he’s donned head to toe in battle armor, the hues of the metal a variety of colors. the only distinguishable piece is a beskar helmet, light reflecting off its surface. 

not once did karga mention that you would be tending to a mandalorian. 

“how bad is it?” you inquire, your voice crisp and cool as you stride over to karga, helping him carry the mandalorian to your table. 

blood seeps through his clothes, soaking the garments with a horrid scarlet. in several spots, there is singed fabric, signifying that he took a few good shots. the mandalorian reeks of burnt flesh and the stench of a battle, your nose wrinkling and bile rising in your throat. 

this was far worse than karga described, and this was no time to start panicking. 

“just a few blaster shots,” the mandalorian cuts in, his voice distorted from a modulator, “nothing that i couldn’t fix myself.”

“ah, ah, ah,” karga interjects, “there’s more to it than that. i believe he has several lacerations, perhaps a few burns from blasters.”

“that beskar couldn’t stop everything huh?” you arch a brow, in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

the mandalorian doesn’t respond, anxiety bubbling up within you, “karga, try and keep him awake as long as you can. i have a few healing stems, along with some bacta shots, but depending on how deep the wounds are, i won’t be able to treat him unless we strip him of the armor.”

“i-i can’t take that off,” the mandalorian gurgles, “i-i, m-my cr-creed.”

“what creed?” you shoot karga a curious glance, guilt plastering his features. 

“he has a creed he follows,” karga inhales sharply, “it’s his way of life.”

your lips part, forming an o. you want to scold karga for not briefing you on all of the minor details, as he normally does with his men. however, there was no time for banter or bickering. 

you had to maintain your composure. 

“how much blood has he lost, you think?” 

“i can’t give you a definite answer on that,” karga takes a step back, allowing you to survey the mandalorian, “i would say a lot, but i’m not too sure. perhaps his garments stopped some of it, or the pressure of his armor.”

“that’s not enough pressure,” you murmur, plucking a pair of shears off your cart, “hey mando, can you hear me? are you still with us?” 

a feeble hand raises from the table, his voice breathy and far away, “i-i’m here. anything but the helmet, please.”

“of course,” your voice is soft and hushed, “the helmet is off limits.”

“now that i’ve got him in here,” karga gestures his head towards the nearly unconscious mandalorian, “he has something back at his ship that i need to tend to. will you need my assistance or can you handle it?” 

“i can handle it,” your voice falters, “go do what you need to do. it may be an hour or two before he’s feeling better.”

“you know how to find me if you need me,” karga’s words trail off as he exits your home, the doors sliding shut behind him. 

“all right mando,” you take his hand, squeezing it, “i’m going to start by removing your armor okay? let me know if you can’t feel anything. that’s when we have a problem.”

“i can feel everything,” he spits out, “fuck. it hurts. it all hurts.”

“you really took a beating huh?” carefully, you start by removing his boots, hastily yet with caution. 

who knew if he took a hit to the spine, paralyzing any point of his body. 

“hey,” you place his boots on the floor, “can you wriggle your toes for me mando?”

immediately, relief ripples through you as you watch his toes move, signaling that there was no nerve damage. next, you remove the plates of armor covering his shins and thighs, placing them directly by his boots. the armor was severely damaged, almost beyond repair, as it was littered with dents and holes. 

how many run-ins did this mandalorian have in his lifetime? how many of his days had he spent fighting? 

“do you have other clothing in your ship?” you press on, slicing the fabric with your shears, “karga mentioned you had a ship.”

“mmmhmmmm,” he hums, “name is the razor crest.”

“ahh,” soaking a rag with bacta spray, you wiped down his exposed legs, assessing his wounds as you did so, “that’s a wonderful name.”

the flesh was only burned, which could be healed almost instantly with the bacta spray. luckily, there wouldn’t be much scar tissue either, only a few minor scars here and there. yet, you wondered if there was an inch of the mandalorian’s body that wasn’t scarred. 

“d-don’t worry so much bout my legs,” he stammers, “it’s my shoulder that i’m worried about. i can feel the blood soaking through.”

“i’ll have to remove the rest of your armor and your tunic,” biting your lip, your hands wrap around his chest plate, desperate to find a way to get it off. 

“hey,” his voice sounds again, this time a lot clearer, “i can get it off. you don’t have to worry about being hasty about this. i’ll make sure you get your sum.”

“i-i just,” you stutter, the taste of blood hitting your tongue as he sits up, “karga sounded so worried and i want to do a good job because the way he talked, you were his best hunter and i just can’t--”

“you won’t fuck anything up,” a hand reaches out, finding yours, “this isn’t anything i haven’t encountered before. the thing is, you’re a trained medic. i’m not. i would probably make a mistake and make my injuries worse somehow. take. your. time.” 

for a moment, your eyes flutter closed, a weary sigh flowing from your lips. you can sense the mandalorian watching you carefully, studying your features through the tinted visor. 

“o-okay,” you whisper. 

the mandalorian sits up, shedding away the remaining pieces of his armor, “would you like for me to roll over?”

you nod, gnawing at your lower lip once more as you realize that this mandalorian, this stranger, was about to be nearly undressed, half-bleeding, half-conscious, on your table. and he was so patient with you. so much kinder than previous patients in the past. 

“wait,” your brow furrows, “your helmet would make it awkward for you to lay on your stomach. how about you move over a little, to the edge of the table?”

“of course.”

he straightens his back, scooting over to give you some space. clambering onto the table, you reach up to adjust your light. taking your rag, you wipe down his back and shoulders, muscles rippling under your touch. every so often, your fingertips graze his heated skin as you lose yourself in your work. 

you catch a quiet groan as you continue to work, your heart fluttering. 

the sound wasn’t drenched with pain, nor anywhere near the noise you first encountered when he was being brought in by karga. 

this was a sound of contentment, a sound of bliss. 

“how long has it been since you’ve felt someone’s touch?”

shame burns through you the moment the question tumbles from your lips, nearly consuming you whole as he tenses. maker, did you feel so guilty. he was a stranger to you. how could you just blatantly ask that? 

the answer arrives, short and sweet. 

“too long.”

leaning over, you press a piece of cloth on his shoulder, a lengthy laceration stretching from his clavicle to his left shoulder blade, “oh, i see.”

“do you usually get this close and personal with your patients?”

“depends,” you shrug, “hey, i’m about to sew you up. it may sting.”

plunging the needle in, you press yourself to his back as you start the suture, your breath fanning against his neck. the mandalorian stiffens as he catches a whiff of your scent, and how it was so heavenly as it wafted into his nostrils. 

his jaw clenches as he chokes back a hiss of pain, remaining as still as possible. 

“you’re being so good for me,” your voice floods his ear, the praise nearly causing him to crumble completely. 

within seconds, you’re all finished, sliding off the table, “i take it that karga is coming back with a change of clothes?”

“i hope so.”

gazing over at your table, you notice the healing stems, “i have some healing stems for your travels. they’ll probably help with that dull pain you’ll have in that area for a while. it won’t be an issue unless you somehow reopen that wound. if it was any closer to any major artery in your neck, you would’ve bled out.”

“i’ll take them.”

“well,” you hand them to him, “take them before you forget them. you seem like the forgetful type.”

a low chuckle erupts from the beskar, “i don’t think i could forget a night like--”

a knock on the doors interrupts the mandalorian’s sentence, cutting it short. as you make your way over, you hear a string of curses flowing from the table. more than likely his native tongue. pressing a button, the doors slide open, revealing greef karga and a strange, little creature, swathed by a bundle of clothing in his arms. 

“you were fast,” karga remarks, cradling the creature, “how is he?”

“he’s fine,” your focus is directed away from karga, honing in on the creature, “who is this?”

“this is what i had to retrieve from his ship. he’s a very precious child. extremely important to that mandalorian over there.”

the child coos, its eyes two vast pools of obsidian. he blinks, a tiny hand flailing out. you melt, lips curling into a broad smile, “hello, little one. are you looking for your father?”

“he is,” the mandalorian echoes from across the space. 

karga enters, keeping the child against his chest as he strides over, placing the bundle next to the mandalorian. from a distance, you watch fondly as the child teeters towards the bounty hunter, an incoherent blubber sounding as his guardian pats his head, reassuring him that they would no longer be separated. 

within minutes, the mandalorian was springing to his feet, with a fresh set of a clothes, the same armor strapped to his frame. the child is in his embrace now, clinging onto his thumb. karga hovers by his side, more than likely filling him in on the next mission. the next victim to hunt. 

“how should i pay you?” his voice, one you had grown familiar over the course of the hour, fills your ears. 

“oh,” you blink, “um, don’t worry about it. you have far more important things to--”

“no,” his tone is firm, “you deserve some sort of payment.”

“she lives here after all,” karga remarks, folding his arms across his chest, “i could pay her any time.”

“how about you head out so that we can discuss this a little more privately?” he turns to karga, the query almost more of a command than a question. 

“of course,” karga dips his head, shifting towards you, “i’ll see you around. hopefully this is the last time i spring a patient on you.”

“i’m sure it won’t be the last,” you roll your eyes playfully, “see you around, karga.”

“tell me, how much do i owe you? name anything in the galaxy and it’s yours.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you snort, “you don’t owe me anything. you could’ve died and you’re worried about paying me.”

“because you deserve it,” he takes a step forward, the space between the two of you dissipating, “from the sound of it, you let this happen quite frequently. you don’t get paid enough for it either.”

“how about you pay me a visit the next time you make a pitstop in nevarro,” your eyes fall to the floor, careful to not meet his gaze, “would that be enough?”

a gloved hand grasps your chin, tilting your head up. 

“oh cyar’ika, that would be more than enough.”

the child giggles, bouncing, “maybe you should get a move on. he seems hungry. there’s a cantina not too far away from here. they serve good food, even if the locals get a bit rowdy. i bet it’s nothing you run into, though.”

“it’s probably best if i leave nevarro.”

“be safe out there mando,” you whisper.

“i will.”

just like that, he’s out the door, leaving your knees weak, heart all aflutter. 

as the mandalorian made his way to the razor crest, child in tow, his mind was reeling, all of his thoughts honing in one particular thing. 

a medic on nevarro, who mentioned briefly that he seemed to the forgetful type. yeah, he traveled near and far, to all rims and edges of the galaxy, but he was one to forget people, nor faces. he encountered so many species: human, twi’leks, wookiees, chiss, you name it.

the moment he stepped foot on the razor crest, he yearned. the desire burning through him, aching and desperate. 

stars, how he longed to go back. just for one more glimpse. one more glimpse of that stranger’s face, that beautiful face. 

he was determined though, determined to find his way back. perhaps in a few days, even. the mandalorian was relentless, especially when it came to getting what he craved. and oh, how he craved to know the name of the stranger on nevarro. 

someone who would no longer be a stranger to the mandalorian. 

he just knew it.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #din djarin fluff #star wars #mandalorian fluff #mando

[runicmagitek]

tagged by the lovely @wingsyouburn - thanks bb! 💕

How many works do you have on AO3? 209?? I'm sorry what????

What’s your total AO3 word count? 958,942??? HOW????????????

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they? *cackles* Oh sweetheart, sit down. We're gonna be here for a while.

According to my AO3 account, I have 54 different fandoms tagged. Most of them are for video games, but the occasional anime sneaks in now and then. I also have a few MCU fics, one book fic, and a podcast fic. My most prolific fandom is Final Fantasy VI with 50 fics.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Wings of Valor and Compassion (Pharah/Mercy - Overwatch)

No Safety in Desire (Urbosa/Zelda - Legend of Zelda)

Give Them Something to Talk About (Dina/Ellie - The Last of Us)

Finally, Beautiful Stranger (Aeris/Tifa - Final Fantasy VII)

Don't Bring Your Black Heart to Bed (Thanatos/Zagreus - Hades)

Glad to see everyone enjoying my quality gay shit. Also very amused that out of these five, three of them were from last year.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not? I do! Or I at least make a solid effort to do so! I usually can't really sit down to properly reply until the weekend, unless it's something super quick I can shoot off on my phone, so I hope people don't mind the wait.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? Depends on the flavor? For straight-up Bad Ending vibes, absolutely Limbo (I really need to crack out another horror fic, because I love those, even if the majority of fandom doesn't). For right-in-the-feels vibes, Waiting for the Dust to Settle was a recent one I did that just sucker punches you with bittersweet Oh No goodness. It also reminds me of In Another Perfect Life, which ends on a similar note. *squints* actually, these are all for Final Fantasy VIII, which is saying a lot about... something lol

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written? Um... not really? I don't think I have? At least not in the traditional sense where characters from Fandom A interact with characters from Fandom B. I have written some fusion crossover stuff. If You Had Life Eternal comes to mind, where I took Jaina and Kael from WoW and plopped them in Diablo's setting, because reasons.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? I had someone leave a super homophobic comment on one of my Pharmercy fics back in the day, which like... dude, are you lost?? I've also gotten some general weird comments that have little to nothing to do with the fic. I do remember someone on FFN commented saying that I needed Jesus on one of my witch-y fics. Sigh.

Do you write smut? If so what kind? Yes. The delicious kind (I hope).

Have you ever had a fic translated? Probably?? I've had a handful of people over the years ask to translate my stuff, but I haven't seen anything pop up on AO3.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Nope.

What’s your all-time favorite ship? LIKE JUST ONE???? My brain fluctuates when it comes to this, but I definitely have a type or two I always gravitate towards. The most recent addition is Keitaro/Natsuno (13 Sentinels), which lives in my head rent-free from now until I die. I also always find myself coming back to Celes/Setzer (FFVI) and Aeris/Tifa (FFVII).

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? A bunch of 2016 drafts I started and then dropped when my life imploded. I've yet to revisit any of them and I'm not sure if I ever will at this point :\

What are your writing strengths? Apparently sneezing out 7k words without breaking a sweat.

What are your writing weaknesses? Sneezing out 7k words without breaking a sweat *sobs in a corner* ALSO TITLES I HATE TITLES

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? I'm... not sure I fully understand what this means? Like having characters speak in another language randomly? I did this sparingly in Darkness/Starlight, where I had Jidoor be a blend of French and Italian, thus giving Setzer an appropriate accent and the occasional French comment. I didn't translate those into English, because the POV character (Celes) wouldn't have understood what was being said. Plus any time Setzer did dip into it, he was speaking from the heart, but was too afraid to actually TELL her. So if anyone had half the mind to translate those bits, they'd find out Setzer said the most touching things to her in French.

ANYHOW. I honestly don't really do this much, especially when a handful of my fandoms are Japanese and I'm writing in English and we're just assuming everyone's talking in Japanese so... yeah. Take it or leave it, I guess.

What was the first fandom you wrote for? Like when I was 10??? A crossover between Sailor Moon and Final Fantasy VII because FUCK YOU I DO WHAT I WANT.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? You're killing me, smalls, and I ain't picking just one.

Darkness/Starlight is forever near and dear to my heart for being a labor of love for such a small, old fandom and my beloved rarepair.

Learn to Fly is one I love for the amount of research I put in (I replayed Pyre and took so many notes on both Ti'zo's and Rhae's speech patterns to get them just right) and the delightful, yet bittersweet messages it exudes.

Long Journey Home is another favorite, because I poured my heart into it and it's got one of my favorite lines and ending.

Of What's Left of Us and Who We Used to Be was my attempt at evoking the surreal, yet heartwrenching vibes from the series and again, I also poured my heart into it.

Before We Have Another Chance to Go Loving was me cramming a massive longfic idea I had in my head forever into a small triple drabble series and it's forever canon in my heart.

The Lies We Tell Ourselves is my most recent fic I've published, which I wrote/edited/polished in four days, but I'm tickled pink with how it turned out.

tagging: @dvske @deemoyza @rosemochi @fury-brand @aliatori and any other writers who feel like swiping this! No pressure, as always 💕

#runic rambles #my writing #meme things

[writing-mlm]

Heyo! May I request a Denki Kaminari x support course male where Denki is crushing hard and attempting to ask reader out?

Kaminari Denki X Male reader

word count: 3.6k 

warnings: cursing suggestive scenes, make-out scene

Four years. It's been four years; one thousand, sixty days, two hundred eighty weeks since Kaminari Denki had first developed a crush on the quiet boy in the back of his seventh-grade classroom. He had been pining after him since the first day he transferred from Shirakawa, a village in the Ōno District, Gifu Prefecture. Coincidently, that day happened to be Denki's birthday so he had the opportunity to give the new kid a somewhat relaxed first day. 

While he never learned much about you, other than the things you shared during class or what he overheard you talking about, he was absolutely hooked on the idea of you. He was sure he had a thing for people who were somewhat rude to him, like the small crush he had on Jiro and Shinsou throughout his first year at UA but you weren't. Whenever you talked- which was rare even though you had gone to the same school twice, it was brief and rushed. Once he managed to get a whole sentence out of you before you were whisked away by another support course kid.

You were popular among your course's peers, more outgoing than you were in middle school, so you hardly had a moment to yourself outside of your workshop. And- in the most respectful way he could put it, you got hot. You always did have your own style that he could pick out even with the school's uniform but with the support kids slack on uniforms he really got to see how you dressed. 

Normally, you were a pair of plain gray coveralls but never fully. They always hung around your hips, the arms pulled inside out like you had worn them but had gotten tired and took it off. Unlike Mei, you hardly ever tied them around your waist, usually, they stayed up with the folds you created. Along with the coveralls, you wore a pair of (f/c) steel-toed boots, without any laces, instead, there was a cuff keeping the shoes tight and like Mei, you wore a sleeveless black tank. 

He guessed it was from the constant picking up of heavy objects but he couldn't help but notice the shadows of your muscles whenever you stretched. Or when you put your hands on your hips to catch your breath after running, or when you wiped the sweat from your forehead on hot days. 

If he could draw, he knew he'd have entire books how he pictured you. Maybe he would have drawn you his confession rather than how he actually planned on doing it.

An email.

Kaminari Denki's best way of asking his biggest crush was an email. It was laughable, he knew that all too well when Mina and Sero laughed for nearly ten minutes at the idea but he thought it better than his original idea. Confessing in the middle of everyone at school, that would for sure embarrass not only him but you. Plus it would out the both of you to random strangers if you said yes- just him if you said no which was something he didn't want to deal with just yet.

So, yes, an email was the perfect idea in his mind. He even wrote it out first- to get an idea of what he wanted to say first before he never sent it. Nope, he wasn't going to send it. The email remained sent, a draft for nearly two weeks before he deleted it. Not even noticing he had the wrong email the whole time, it was addressed to your older sibling who had a similar name. 

"Just go do it," Mina drew out as she slumped on Denki's back during their free class. She was getting tired of hearing about his long time crush, in the beginning, she thought it was cute and gave him pointers- having gotten a boyfriend with those same ones she knew they worked well. But now she almost wished he got over the crush. 

    "Please," Sero agreed. "This is painful." Sero was in the same boat as Mina, only he had that idea for a month now. If he could pinpoint it, he lost all hope the moment Denki had the idea of confessing via an Instagram account. He would make a page for anonymous UA student confessions and once it was popular enough he'd send one in as gossip.

Maybe that email wasn't such a bad idea, looking back on it. 

"Guys," Denki drew out, tossing his pencil down to his desk and watched as it rolled off. "He's gonna say no! He's like- totally hot and out of my league," The two looked at each other then and Denki as he slammed his head on his desk, the loud thump echoed throughout the room before a soft ow came from him. 

   "He's not Todoroki level hot," Mina shrugged, her eyes drifting to said boy as he studied up the upcoming test. "Or Bakugou," She looked over at Bakugou who looked as if he was close to blowing his lid while he helped Kirishima study. 

    "He blows them out of the water! What're you talking about?" Denki gushed, his hand snapping up to glare at Mina, unaware of Sero's knowing grin.

"Tell him that then," She suggested and before she could get another word in, Denki stood up, his chair rolling into the desk behind him and his palms flat on the desk.

   "I will!" He swore before leaving the classroom as Sero and Mina sighed, hopefully, all went well because if it didn't they'd lose their minds hearing Denki sulk for no doubt a year.

While Denki marched down the hallways and through staircases, his pace slowed into a stroll, now unsure if he was going to tell you. He didn't have a plan, he didn't even know where you were! He knew the general area but he didn't know if you had a group lab or a personal lab- he learned that from Iida when he was talking about Mei getting upgraded to her personalized room. But he hoped it was a solo room, he could handle the number of people always working on stuff if he truly was going to finally confess. 

"I could follow you to the beginning," He heard from a room near the end of the hall, the sound was a mix of a song and- your voice? He knew you sang from middle school when you did theater- it was one play but he went to every showing with you in it just to hear the one verse you had, but he never heard you sing by yourself or in English. 

Despite having had English lessons for two years, Denki didn't know much. He knew greetings, some food, pronouns, the days of the week, and a couple of random words but that was about it. He never really tried to learn English because he had no plan on moving out of Japan but Bakugou told him he had to for press conferences when he was a pro hero. 

"Just to relive the start," He heard you continue, the door to the room was slightly open, a faint handprint in oil was on the handle so he grabbed it by the panel and carefully opened the door. "And then maybe you'd remember to slow down at all of our favorite parts," He watched as you worked on something, a blueprint hung just behind whatever you were working on but it was too far for him to see. But as you continued to sing, you placed the wrench on the table beside you and grabbed a screwdriver and a nail.

It seemed like you remembered the song you were singing and dropped the nail before using the screwdriver like a mic when the next lyric approached.

"All I wanted was you!" You belted, your body tensing as you drew out the last work leaving Denki at the door with wide eyes. The lyric repeated a couple of times but never as intense as the first one and as the singer remained the same tone, he noticed you were going higher.

"God!" Someone shouted, slamming the door connecting two labs together open making both of you jump. "Just do it already, you've been singing this damn song for two days! I've never been more jealous of Yuki for being deaf!" The girl, who looked to be in the same year as the both of you, ranted, her red hair flopping around in the messy bun on the top of her head. 

    "Sonoko," You whined, picking the nail up from the floor and got back to your work. "It's not that easy," Sonoko sighed, her gloved hand pressed against her slightly dirty face much like Mina did when Denki said the same thing. But before she said anything, she saw Denki and grinned.

"Kaminari, whatcha need?" She asked, ignoring the way you stiffened and paused the insertion of the flat head nail. 

   "Ah-" He snapped out of his sort of trance and looked at Sonoko, both of her eyes were completely green but he could've sworn they had just been a red. "(l/n)? I sorta wanted to talk with him," He pointed at you as if you both had no idea who (l/n) was.

"Crap," You whispered, had he heard everything? Did he see the post you made last night before deleting it no less than five minutes later? His friend had, Sero, you recalled. "What's up?" Spinning around in the chair, you grinned to act as if you weren't sweating bullets at the thought of him knowing your crush on him.

It wasn't a huge crush, you insisted anytime anyone brought it up. The crush was probably going to fade in a month was another excuse you came up with but everyone knew it was a lie. 

"In private?" Denki's face scrunched at the (hopefully not) weird request. He should've turned around when he had the chance, he was going to blow it and look like a total idiot again.

   "Yeah, sure," You nodded, hurriedly glancing at Sonoko to get her to leave the both of you alone. Not that she needed to be told twice as she was already making her way back to her room. 

"So," You trailed, turning back to the Roomba you stole from your dad in an attempt to make it better.

   "Right," He nodded, stepping further into the room and looked around. "Nice… lab," The awkwardness was killing him, he just needed to say the most seven words and that's it.

"Thanks, I just cleaned it," Skipping the song that played next, you turned around and looked at Denki. "How've you been? Since middle school and everything- did you ever get over that fear of butterflies?" Around the middle of eighth grade, a rumor started spreading that Denki had run away from a butterfly during a trip to the zoo.

    "That wasn't me!" He whined, his shoulders slumped and head tilted back. "It was another blond kid! I wasn't even near the butterfly house!" As much as he wished you had forgotten all about the rumor, he couldn't deny he liked the way you laughed.

He watched as you covered your mouth and tried to not look at him during your failed attempt to hide the bellowing laughter that made his stomach churn. That feeling was in no way foreign to Denki, he always felt it when he heard you laugh when you smiled, even when your nose wrinkled whenever you sketched out a design.

"Sorry," You waved as your laughter died down, a smile still on your face when it was gone. It wasn't that funny but the fact that the rumor was still around two years later was hilarious to you. "But what's up? You don't see hero course kids in the support course halls just to complement our workspace," Denki blanked, he had all that time to think of something to say but he was too focused on you.

"Do you have any open slots?" He asked, hoping that the question would buy him time to actually think of something to say. And, it did, he watched as you got up from your seat to a whiteboard on the other side of the room. Names were messily scribbled on the board, notes written around with arrows pointing to the names it corresponded to.

   "Yeah," You nodded, erasing the top name and its notes with your hand before turning to him. "It might take me a bit longer than usual but I have time to work on something new. Shoot," He watched as you crossed your arms over your stomach, your arms unintentionally flexing made him almost short circuit.

"When I short circuit-" He found an idea from his wandering eyes. "It pretty much puts me out of commission and I wanted to see if there was a way that I won't go all whey whey," He mimicked what happens when he overuses his quick and smiled when you nodded instead of making fun of him like his classmates did. 

   "Yeah, okay, totally," You hummed, walking back over to where you just were and picked up a notebook. There were burn marks and stains all over but the pages were relativity spotless, save for the bleed through. "What type of item do you want? Like a pair of gloves, a vest, a choker," You listed off, honestly throwing the idea of a choker out there as a joke (and maybe because you wanted to see him wear one) but he took it seriously.

"My costume has a collar!" He grinned while you quickly jotted down notes and ideas. "We could just swap the two-out," 

"Okay, so, come back tomorrow and I should have a basic idea where we can work from. If you want I can give you my number- so y'know, we can talk about… the collar," You drifted, your eyes slowly raising to meet his hoping he would say yes.

   "S-Sure!" He nodded and gave you his phone, already unlocked when he passed it over. 

Once he was gone, you closed your door and ran to Sonoko's lab before slamming the door open. The sudden noise jolted her from her power nap she usually took around that time.

"I got his number!"

Two days later, you were taking measurements of Denki's neck, the two of you were close enough that you could hear his breathing. While you kept your composer Denki was focusing on not accidentally electrocuting you as his eyes hardly ever left your head while you wrapped the tape around his neck.

"Is this too tight?" You muttered, looking up at him and he swore his heart stopped. His throat went dry and he forgot words until he remembered that this wasn't a dream. That you were actually in front of him, awaiting his answer.

   "K-kinda," He nodded, blinking away the rush he got as you turned your attention back to his neck. 

   "Okay… and how is this?" You asked, loosening the tape by a couple of centimeters.

   "Pretty loose feels like it's gonna slip off," He laughed, doing his best to ignore the feeling of your soft breathing on his neck. It was almost hypnotizing, the soft breeze mixed with the hum had him on cloud nine and he intended to ride it out as long as possible.

Still, he tried to not let his mind wander like it did the day before when you were actually touching his neck. It was only because you had used your pinky to describe what you were thinking about for his support item. Denki hardly remembered the things you said but gushed to Mina and Sero about it for an hour as soon as he could.

You, on the other hand, you were relishing in the feeling of his neck, the way your body ghosted over his, and how if you just leaned in you could kiss him. His feelings for you were obvious at that point since he did a terrible job at hiding then so you decided to ride out the wave you were on. Sonoko had probably said I told you so more times than you could count within the past two days that you felt stupid for not realizing it sooner.

"Okay," You nodded, taking down the numbers of both measurements and grabbed a small page of different fabrics. "Tell me which you like the most, that'll be the fabric for the choker," You muttered, pulling a chair out for him with your foot while working on the inner workings for the actual support piece. 

Being around Denki had gotten substantially easier within the past forty-eight hours, now knowing that your crush wasn't as one-sided as you believed you felt an odd sense of security around him. Now, just because you knew he shared the same feelings for you didn't mean you were going to ask him out- no, there was no way you'd find the confidence. You weren't really the outgoing type, sure you could be, people assumed you were but you thrived of being alone. Being with your ideas and tinkering was where you felt the most secure, not in a crowd of people or when you're being whisked from your work to go and hang out with friends.

Don't get it twisted though, you loved your friends and hanging out but it just wasn't the same as the peace you got when they weren't around. You didn't have to find social cues or hold your tongue during conversations. It was relaxing to be alone, it was fun to be with others.

"I like this one," He said after a moment passed, his fingers brushing against the patch of white fabric. You looked over and hummed, taking the page from him, your fingers accidentally brushing against each other.

   "Rayon- a good choice. It's lightweight and absorbent," Rayon wasn't your favorite fabric but it was one you used often but in truth, Denki forgot what he was doing and picked a random one. 

His mind was wandering again, this time to what Sero had jokingly said when he announced that he was going to be spending lunch with you.

"Ask him if he's into guys, then ask if he's into blondes!" The last part was meant to be a joke but it wouldn't hurt to ask.

"So," He trailed off. "Any cute girls caught your eye yet?" As soon as he said it, Denki knew it was a dumb question. You were obviously into Sonoko, he caught the two of you whispering and laughing just before he walked into the room.

   "Na," You shook your head and threw him a glance. "I'm into guys. How about you?" Something in Denki's mind acted as if he had overused his quirk and he froze. Answers disappeared from his head as he frantically tried to find one and when he did he blurted it out.

   "I'm into you!" Oh, how he wished he had walked away from your lab the first time and then the second time, the third time, and now the fourth time. In any one of those situations, he could have avoided the inevitable rejection. 

"That's nice to know," You laughed, hiding your face in hopes of not giving away the obvious wide eyes. Sure, you knew he liked you- but for him to blatantly say it? You didn't know how to react. And neither did Denki.

   "Um- I-" He stopped himself and looked down at the table. "I was gonna ask you out- I was gonna make a fake Instagram and have people send in anonymous confession, then I was going to write you notes like they do in manga, and then an email and um- well, I was gonna ask is the point." Being nervous was nothing new to Denki but man- that was a new level of nervousness. He could feel his heart in his throat and his face felt like it was on fire the whole time (not that it stopped when he stopped talking). 

"I know," You told him, scribbling on the black rayon fabric with a white color pencil. Lines marked the places you wanted to cut and remember for future use. 

   "You knew?!" He shouted, his heart rate got even faster as ideas raced through his mind.

   "Not for long," You reassured him. "Just like- two days. You're bad at hiding it. But- ah- I like you, too," 

"You do?" He asked, his head snapped up from the desk, and over to you, a wide grin on his face only got wider when you nodded. "Now you're embarrassed!" He laughed as his confidence came back and pressed his hands against your face before bringing his own towards yours. "I hope this is okay, (y/n)!" He whispered before his lips met yours.

It didn't take long for you to kiss him back, your hands went to his waist as you pulled him onto your lap. With his legs on either side of yours, you pulled away, only to go right back into kissing.

"What the fuck?" Sonoko groaned as she walked into your lab but Denki didn't pull away. Instead, he ground his hips against yours, the friction caused him to moan into the kiss. "Stop fucking already!" Slightly annoyed, you opened your eyes and flicked her off, silently telling her to leave you alone before kneading the flesh on Denki's thighs.

"You're hella horny," You rasped, pulling away after a couple of tries. "Ever thought of rubbing one out?" Denki smiled and shrugged, his lips moving down to suck the flesh on your jaw, his mouth slowly moving down. 

   "Do you mind?" He whispered into your neck, only continuing when you agreed. 

As the both of you fixed your clothes, you helped Denki fix his hair before wiping spit from his mouth.

"So," He trailed, shyly fixing his tie. 

"Are we dating?"

#denki kaminari #denki x you #denki x y/n #x male reader #x reader #denki x reader #denki x male reader #kaminari x male reader #denki kaminari x reader #denki kaminari x male reader

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Holy Hands | Houses With Teeth Update #2

HOLLA guess who’s back for another writing update!

If the title of this update seems unfamiliar--Houses With Teeth, what? who? when? why?--that’s because the last time I talked about this project on here was the first time, back in July! For a refresher, check out THIS very rambly post where I “intro” the project (very minimally as I had no idea what I was doing).

I still don’t know what I’m doing *exactly* but have made a semi-break through with this project and felt inclined to share. The last I spoke about HOUSES WITH TEETH at length was to vaguely describe what the project was. This book for those who don’t want to read the previous post, is the seventh book in my (very ongoing) series, Fostered. This book comes along five years after writing the first book in the series, after a major writing revolution.

I haven’t shared much about this on this blog because I wasn’t sure how to, but I really struggled with this project. HWT comes as the book after Rewired (book 6), which I finished drafting in March-ish of 2019. From then, until two days ago, I had no idea what I was doing with the series--if I could even continue it, and how I would continue it with all the changes my writing evolution presented. I chose to distract myself/keep busy with Moth Work, a spinoff of this series and my current novel, however, HWT sort of nagged in the back of my mind for many months. 

HWT is actually one of the reasons I ended book 6 so hastily! After getting a few ideas for new scenes, I fell in love with the idea of writing my protagonist Reeve in a city by herself, with new people we’d never met before. These rose-coloured glasses worked to my detriment, as the premature idea took over my decision-making process before I could properly understand what I wanted from it. 

After the end of Rewired, I thought everything was all fine and dandy! I had a new novel idea set up, ready to be written whenever I wanted. But something unplanned happened--I didn’t end up returning to the project. This is mostly because my desires for the book--whether to write it as a “real” book, or continue it as a semi-disjointed Fostered book (which isn’t shade to my past books, just the tea loool)--started to conflict. Though I started many openings (about 3k words of first scenes), nothing was sticking. I felt like I was misjudging my main character Reeve and making her more of a caricature than she really was. I feared I forgot who she was, and that her story was ending (scary!). 

This is where I (recently) found the root of the problem. My mischaracterization of Reeve worked against me, as I’d done exactly what I’d feared doing--misjudging who she was. It had been a long time since I’d written with Reeve, a character I’ve written with since I was thirteen, and though I felt I knew her, I also felt like I’d lost her in translation. While I was back home a few weeks ago, I began re-reading a few passages of book six to get a feel for a character, which helped, but didn’t cause any revelations. 

It was only a few days ago, when I helped @sarahkelsiwrites crack the plot of her novel that I felt an itch to try to crack mine as well. I first did this by paging through my (very minimal) notes for the book. This notes document consists basically of only two scene ideas I had that were a few thousand words long. Somehow, re-reading them helped me realize Reeve’s priorities, but most importantly, how much this book focuses on her vulnerabilities. It made me realize the root of her flamboyance toward the end of book six, and where her genuine side resided. 

So this leads to the actual update! 

Let’s first chat setting, y’all. This was a hard call to make, because I’d initially determined Reeve was going to be in NYC at the start of the book. The problem is, I’m *very bad* at writing real places, especially places I don’t personally know well. The thought of having to engage a five character cast (which seems small, but in a big city where they could be doing other things, feels big), and also have to write in this city accurately made the realism of this book too much for me to handle. I’m all for realism! But I wasn’t prepared for the culture shock that was “welp these books used to take place in an unknown unlocated subway station” to “so this book takes place in a real city”. It made too many things too real for me, the time period included (which is another crisis)! Setting this whole book in NYC overwhelmed me and I knew I wouldn’t do it justice. 

The problem is, I’d planned this entire book around NYC. At the start of my initial plan of HWT, Reeve is supposed to live in an apartment above a bakery with two housemates who I’d already sort of gotten to know! I couldn’t just throw all of this away, especially since I’d set Moth Work in a direction toward NYC so everyone could meet up easily. So what did I do? After reading those initial notes I mentioned above, I made it all backstory. ;) And boy! Did this also crack the book open. 

This was the first revelation I had with HWT 2.0. Allowing myself to move the book out of this setting, but still have the important parts got me to ask myself why Reeve would move to a big city with a new identity, and oh, did the pot start stirring ITSELF. I then decided to create a smaller town just outside of NYC where I can run amuck, lol. The town’s name is Wicker (for now) which I don’t dislike, though it hasn’t grown on me. I’m very bad at making up town names, and after many attempts, I settled for a very real word?? Lol.

This post is getting long, so I won’t explain the story unless y’all want to know, but I came to the decision that in this town, our fave soft boi Foster would have a nice house and his ideal cottagecore life, and all would be SWELL. Until!! This leads to our very hasty summary:

After escaping a toxic relationship, twenty-year-old Reeve disappears for the second time in one summer. She’s drawn to Wicker, a mealy town outside New York City, whose disappearances of affluent girls has caught her attention. The day she arrives, a sinkhole buries one of them in the front yard of her new home, a fixer-upper she shares with estranged friend, Foster. Quickly she falls prey to speculation by herself and others, who try to connect her to the tragedy. And even stranger, false recognitions as the girl in the ground, and the many other missing Wicker girls make her feel more and more like one of them--these alluring unknown women. 

(A huge thanks to @sarahkelsiwrites​ for literally cracking this book open for me, and for all the conversations we’ve had regarding this project! Literally this book wouldn’t exist without Sarah!)

Now let’s get into the first thing I wrote for HWT 2.0!

Holy Hands is the prologue of Houses With Teeth, and marks a milestone for the first prologue I’ve written! 

This prologue was a very impromptu thing. I drafted this a few days ago, and immediately felt something I’ve never felt writing any of the other (many) openings I’ve tested for HWT. It felt very right, but most importantly, I felt like I had Reeve back. It’s very possible for your own characters to hide from you (which is how I felt with Reeve), and though it’s taken very many months for her to really reveal herself to me, I’m so happy I’ve waited because I’ve never been so stoked to write her. 

As y’all know, Reeve is a bit of a no-bullshit kinda gal. The last chapter you would’ve seen her in, she was lounging in a motel bathroom drinking margaritas on her own and you know? We love that for her! Except, after that chapter, I couldn't figure out who she wanted to be--the ‘no fucks given’ woman in the bathtub, or the vulnerable, porous person she often was in earlier books. I love no fucks given Reeve, however, I think I got caught up in her no-fucks-givenness that I missed the time she does give fucks (which is! often!). This prologue really opened me up to her, and I feel a closeness to her that I haven’t felt in a long time. 

The prologue itself is rather short. It’s about 1300 words pre-edits, and I wrote it in! one! sitting! A phenomenon! We begin as Reeve is getting out of a taxi to enter her new home, AKA her old pal Foster’s house. She invites herself after a horrific encounter that scares her out of NYC and closer to her old pals (who she’s estranged herself from). Reeve outlines first, the disappearances of these affluent girls, and then fixates on Irene, her future housemate, whom Foster describes as many things that summer. Reeve is semi shook by Irene because she’s startlingly pretty and also startlingly looks like?? her?? (Reeve is just into herself? Who knew?)

Excerpts:

Here are a few excerpts from the prologue that I kinda dig! Here is the first paragraph:

Four girls went missing the summer the ground opened up. I was the unofficial fifth. They were girls I knew, in some iteration at least. Girls who wore their hair down, collars up. Anklets from their football boyfriends, like voguish ball-and-chains, pretty lingerie no one would see for at least another decade. Things I’d never worn, but wanted to wear. They were wealthy girls with the kinds of parents who dressed them in tights and midi-skirts, sent them to boarding schools, paid for piano lessons just to display a trophy. Girls with parents who wanted synthetic children. Girls who lusted over the romance of marriage—the ultimate form of female liberation. Girls who cast spells with each other and chose their friends based on zodiac signs, the amounts of vowels in their names. Girls who kissed each other in secret and stayed missing until they wanted to be found. None of them knew me.

This is a description of Wicker (CW: a bit of a gory descriptor):

That summer was pallid and bitter. Wicker sat in a valley an hour outside of New York City, and rarely caught sunshine. The locals explained it had always been like this—anemic, unexciting. Women came here to raise quieter children, and those quiet children threw stones at each other’s eyes to see who’d go blind first. The first one who did was found floating face-down in the creek behind the church and the women and children left hastily. It worked in waves like this: people coming, people going. Wicker was empty and both full—of the dead, and alive. I’d chosen it for this reason. 

Here’s an excerpt that comes right after the previous (all of these actually make up the first three paragraphs lol, TW: eating disorders):

The cabbie I’d given the last of my savings to took my bag out of his car trunk and walked it up to the house. It was one of the few nice days in Wicker, one of the last while I was there. Sunshine slit my face in two as I watched myself in the cab’s reflection. I reached for my cigarettes and realized too late that I’d left them back at the apartment. That summer, I was the thinnest I’d been. The hollow ache of me more of a victory than a loss. I know why I stopped eating in those first two weeks, why every meal Foster would later serve me in that house felt cryptic, and it had something to do with the body they never fully recovered. I wasn’t hungry when I’d gotten to Wicker; I wasn’t hungry for a long time after.

Some Foster gentleness (I missed him!):

Chickadees chattered in the birdfeeder Foster had set up a week earlier. Though I hadn’t been on the road long, the drive had exhausted me. The midafternoon clouds pilled, hardly overcast, something I’d come to miss when the sun stopped coming. He hadn’t invited me to live with him, but didn’t object when I called to say I’d be coming up. It was the first I’d spoken to anyone who knew me as Reeve and not Evie in half a year. That day, he greeted me from the porch and took my single carry-on from the cabbie with a boyish thank you. It was one of the last times I’d see him wear it—his bashful gentleness, like he always felt the need to apologize even when everything was brilliant. 

Here’s an intro of Irene, where the chapter title comes from:

Irene sat at the kitchen table inside the house. I caught her in glances through the doorway. The first thing I thought was that she’d look better as a blonde. A small thing who held her mug like she was holding a holy object. I’d later be haunted by those hands when I remembered how they looked by the time she was partly pulled up. Foster described her as many things to him over the course of that summer: a housemate, a partner, a friend, sometimes just a person he knew. She was reading something, something French—I could hear her reciting parts of it, at times loudly, like she knew she had an audience, at times at just a whisper, the most personal parts, I later found. I’d translate the line I’d heard most prominently later: Don’t let the house consume you. 

“Cigarettes?” I said to the cab driver as he was nestling back into his car. When he didn’t hear me, I knocked on his window. The sound of it made Irene’s head bob to attention, though only for a moment. “Cigarettes?” I mimed smoking one when he only blinked at me. We spoke minimally on the drive up, though I learned more about him just by looking. Two daughters, their pictures pasted neatly on the dash. Candy coloured flyers for take-out restaurants jittering against the AC’s shutter. In all that time, I hadn’t learned his name.

When he rolled up the window, I had to jump back so my nose didn’t get clipped. The sun shifted through the glass in wisps, like cobwebs, and my face disintegrating from the surface of the glass was the last thing I saw before he zipped away.

I was surprised to see Irene standing on the porch next to Foster when I looked up. My cheeks warmed. The cabbie’s drive-off had embarrassed me, and I realized how I looked to her, a woman I didn’t know, that I already wanted to know. A bit pathetic. Frazzled. A city person who couldn’t navigate a city. A weak woman—already needing a fix on her first day of a new life.

“I’m quitting,” I said, even though she hadn’t said anything. In the sunshine, she was prettier than I wanted her to be. Her hair hip-length, a length I’d always been too impatient to achieve. Wearing a camisole and a midi-skirt. Pearls in her ears, like the others wore. In New York City, she would’ve been plain to me. The kind of girl I would’ve marked up with a pen in a magazine. Outlining her hips as to say they weren’t good enough, squiggling over her eyebrows because her face was too pretty for a body so average. It wasn’t long after she was gone that I became mistaken for her.

And here’s a bit from the very end of the chapter:

The ground opened like a cracked egg, so slow at first, I didn’t notice. Some say she pushed me. Others say it was the other way around. It melted under us, and one minute I was thinking about how embarrassing I was, how crude it was to still be addicted to cigarettes, and the next, there was a belly in the ground and Irene was somewhere in it. Her dark hair wisping around her, like a tornado. How I thought she’d look better as a blonde. Holy hands, camisole, midi-skirt, pearls in her ears. This was all I’d ever know of Irene. A body was found the summer the ground opened up. I still don’t know exactly who she was.

So that’s it for now y’all! Obviously lots of stuff is subject to change, but I’m finally feeling confident with this path (if I scrap all of this you will know lol)! I’m very excited for this book, and hope to take some more notes on it soon to see where it will go. For now, I’ve got an idea for the first chapter I can play around with, but I hope y’all enjoyed this little piece so far!

--Rachel

#writing #amwriting #writeblr #writingupdates #fostered #houseswithteeth

[leviathiane]

SHOW US YOUR WROR RAW UNPROCESSED WHOLE GRAIN ORGANIC NOTES

this is going to be a long-ass post i am so sorry to Everyone! i take a lot of notes.

So, as You specifically know (as well as all of my lovely Soggers) I take a LOT of notes. Obsessively. I write fucking everything bc i have very little memory and very much paranoia. This results in literal Piles of notes. Raw planning, on paper, on my phone– doodles of scenes im brainstorming, bulletpoints, entire SCRIPTS– it’s all there but scattered (I’ve got scenes planned in the margins of my goddamn anthropology notes and deciphering it was a NIGHTMARE) 

I won’t even upload all the photos of my writing notebook, because itd be like 50 pages of illegible nonesense. but heres a couple of planning phase pages. (may be hard to read, I dropped this notebook both into some tidepools, into a creek on campus, and accidentally leaked my waterbottle onto it in my backpack :/) 

if you can’t tell already, yes they all look exactly like this. Some are even more illegible, because I wrote them with the notebook half under my actual class notes. Because i wrote most of them in class. During lectures. And pretending very badly that i was not doing exactly that. (pay attention in class please i got away with this bc i was filling up elective units) 

I’m also flat out MISSING a large portion of my notes bc some of it? isnt even in the damn notebook. its on a sheet of binder paper, or on the empty back of an assignment. I’ve now lost most of those notes, but the ones i do still have are just as (even more, actually) indecipherable chicken scratch: 

Wow, how clean and tidy and easy to follow! i am in hell. 

and this doesnt mention the PAGES and PAGES of outlines that are on my laptop, and the pages of outlined scenes that are on the notes app of my phone. if i put them all, you would have entire chapter spoilers up to the very end of the story so i cant post a lot of them– and also theres just a goddamn lot of them. currently i have 16 pages of outlining. There are no spacing breaks. It is a solid 16 page block of text. Looking at it gives me a migraine. 

some assorted notes which i have dredged up from the deleted parts of the main draft google doc go all the way back to when i started Wror in June and they are Barely more readable than my handwriting on sheer account of: articulation is not my strength. These include: 

“Ch 8 plan: sabo gets trained specially, awakens his armament haki, beats ace in a bunch of spars and proves himself to be anything but vulnerable. The boys are like “we fucking recognize that technique ryu taught you before us!!” and goad ryu into finally starting them both on basic haki training, just to awaken it, since sabo already has. Also this is the chapter that ace finally confronts ryu for his devil fruit after ryu confirms that some devil fruit users can’t be hurt without haki and ace immediately catches onto that and tries to slam his pipe through ryus head. It doesn’t work, ryu catches the weapon with a haki covered hand, to avoid turning to flame with hit and ace just gets frustrated and accuses ryu of hiding his devil fruit, because he remembers what he saw in grey terminal and that now that he has seen haki he can distinguish it from what he saw and he’s sure no one could do what ryu did. He calls ryu a hypocrite for coddling them even after telling them to stop coddling sabo and ryu has to sit them down and explain that yes he does have powers and he has been hdiing it and explains his reasoning. However instead of understanding th eboys just get fired up and say they don’t wnt to be scared of fire, especially not when it means ryu isn’t taking them seriously in a spar. Ryu finally agrees to start them on desensitization training for fire trauma. Fire desensitization training happens on the beach, so that they have water nearby in case things get out of hand. At some point ace gives ryu a considering look and is just like “if you have a devil fruit that means you can’t swim either right?” and ryu is basically just like “lmao yeah” and then ace immediately attempts to drown him. Lots of murder attempts in ace’s department toget his older brother to be less of an idiot with little success lol(extra: ace tried to attack ryu earlier both to confirm that ryu has a devil fruit that would force him to use haki to hide it, and because he now knows that he CAN’T hurt ryu without haki and as thus can’t beat him and make him admit he’s awake without being good at haki.)” [chapter 8] 

“Small sabo lost his hat and goggles in the incident and while he doesn’t remember having them future sabo notices he looks uncomfortable and keeps touching his hair and head. Ace yells at him for it thinking he bandaging are bothering him and that he can’t touch them but little sabo just comments that something about it feels wrong. Luffy blurts our that he had a hat, like luffy does, But he doesn’t now ace begrudgingly mentions that they can’t get a new one in town. Future sabo doesn’t even hesitate and just plops his own hat onto his younger selves head. It clearly too big for him, and almost falls over his eyes but he grins up at future sabo and is like “wow!! Thank you! I’ll take care of it till I have one of my own” and creates a paradox like Luffys own hat. The footsteps younger sabo has yet to fill. This HAS to happen AFTER the talk where they explain that future and past sabo are both the same person, to give little sabo that pressure.” [chapter 9]

“(Right after this older sabo takes them down to the ocean so that they can play a little and desensitize themselves and immediately fucks himself over when he goes weak in the water bc he somehow fucking forgot his own devil fruit again and now even younger sabo is on his case about not letting him near the fucking ocean that little goddamn HYPOCRITE—) )” [for chapter 9]

“Ch 9 plan: they finally leave dawn island. Starts with the boys getting a haircut after training and luffy mentions how long it’s been since they’ve last needed a haircut, giving sabo and ace time to point out that it’s been 2 months now since ryu joined them, and that sabo was completely healed by now. The boys are now aware of the basics of haki, and while luffy hasnt awakened either yet ace and sabo both have a little bit of weak armament haki. (sabo won’t awaken observational haki until he gets his memories back) ryu tries to sneak off into the city to steal a boat but his brothers refuse to leave him behind and keep sneaking out after him, not wanting him to go alone and saying that since he’s been training them they’re clearly stronger and he needs to let them do this. Ryu eventually just lets it go because why the fuck not it’s a dream and they make him feel better. They get the boat out on open ocean and finally fucking sail out, cheering loudly, ryu struggling to make them all calm down but also not really trying. He’s happy as shit, and they’re all so excited and happy and sabo dips a hand into the waves and then smiles so fucking wide and tackles ryu so violently they both nearly tip into the water and it’s just very very good. “ [also for ch 9] 

** I flat out dont Have any outlining from before chapter 6, because i only started actually outling chapters after that. i tend to just sit down and Write up until i hit a plot point or writers block and then am forced to actually think it through and plan rather than letting it come naturally. thats also why the quality and editing is better in later chapters despite everything being written within the same time frame. 

besides entire chapter outlines, there are the scene specific phone notes like:

“(ADDED) Right after they leave dawn, when sabo is sure they’ve gotten enough of a head start, he calls Garp. He doesn’t say who he is, but that all of the boys are safe and happy with him and has them all talk into the phone to assure him that they’re fine. Garp is honestly just pissed off he doesn’t know who’s calling and when he asks sabo just laughs and says a disobedient brat before hanging up. “

“(ADDED) TO EXPAND ON CH 3: sabo gets offered the chance to go with dragon, and he hesitates on the offer to go through with his previous life with the family he’s made in the revolutionary again. He almost agrees, because the bought of losing them in this lifetime is near excruciating but reminds himself swiftly that it’s no place for his brothers and not what they’d really want, and he wants selfishly to be with them as long as he Can until he “inevitably” wakes up. The boys are visibly relieved by this, especially ace. (Sabo gets asked who he is by dragon, who wants to know more about the stranger with his son, but dragon has always been quicker to make connections no one guessed and he just smiled knowingly at sabo and tells him he’s sure the other will have no trouble finding them if he’s in need. Sabo in turn warns him to keep Kuma close, and to look for a slave girl named koala.)”

I have…. many of these. I have Many of Everything. 

finally, i have scene doodles. if i hit a bad writers block it usually helps me to sketch scenes or the character designs to regain my grip on what the hell is happening in the plot– Breach of Intention has character design sketches, pakcbond has MANY scene sketches, even some of my nsfw has some sketches. my wror skecthes arent Good of course, I am an art teacher for children and that means i am more often explaining the color wheel and brush techniques over drawing perfect human replicas– and i just dont really make a lot of fanart? ive never drawn sabo before but i sure have a bunch now. i wont include close ups because they genuinely suck but heres an example pic 

So… yeah thats about everything. this is a VERY long post and yet i only included like maybe ¼ or 1/5 of all the notes i have dbskhjgfkjadns lmk if anyone wants more (or notes for my Other stories, which contain NO WHERE the same absurd amount of shit that wror does.)

#depths' ask #response #idk what to even tag this honestly?? this post is such a mess abhdsjfgdkjn #thanks mido love u dear 💕🎉 im gonna want some damn notes on second chances heads up #wror #wror stockpile #touchmycoat #i started this response at goddamn 3:52am and its now 4:40am #it took me. almost an HOUR #oh my god

[pens-swords-stuff]

Cough Syrup and Popsicles [Short Story]

So this is a short story that I wrote for my Creative Writing class! It was my first time since middle school that I attempted to write a short story, and also the first time since middle school that I’ve written in first person!

It’s gone through a couple of drafts, but it’s still a little rough around the edges. But since I deemed it decent enough for my interim portfolio, I figured I’d share it with you all here :)

This is very different from what I write normally, and it was a great challenge! It’s not my best work, but I hope you guys like it.

(I apologize if the formatting is a bit wonky, it copy-pasted really weirdly)

If you would like to read this on your dashboard instead of my blog, please click here!

Warning: Long-ish writing; 2927 words.

The harsh lights of the fluorescents flickered overhead. The shopping cart shuddered as the defective wheel squeaked and groaned across the linoleum. The grocery store was nearly devoid of people, with only the occasional employee ducking past me to restock some shelves. Their eyes flickered towards me as they passed, regarding me with disdain before their gaze drifted to the clock mounted by the ceiling. The employees probably wanted to go home—it was almost closing time. I couldn’t blame them. I always got irritated when people came in at the last minute at the restaurant where I worked.  They probably would be able to go home if it wasn’t for the few stragglers lurking among the shelves. I ducked my head whenever I felt their eyes on me. Pretend like they’re not looking at you, Alexandria, I chanted to myself. Just grab what you need and get out. It wasn’t like I wanted to be here either—I had just crawled into my bed when my seven-year old approached me with a bright red face and a burning forehead. The last bit of cold medicine left in my dwindling medicine cabinet had expired three months ago. I wasn’t about to risk poisoning my son just because I didn’t have the time or the funds to replenish my supply of medicine.

I tried to hurry through the store, dragging along the stubborn shopping cart as best as I could, but I realized that my legs weren’t moving as fast as they should.  As any good mother would do when their child was sick, I should be racing down the aisles, tearing through the shelves to find what I need so I can get home as soon as possible, but no. I had stopped completely when I realized something: I could hear the hum of the lights overhead; I felt the cold rush of air every time the doors opened several feet behind me; and my thoughts weren’t drowned out by my kids constantly tugging at my legs and begging for snacks that I can’t afford. It was the first time in days that I had a moment to myself, to just breathe and take in the world. Did the produce section always have that sweet scent of strawberries and cantaloupe wafting in the air? I didn’t want to leave, I realized. I had missed being alone; I missed being able to pick out my fruits and vegetables carefully to find the best ones; I was finally able to think instead of being rushed out of the door because my child threw a tantrum. I didn’t want to leave this dingy, dismal grocery store with its too bright fluorescents and dusty shelves because despite all of that, it was the first time in a while that I had the time to realize how red apples can be.

I’ll go home soon, really soon, I promised myself as I took an apple in my hand just because I could. It was heavier than I thought. I just need a moment, a few moments here first…

The container that usually held all the apple slice samples was empty by this time of night. The only thing that remained was the occasional apple stem left in the plastic box.

“Did you want an apple?” A lady with brown glasses and a kind expression asked from behind.

I must’ve looked particularly disappointed that it was empty. “Maybe a little,” I admitted with embarrassment. How intensely was I staring at the container that a stranger noticed? “It’s just been a while—I don’t know what I was expecting at this time of night.”

“Here.” The lady offered me an apple slice. “I grabbed the last one, but you look like you need it more than I do.”

What in the world did that look like? “Thank you, but it’s yours. I’m fine.”

"I insist. I’m not that hungry anyways.” The lady handed me the apple without leaving much room for protest. Then with a smile and a wave, she was gone.

That may have been one of the stranger experiences I’ve had at grocery stores, albeit a very kind one. When I bit into the apple slice, it was one of the sweetest apples I had ever tasted. Who knew that an out-of-season apple slice was what it would take for me to feel a little bit more like myself again? By the time I left the produce aisle, I felt like I could breathe again, like a huge weight was taken off my chest.

When I reached to open the glass door for a carton of milk, I paused. There was a woman staring at me, bone-weary and exhausted. I blinked, and she blinked at the same time. I moved my hand and she moved hers at the same time—I flinched when realization dawned on me: that was my reflection in the glass, staring blearily back at me. Vacant, sunken eyes with dark circles underneath; limp, scraggly dark hair, hollowed out cheeks with protruding cheekbones; the pallor of my face looking even more sallow underneath the harsh lights… I touched a trembling hand to my cheek and followed the planes of my cheekbone with my fingers. The feeling of weightlessness vanished immediately, and I felt all my burdens fall back upon me like stone. Who was she? I didn’t recognize myself. It was like staring into a funhouse mirror. It was me, but distorted, twisted and strange. It wasn’t me—or at the very least, I didn’t want it to be me. Where had that young, vivacious woman with the perky smile and confidence in her posture gone? I know I had let myself go quite a bit in terms of self-care as I gave everything I had to my kids; anything extra that I had was for them, whether that be food, clothes, supplies, love, affection… There was very little left for me. Despite that, somewhere in the back of my mind, I didn’t think I had changed so much. I still thought that I was the hopeful young adult, ready to grab life by the horns, but no. The young woman who dreamed of graduating college and starting her own business was gone. I was older now, beat down and struggling, trying to make ends meet as best as I can by working two dead-end jobs with no future career prospects in sight. My heart sank as I took in reality, as I took in the disheveled, tired reflection staring back in the glass.

I turned on my heel and walked away as fast as I could, trying to leave that reflection far behind. I had wasted too much time already; my kids were waiting. The brief respite I had found in the grocery store was over now, and I was ready to step back into my chaotic life again where I was too busy to reflect on myself. I swiftly made my way towards the medicine aisle and knocked the cheapest box of cold medicine that I could find in the cart. Other necessities like bread, peanut butter, jelly, eggs, ketchup and boxes of macaroni and cheese joined the medicine. I didn’t know when I would be able to go out shopping again.

The last stop was the freezer aisle, for the popsicles that I always gave my kids when they were sick. I was perusing the selection, comparing prices and making calculations in my head when someone bumped into me from behind, roughly. Thoroughly jostled and caught off guard, I turned to see a tall man with sharp eyes boring straight into me. He cleared his throat and jerked his head to the left, gesturing me to move and get out of his way.

Was I not even worth an excuse me? I knew I looked rough around the edges, but I was still a person that deserved a ‘pardon me’ if someone walked right into me, especially when the aisle was big, empty and full of space to walk around. “I just need one second,” I said with a tight-lipped smile. “There’s enough room in this aisle for you to give me a little bit of space.”

It was a clear hint on my part, but the man with sharp eyes didn’t move. He just looked at his watch meaningfully and cleared his throat. What was an obviously busy man like him doing in a grocery store in the middle of the night, harassing me in front of the popsicles? As much as I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, it wasn’t worth it—I was busy too, and I had a sick child waiting for me. I reached into the freezer for the cheapest generic brand of popsicles and stepped away. The man with sharp eyes didn’t back down and didn’t stop staring at me.

I didn’t want to admit it, but this man had gotten to me: I felt a little shaken. I left the freezer aisle with a bad taste in my mouth—the sweetness of the apple had soured considerably.

“Are you alright?”

I must really look rough today. I looked up, and the lady from before was looking at me with her forehead creasing in concern.

“I’m fine, I guess.” I said. It was a lie, of course but there was no other answer to give.

“Did something happen?” The lady asked, not letting it slide like I had hoped.

“A really rude man walked straight into me and demanded that I move, even though there was enough space to walk around me and wait politely—if he had been taught any manners.” I said with a roll of my eyes. It came out more venomously than I had intended. I wanted to shrug it off like it was no big deal, but in my current mental state, all I wanted to do was cry.

“Some people are just like that,” The lady said sympathetically. “I remember people walking all over me when I was younger, just because they thought they could. Their time isn’t more important than anyone else’s, but common sense is lost on some people.”

I didn’t say anything, I just nodded. I turned my face away from the lady when the tears began to well up. It was stupid to cry at something like this, but once it happened, I couldn’t stop it. It was just a jerk who thought he was better than people, and a nice person making sure I was okay. It was nothing to cry about—but still, my vision blurred a little bit.

Politely, the lady looked away as if she didn’t notice me tearing up. “Really, are you alright? Is there anything that I can do for you?”

“Thank you so much, but I’m fine.” I said. I took a moment to swipe my sleeve against my eyes. No more crying. I had things to do. “I really appreciate your concern though—it’s been a while since anyone has been nice to me. It almost makes the rude guy worth it.”

Was that too much to say? It probably was.

 “The store will be closing in ten minutes. If you have any remaining purchases, please go check out cash register number seven.” The intercom crackled. With that interruption, I hastily parted way with the woman after one final thank you. Reacting quickly to the announcement paid off; I managed to squeeze into the front of the line, just barely beating out the man with sharp eyes and the others filing in after him.

“Did you find everything you needed?” The cashier said in a monotone voice.

“Yes, yes.” I said, throwing my items onto the conveyor belt. The eggs were placed a little bit more carefully. I didn’t have much patience for small talk. Fortunately, he only responded with a grunt of acknowledgement.

Beep. Generic brand cold medicine: $4.97. Beep. A carton of milk: $3.99. Beep. An 18 pack of popsicles: $4.99. Beep. Beep. Beep, beep, beep.

 “Your total is $22.79. The cashier said, not even looking in my direction.

 I pulled out my credit card and swiped it. Beep beep, your card has been declined. I felt my heart stop.

The cashier raised a slick eyebrow.

“There must be some mistake.” I wetted my suddenly dry lips. I had paid off my credit card, right? I didn’t max it out already, right? “Let me try again.”

Another swipe, another decline. I glared at the credit card machine, as if reaching my credit card limit was the fault of its cold, clinical beeps. I could feel panic rising in my throat, and I pulled out my debit card next. “Let me try this one,” I said weakly, trying to smile. It was probably more of a grimace than a smile, and the cashier looked back with apathy.

Beep beep, your card has been declined.

I felt positively nauseous at that point. If the ground could just open up and swallow me whole, I would gladly jump in. Was my checking account really so depleted that I couldn’t pay twenty-some dollars at a grocery store? It wasn’t even a big purchase!

I heard a dreaded clearing of the throat, accompanied by the tap tap tapping of a foot. It was the man with sharp eyes from before, the new bane of my existence. He glanced meaningfully at his watch again because his time was clearly more important than mine.

“Ma’am, if you don’t have enough money to pay for this, you’ll either have to get rid of something, or just leave.” The cashier said, annoyance coloring his tone.

“Get rid of something?” Frantically, my eyes combed over all the items I had wanted to purchase. The cold medicine was non-negotiable, and so was the milk. Maybe the small loaf of bread was unnecessary? No, no—bread was so important, and the small jars of peanut butter and jelly would make it a complete meal all on its own. All I had gotten was food that I could stretch over a few weeks if I had to. That was valuable. I didn’t have enough time to pull up my bank account and check my balance. I would just have to keep taking away items until I found the price I could pay.

The popsicles then? I reached out to it but my hand hesitated. They weren’t strictly a necessity, but popsicles were a treat my kids would only get when they were sick. My son would be so disappointed.

There was another clearing of the throat behind me. My cheeks burned. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I apologized to my son silently as I grabbed the cold box—

“Are these all things you need?” A kind voice that I had become familiar with over the last half-hour said from behind. The woman with the brown glasses that I had talked to twice before stepped out of her place in line and approached me.

Numbly, I nodded. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, prickling at my skin. I just stared at my shoes.

“I’ll cover it.” The lady said. My head snapped up in disbelief, and she just smiled at me.

“Wait, excuse me, what?” That was all I could manage. My mouth felt like cotton.

“I’ll cover it. All of it.” She said, already adding her own items to the conveyor belt.

I was dumbstruck; my mouth was gaping like a fish. “I don’t even know what to say. You don’t have to do this.” I knew somewhere in my brain that I had to thank her, but it was like my mouth forgot how to form the words.

“You seem like you’re having a rough time, and I want to help.” The lady said, already swiping her own card and signing the machine with a flourish. “No, you don’t have to say anything,” She interrupted, when I opened my mouth to at least justify my situation. “We could all use a helping hand every now and then.”

I didn’t realize that I was crying until a hot tear rolled down my cheek. I grasped her hands, trying to squeeze every bit of emotion into our clasped hands so that she might get a sense of the overwhelming emotion that welled up in my chest.

“Thank you.” I finally said through ragged gasps.

“Don’t worry about it.” The lady said, squeezing back.

I didn’t know why she covered my costs, and she never told me. I have no idea if she was a wealthy person who went around paying for the groceries of single mothers in her spare time, or if she just saw me and thought ‘this person looks rough, maybe she needs some help’. Was it too cheesy to think that she was an angel of some sort? Maybe. I’m not the religious kind, but I believed it.

When I went to bed that night, I wasn’t thinking about the man with sharp eyes who probably thought me as nothing better than a dust bunny, or the fact that I felt thirty years older than my actual age, wondering where it all went wrong. I was thinking about the fact that my children had full bellies and were sleeping soundly, and that my son would be okay in a few days because he had medicine. I was thinking about the lady who’s name I don’t even know that made it all possible.

Life gets hard sometimes. It’s the small acts of kindness like this that remind me that there are more important things to remember and cherish.

#writeblr #writing #creative writing #original writing #amwriting #short story #short stories #undine writes stuff #pens swords stuff

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

Fic author ask meme

haha so @veliseraptor​ tagged me literally months ago, as in so long ago I have no idea when it actually was, and I didn’t get all my answers typed up until...now. actually a lot of them were typed up a few months ago and then I finally finished this yesterday on the plane home. no, I don’t know why either

Author Name: 100indecisions on AO3

Fandoms You Write For: it's pretty much all Loki at the moment and has been for the last several years. I've written for other fandoms in the past and I have others on my WIP list, but yeah, it's like 95% Loki.

Where You Post: everything is on AO3, and I do mean "everything" because I get obsessive about that sort of thing. I do still have an FFN account under ladymoriel and most of my fics are reposted there, although none of my most recent fics are because I haven't gotten around to digging up cover images for them. also FFN sucks but I crave attention/validation and there are still some people who only use FFN, so I'll get around to it at some point.

Most Popular One-Shot: for some reason “the state of my head” has 1,157 kudos on AO3, so I guess it would be that one.

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: technically “the adventures of tiny Loki and Thor (and friends),” because it’s a multi-chapter fic (boy is it ever) and it has 1,020 kudos, but if we’re talking actual planned fic it would be “the kindness of strangers” at 623.

Favorite Story You Wrote: man, I don’t know. I’m partial to “I am a time bomb ticking away the hours to blow your world apart” because I like my headcanon and I think I structured it well, and “all this that is more than a wish is a memory” gets points for being the longest thing I’ve actually finished. but honestly I don’t know that I have a single favorite.

Story You Were Nervous to Post: haha well I'm sure there's been more than one, but if we're talking about the fic I was most nervous to post, I think that honor would go to my Grandthorki fic "I will kiss you till your breath is found," which is the most explicit AND most fucked-up fic I've written so far. I was nervous about...so many things with that one.

How Do You Pick Your Titles: probably 99% of them are song lyrics. sometimes I'll start with a specific song that's relevant to the fic itself in some way, but I also have a whole list of song lyrics that sound like good titles to me whether the rest of the song has anything to do with the subject of the fic. often I'll come up with a good lyric early in the process, just like "oh yeah I've had this hanging around in my list for ages and it works here"; otherwise, once I've finished or nearly finished a fic (or much earlier, actually, if I'm obsessing over an aspect of writing it that is...not actually writing, which happens a lot), if I still don't have a title I read through my whole list and make a much shorter list of titles that seem to fit this fic. if nothing from there seems just right, I’ll go hunting through my iTunes library and then Google for semi-relevant song lyrics. on occasion, though, the title comes first or otherwise shapes the direction of the fic, like with "I will kiss you till your breath is found"--I had a vague idea of what I might want to do, but it was very vague and I hadn't committed to it, and then I just happened to listen to some Sufjan Stevens and went "heyyyyy I know exactly what to do and it's terrible and I'm gonna do it, I have a title now, I have to do it"

Do You Outline: it depends on the fic. for long ones, at a minimum I'll write a bulleted list of plot points I need to hit, which often ends up being basically two or three pages of a zero draft that I then struggle to turn into actual prose...and then I often re-do the outline at least once or twice as I go along so I can compress it into something more useful that fits on one page and I can cross stuff out as I go. (if a list can’t fit on one page/view, there’s basically no way I can hold all of it in my head at once.) I often end up with shorter lists of scenes I still need to write and specific things to hit during revisions, too. for short fics it's not really necessary, although I often do still write up something similar if I've let it drag out over way too much time and I can't keep straight what I wanted to do with it. (don't be me.)

How Many of Your Stories are complete: welllll, as a rule I don't post WIPs because I know myself well enough to know that that way lies several different kinds of madness, so in general, my only completed fics are what's up on AO3, and everything there is complete. in practice that's not 100% true because I'm very bad at deadlines and I have a few different fics where I couldn't finish in time and I either posted the first chunk of the fic that still functioned as a self-contained story even if it wasn't the full story I'd planned to write, with the intention of properly finishing it later, or I did the same thing but worse because the part I posted was...not really a complete story. in my defense I've only done the latter a couple times, and in the case of "going down to nowhere" I really thought I'd be posting the rest soon because it was all written, it was just extremely rough, and for various reasons I still haven't gotten around to revising and posting the remaining 80% of the fic. (as far as the opposite issue goes, I have 0 finished fics that I haven't posted anywhere, because I'm too obsessive about being complete to do anything else. I think I do have one old, extremely short, very bad Lost fic on FFN that I never reposted to AO3 because I decided it sucked...and if we're being completely technical about it, I have some stories I wrote as a little kid that are technically fanfic because they featured licensed characters, but nobody wants to see those. all the other old stuff I haven't posted, including at least two Neopets fics, never got finished and that's the only reason I never posted them anywhere.)  

In-Progress: uhhhh. well, this made me realize my posted WIP list is out of date, not because I've finished anything on it but because I have MULTIPLE short fics that were supposed to be QUICK so I figured I didn't need to bother putting them on the list and then they weren't quick because I am so fucking bad at 1) sitting down and actually writing and 2) finishing anything. But yeah, basically what’s on there.

Coming Soon: fuck, I don’t know. Half the fics on my WIPs list are ones I thought I could crank out in one or two sittings, AND YET. But I’d like to finish the rest of my Whumptober fic soon, because that one really should be pretty easy...and I’d also like to finish the short little Endgame fix-it I thought of on my way out of the theater, where 2012!Loki hops universes and revives IW!Loki...and then there’s the even older IW/Endgame fix-it that’s basically just “everything is fine because I say so, let’s have a little recovery”, especially because I’m like 90% sure that one’s almost done but probably some of it needs typing up and then it all needs stitching together...oh, and finally getting around to finishing typing one of two notebooks reminded me that the other theoretically short fix-it where the Guardians pick up both Thor and Loki is also nearly done, I just need to finish typing it. so...one of those, probably.

Do You Accept Prompts: in theory, although I...don't think I get prompts often enough to know one way or another? plus my brain is The Worst, so my general reaction to actually getting a prompt is basically "that's interesting but I have never had an idea in my life, ever, and apparently I'm not starting now", with an added element of social anxiety or something because it's Somebody Else's Idea and that puts a mental block on my ability to develop it as my own idea. so...anyone's welcome to send me prompts, with the understanding that I might well never do anything with it and if I do, it might take literal years.

Upcoming Story You’re the Most Excited For: I also don’t know. I mean, in recently typing up some older stuff (like the one where the Grandmaster decides publicly executing Loki sounds like a fun idea, from which I posted a couple excerpts recently) I got excited about those again, which is a good reminder of why I want to stay on top of my typing, but I don’t know if I’m more excited for one specific fic than others.

Tag Five Fanfic Authors to Answer These Questions: I have no idea who might have answered this months ago so I’ll just say that if you read this post and you want to answer these questions, please consider yourself tagged. yes, that means you.

#fanfic #writing #ask memes

[solest]

I...may have written something like a drabble (?) or a short draft-thingy of an GO-AU idea I had while listening to When you were young by The Killers. I’ts just a scene and it takes me quite some nerve to even post it, but I’ll give it a try anyways. I try to explain it a bit.

I never wrote any fanfiction before and I tried to get this out of my system in the middle of the night.

It’s a Human-AU where Aziraphale get’s a position as a substitute teacher at his old boarding school. Coming back there let’s him contemplaiting of his last years and his crush, that he could just never forget. This scene is what stuck the most with him, it’s just a flashback. Aziraphale is supposed to be pranked but Crowley won’t let that happen and sees a chance of getting what he want’s without embarassing himself too much.

Well..enjoy i guess?

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Sneaking out of the dorm was by far easier than Aziraphale had imagined. It was already quite dark outside, stars starting to appear on the deep blue sky, when he made his way to the school garden. With every step he took, uncertainty crept up his collar, making its way into his mind and slowing his pace. What if this was a dumb joke after all? What if he went to the garden, thinking something utterly cheesy and romantic like a meeting in moonlight would take place, when in reality Gabriel and his band of brainless admirers would wait there, laughing and exposing him? His feet came to a halt at the last corner he had to take. Aziraphale closed his eyes, took a shaky breath and tried to clear his mind.

Yes, this was still an opportunity. He was a target of Gabriel’s mockery in the past and he still did not know where those notes came from. He reached into his trousers pocket, fishing the little paper out and staring at it, even though he was not able to read a thing. He didn’t need to right now; he had internalized them already, after reading them like a hundred times in his room.

Change of plans; come to the gardens at 10:15 pm. No flashlight! Wait at the raised bed with the tomatoes.

This one was quite more specific than the others. But what really had driven him out of his room and a good book at this time of night, the driving force behind this complete nonsense was this little hope he had. The tiniest spark of hope that whispered ‘this could be him. What if he wrote this? What if he wrote all of them, all along?’

Aziraphale heard himself releasing a faint sigh. Those were high hopes; such things didn’t happen in real life. But maybe, even if it wasn’t Crowley, maybe there was someone who really liked him. And maybe he could be a bit brave, just this once in his life. Even with the risk of being mocked and humiliated. He took a deep, reassuring breath and checked the time, it was 10:10 pm. “Well… here goes nothing “he told the cool night breeze and continued to walk to the high bed.

In the dark of the garden, a bright little note stood out, like a little beacon of light. As he came closer, asking himself how he should be able to read that bloody thing, he could make out the outline of something standing on this note: a small flashlight, the ones you could put on your keychain. Aziraphale took it and read the note: Use the blindfold. Please. Bewildered he used the small light to check the wood on which he had found the piece of paper; a strip of dark and thick fabric was lying there. “Good gracious….” he mumbled to himself, picking the strip up and pondering for a second if he should really do this. Curiosity and the thrill of anticipation won, and so he blindfolded himself, standing there in the dark, and waiting.

It felt like a second and an eternity at the same time.

He stood there, not knowing what would happen to him next; his heart beating in his throat. Then he heard it. Little branches cracking under feet, the sound of footsteps on the grass. Aziraphale’s breathe quickened, nervousness making him shake. The Person, that must have hidden in the lush bushes behind him all that time, came to a halt. Aziraphale swallowed audibly, he wanted to say something when a hand cool, but quite sweaty hand took his and pulled him gently forward. Shocked by the sudden movement all he could do was follow. Maybe he was imagining things, or it was just his own shaking, but he thought for a second that he felt a slight tremor in these cool fingers that were grasping his.

They were walking quite some time, Aziraphale was not sure if they were still in the garden or not, the blindfold and the omnipresent nervousness making it hard for him to orientate. They came to a stop at last, the other person’s hand letting go of his. For a moment, panic rose in the blindfolded boy as he lost the physical contact. It felt like the other one was standing near, but what if they weren’t? “You…you’re still..?” Aziraphale managed to spit out as he reached out with his right hand, touching fabric. The other person was standing in front of him; he could feel the fabric of the blazer all of them wore for their uniform.

Before he could to continue stuttering anything else, one of those cool fingers brushed his lips, coming to a rest on them to shush him. Aziraphale was sure his heart would pop right out of his Adam’s apple, right this moment.

Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion after that.

The finger brushed along one side of his lips, joined by the rest of the hand and cupping his face. He felt the other one coming closer, warm breath ghosting over the visible part of his face, animating his blood to rush into his cheeks and heating them up; eyes wide in shock underneath the fabric in front of his eyes. And then there it was. The warm brush of lips against his own; very gentle and hesitant at first, but eager to push even closer.

Aziraphale frozen in shock; he wouldn’t be able to run or do something, anything in this moment but standing there and letting it happen. This was his first kiss, with some stranger in the dark, in (presumably) the school’s garden. Something like this only happened in cheesy romance novels or stupid teen films, or in some plays. Apparently Aziraphale seemed to be starring in one of those things right now.

But none of these brief thoughts could occupy his mind now, the soft sensation of those lips where overwhelming and pushing everything else out of the way. After what felt like a millennium Aziraphale was able to muster the courage to answer the kiss, his hand coming up to cover the other one’s on his cheek. The boy, Aziraphale was pretty sure now that it was a boy, let out a small hum, the blindfolded one’s actions spurring him to deepen the kiss, just a little. So they stood there, in the cool air of a late spring night, kissing. Time seemed to have come to a stop.

But all good things come to an end eventually and at some point the stranger withdrew himself from Aziraphale, taking in a shaky breath and letting his hand linger a moment longer on the blonds rosy cheeks. Then the sensation of those cool (and long, Aziraphale noticed) fingers faded. It felt like the unknown boy was standing there, watching Aziraphale who was panting a bit now, before the latter could hear the steps again, going in the opposite direction of him and creating more distance.

Aziraphale didn’t move till he was sure he was alone. Slowly, still in a shock of awe, he removed the blindfold and blinked in the darkness. It took some time to get a hang of where he was, till he recognized the small apple trees on the outskirt of the garden. He stood there for a while, looking in the direction the steps had faded, before he began his slow journey back to the dorms, his mind just blank till he laid down in his bed, starring at the ceiling and trying to understand what had happened to him.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens au #they're humans #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #you could say they're inaffable teens here #i guess I'll die a bit #maybe deleting this later #i hope this makes just a little sense at all

[thegooseprincess]

The 5 Times Tony Stark Was Not in the Spider Protection Squad and the 1 Time He Was

I wrote a stupid thing. I guess you can read it. There’s five other parts. I’ve never done this before. My cat keeps yelling at me.

********************************************************************************

           It had become a habit before anyone really knew what was going on. And if anyone had asked Tony about it, he would have denied it profusely.

I. Intro

             Tony was taking a walk through Central Park with Peter Parker, listening to the kid chatter on aimlessly and quietly trying to let go of this week's anxieties. Well... He was only sort of listening and only sort of trying. After a late night reading over and over and over the new draft of the Accords, and what with the looming dread of meetings with Secretary Ross and the rogue Avengers in the upcoming weeks, he was a little distracted. He threw a sideways glance at the kid and couldn't help but smile. His attention span had lapsed about a mile ago and he now had no clue what Peter was rambling on about, but seeing him all excited and laughing at his own jokes gave Tony life.

           It amazed him how carefree this kid was. Even more amazing was the fact that he had stuck around so long- It had almost been a year since Germany and Tony couldn't begin to fathom how this bright, bubbly, optimistic teenager could stand to be around him, Tony Stark. Heck, Tony could hardly stand to be around himself most days. And on top of everything else, he had somehow managed to single-handedly alienate everyone in his life. And Pepper- Oh, Pepper. His heart twinged painfully thinking about her. After the Sokovia fiasco, she had insisted that they take a break in their relationship. He couldn't blame her. He had been an unmanageable nightmare, and though Pepper was a patient woman, she had her limits. They had only now started to patch things up after the hell he had put her through, and though reconciliation was what he desperately craved, he couldn't help but wonder-

How long would it be before he screwed up again?

           "Earth to Mr. Stark!"

           Tony was jolted out of his thoughts. He smiled again as Peter's amused eyes met his. Well... Maybe he hadn't alienated everyone.

           "Did you hear anything I just said?" Peter laughed in a mock-accusatory tone as they passed into the shade of the trees.

           "Every last word!" Tony said, feigning indignation.

           "Name one thing I've talked about in the past five minutes!"

           "Star Wars."

           Peter's eyes narrowed and his voice dripped with sarcasm, "Astounding. The great Tony Stark is wro- aagghh!"

           The kid stopped dead in his tracks, pulling a comical face and leaving Tony confused.

           "Pete?"

           Peter immediately slipped out of his backpack and fished a web-shooter out of the main compartment. "Make sure no one's looking!" he said, thrusting the backpack into Tony's hands and hurrying toward a low-hanging bush. The older man cast a glance over his shoulder before turning to watch in bewilderment as the kid started stringing thin wisps of webbing between two branches.

           "What-?"

           "I walked through a spider web," Peter said matter-of-factly, as if that answered everything. He was now quickly weaving intricate patterns through the webbing with two fingers.

           "Annnd?"

           Tony now noticed that Peter's left hand was clenched in a loose fist. When he had finished the web, he very carefully unclenched it and deposited a tiny spider onto its new home. Tony made a noise of disbelief and Peter met his gaze with mischievous eyes as he said in what he probably thought was a very sincere tone, "They are my people, Mr. Stark! They must be protected."

           Tony shook his head, laughing. "Kid-" he began. But he just laughed again and put his arm around Peter's shoulder as they continued walking.

             What he thought had been a one-time joke turned out to be no joke at all. As the summer wore on, Tony began to notice more and more just how protective Peter was of "his people". From carefully reconstructed webs to daring rescues from inadvertent (or advertent) boot-heels, Peter Parker made sure that his eight-legged friends were offered the same protection that he extended to the citizens of Queens. What was even stranger- he was starting to rub off on Tony. This became evident when the man had trapped a fairly large wolf spider beneath an empty wine glass and promptly carried it outside the restaurant in the middle of date-night dinner one Friday evening. A few heads turned curiously as he settled back into the booth, beside Pepper. She looked up from her salad as if he had lost his mind. He just shrugged awkwardly.

           "I blame Spider-Kid!"

           A smile twitched at the corner of her lips as she leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead. "You ready for tomorrow?"

           "Does it matter?"

           His hand trembled a little as he picked up his fork and he wished for the millionth time that Pepper and Rhodey did not have to be halfway around the world the same day the rogue Avengers were scheduled to return to the Compound. Everything was happening so fast. He silently cursed Thaddeus Ross. Pepper put a steadying hand on his and tried to meet his eyes.

           "Why don't you invite the kid?"

           "Why don't you pick a dessert?"

           An anxious pit formed in his stomach that had nothing to do with the salad. He hoped the wolf spider had found a nice crevice to crawl into, away from the unforgiving feet that shuffled relentlessly across the sidewalk. He tried not to picture it crushed beneath a shoe or picked off by a pigeon. Had he picked a good spot to let it go? Would it be able to survive? Find food? Maybe he should have let it stay inside. Left it alone. Let it be. Maybe, maybe, maybe... He leaned his head against Pepper's shoulder, feeling sick. Gosh dang it, Peter. That kid had really gotten to him.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

#tony stark #peter parker #pepper potts #ironman #spiderman #fic #irondad #spiders #marvel #mcu #fanfic #i don't know

[sundaynightnovels]

11/11/11 Tag Game (again!)

aaaand i’ve also been tagged by @fluffythewritingplant​ for a different set of questions!!! you have a lot of questions huh HAHA but they sound fun so thanks for tagging me in this! <3 1. What is your favorite part of writing? characters! characters interacting!! characters doing things! character dialogues!! characters characters characters! 2. Do you prefer reading or writing? HA i haven’t read a novel in a while. but yea i like them both but... yknow. how bout reading my own writing. i’m narcissistic like that  3. How many people have read your stuff? since the next question is specifically about irl, i’m assuming this is about online??? well, i guess all of yall on tumblr have seen my snippets and excerpts right heh (blatant advertising here) (also in case yall don’t know how i differentiate them, snippets are drabbles that i write outside of my main wip and excerpts come directly from the wip draft itself heh) so yea, all of you!! <3 (i guess?????) 4. How many people irl have read your stuff? kinda mentioned this in my previous 11/11/11 tag, but not much. if it’s school stuff then yea, but if it’s my own personal stuff, not really. maybe like a handful in the past, but right now in the present? no one has read my current wip as of yet. 5. Are there any books or movies that inspired your writing? hmmMMMm. in general i guess studio ghibli (in how they make the mundane little everyday stuff magical, i love that), percy jackson (humour lol), mmmm... i actually really don’t know. i’ve been writing for a long time, so i think everything probably just accumulated and it just culminates in this mess that i call my own brand of writing. my friends (who have read my work in the past) say that i actually have a style -- i’m not sure how true that is HAHA but that’s good to know, but i really have no idea what in particular inspired it. 6. How many WIPs do you have? One (or is it two??? but they are of the same... universe-thing.) OKAY like i’ve finished my first draft of my main novel called like all things out of season, and now i’m working (well, barely) on the companion novel so yea.  floating in my head are about three vague forms of ideas though. one of which i have tried numerous times to write but never finished, another is something that i’m like ooooo i’ll write it right after i finish my current one (guess that ain’t happening), and the last is the most vague, most formless one that i just kinda have a feel on but not rly. 7. What are some ideas you had to throw away because you just didn’t have the time to work on them? i’m sure i’ve lost a lot over the years, especially because my memory sucks. also, since my memory sucks... do you expect me to remember these lost ideas??? 8. Have you ever written any poetry? Wanna show some of your stuff? the first time i ever touched poetry was two years ago for a creative writing class. they all kinda suck... do i want to show my stuff??? hmmmmm.... let me take a peek at what i’ve written then well it is pretty cringe but if you wanna read it (scroll through if you don’t want a cringe fest)

(1. don’t ask me about the formatting, idk why i did it this way  2. i think the assignment was... okay who am i kidding, idk what the assignment was about. but i think i just thought it’d be interesting to do a poem using like chinese mythology or something like that. speaking of which, the AU that i wanna write of my novel is kinda also about chinese mythology hmmm... did i say too much) 9. What’s your favorite line/scene you’ve ever written (several are possible of course)? i don’t have a favourite line, but for a scene... i’ve mentioned this somewhere else before (in response to an ask i think), but there was this really important scene that i knew, even before starting my novel, that i had to write and it was simply about this man telling them a story. and i had no idea what i’d write, how it’ was going to play out and everything, but then it came out so beautifully and evocative even though while writing i had no idea what i was doing and i actually felt what i was meant to feel in that story and i just lkjkdlfkjsdlfkd i have a lot of feelings to that  and i can’t show it to yall cuz it’s like, the first main turning point of the story. right after that scene was this kinda sleepover-ish scene with Shou and Jun and i loved writing that too because shou was adorable and excited and jun was understandably not impressed and yknow, it was kinda important too in the whole state of things. OF COURSE before that i enjoyed writing the scene where almost all of them (except the female yu) converged together in the noisies’ place and just had a whole lot of mess and fun yeah that entire portion was great because they all happened kinda altogether at once. 10. What’s your favorite quote i don’t think i have one 11. What’s your favorite quote by someone you know? well it’s not my favourite, but it’s the most iconic one that i can remember right now. we were predrinking before going to a club and one of my friends bought vodka, which yknow tastes like nail varnish and is just terrible (i mean... even if you like vodka... you gotta admit, it feels like it can melt your throat off) while others bought like ~~ wine~~ and stuff and she was like “well we just wanna get drunk right so might as well jump straight into it” and that line stuck with me ever since. girl’s got her priorities straight. (if this makes me seem like i like drinking, i really don’t. and i hate wine HAHA) 12. What’s your favorite book? you are a devil. also. no, ain’t answering that. thank you, next. 13. Which book do you regret reading? i had a bunch of them when i was younger, but... i don’t really remember right now. really 14. Is there something you regret writing? when i was younger i once wrote something in the pov of a cat. do i regret it? no.  it was really stupid though. 15. If your OC’s were actual people in your life, what would your relationship be like? oh ho ho. zhen would be the laziest friend ever and i’d probably be really annoyed at her because it’ll be impossible to go out and hang out with her, but yknow what? i’m basically the same.

shou would be annoying in a different way, he’ll be so overly-excited and energetic that i’ll just be like... stop. and he’s the sort who’ll go around talking to random strangers on the street and as a massive unsociable introvert, i’ll be drowning there in my shyness and inability to talk as he goes out yammering and yammering about who knos what (true story, i have a friend as sociable as him. even when we’re talking to mutual acquaintances, i’m just there. a statue, meant to decorate the setting in which she’s in) i can’t communicate with kids, so i’ll probably be really really awkward with lu. like really. maybe i’ll talk to him a little bit, but i can foresee it to be a very uncomfortable interaction, at least on my part. lol yu(f). i don’t think i can talk to her either. she’s too stressed out and working too hard and i don’t like to bother people like that, especially if we aren’t friends yet. ren would be really easy to talk to, he’s just so laidback and chill and nice, like he’s probably the kind of classmate you’ll just end up casually talking to when you meet on the way to class or on the way out from class. i don’t know if we’ll actually become friends, but we’ll end up being at least friendly acquaintances. i think i’d probably avoid teng in real life. he’s way too loud and dramatic and remember, i’m an introverted girl who doesn’t like to have attention on herself... and with him, yknow you’re gonna get all the attention. likewise with jun, you’re gonna get so much attention with him. but i think i could be friends with him tbh. he acts aloof and is pretty snarky and prickly but once i get past that (if i ever do, which to be frank i might not), i think we could be friends. i probably won’t be friends with yu (m) because he’s that strong silent type and unless i’m made to sit with him in class, i probably won’t ever start up a conversation with him. i most likely wouldn’t be friends with jia because she’s the really attractive, popular type yknow? she’s a nice person and i’d probably be friends with her IF we ever spoke to one another, but considering chances of that are low, i don’t think we’d end up friends. i’m reusing the above questions ^ and tagging a few more people @insearchof-solace (sorry tagging you back just because i want to know your answer for the last one HAHA) @usuallydecentwriter @sunnydaysarealwaysgrey @farrradays

#personal tag #personal #writeblr #my wips #my OCs #not sure if i should tag this to my OC tags but #hmm #probably not

[4evrmore]

Another life update, I guess?

whew a lot going on here

- so my work fired me. startup problems. i’ve loved working for startups but it’s difficult. when it’s good it’s great but when the company struggles it affects you directly. two weeks ago they told me that my position wasn’t in the budget for the company and it’s been a lot of bs tbh but what can ya do

- it sucks but at the same time this wasn’t my dream job and there wasn’t really a solid path for growth. and i wasn’t passionate about it. my problem lately has been that the jobs i’m qualified for, i’m realizing i’m not interested in those at all. i’ve sort of narrowed it down and i want to do something i really care about. and i’ve decide the things i care about are women’s issues, lgbtq+ stuff, mental health, and dog rescues/shelters. so i’m focusing on that and trying to figure out how to do life and get a job i actually care about

- dating is exhausting. but i think i’ve finally, finallyyyyy come to terms that i’m gay. everything is falling into place when it comes to figuring out my sexuality which has been such a process for so long. i love girls. i’m so excited for pride this month and i think i might come out on social media. i’ve drafted up posts but i’ve always chickened out when it comes to publishing. but i think i finally feel comfortable and ready. i’m also sick of being hit on by guys and having to come out to strangers when i don’t feel ready. i think it’ll feel good to just put it out there

- i decided to cut back on drinking, like cut way back. i realized i’m too old for this shit, being hungover is the worst and it’ll affect me for the whole day. it’s not worth it

- i got a personal trainer and i workout with him 3 days a week. he’s this little 21 year old hottie bro dude but he’s amazing. so we train weights 3 days and then i’ve been going and doing cardio on my own an additional 1-2 days a week. it feels amazing. i lost 7 pounds in the past month and i’m starting to not hate my body. i have a long way to go but i feel hopeful and seeing progress makes it all feel worth it

- i found a psychologist i love. i went to one lady and she didn’t get it. i’d talk and she’d be like, “oh, thats... unique”. and no it really isn’t. i mean maybe my issues are a little different but it kind of hurt to be like, not understood, by a professional... whose job it was to understand me? but i did some more research and found a pansexual lady whose married to a woman and damn. our sessions are just like a normal conversation you’d have with a friend. i can tell her how i’m feeling and she’ll be like, oh, it’s like- blah blah blah, and i’m like, YES, that’s exactly how it is. she puts my crazy messed up thoughts and life into words that make sense. it feels amazing to have that

- i’m getting another tattoo in two weeks!! months ago i knew i wanted another, and i started researching fine line tattoo artists in LA. i found this guy daniel stone who is an incredibly talented artist. like recently he tattooed lady gaga. he wasn’t superrrrr famous but had a lot of like idk, b-list celebrity clients? so i emailed him and his wait list was like 9 months out. but i decided it’s a tattoo, it’s on my body for my entire life. what’s a few months? and as you’d imagine he’s really expensive. his minimum was $400... like for the tiniest little line. but again i decided it’s something that’s on my body forever. if i’m gonna invest in something, this feels like a worthy cause. I originally wanted a bunch of wildflowers that were special to me. and i wanted my grandmother’s handwriting woven into the stem of the daisy because it was her favorite flower. I have the word ‘love’ that she wrote in a card to me once and i wanted to incorporate that. but as we get closer and i have no job now, i’m worried that the original tatt idea will be a few thousand dollars which isn’t in my budget atm. so i started thinking of smaller tattoos i could get instead. so in lieu of the flowers i was thinking of getting a small but detailed little snake with some flowers around it. and this would have a really... multi-dimensional meaning. so that’s that. that’s my life update. i’m gonna talk about the snake tattoo idea below, just because. but yeah. there’s a lot going on and it’s stressful and hard and shitty and i feel like life is so unfair at times but... that’s just how it be sometimes :P

- for the snake tattoo... it directly relates to the rep album. so rep came out like, days after my [at the time] boyfriend of 3 years broke up with me. and i listened to rep but it was just this happy lovey album. which to be honest was the last thing i wanted to listen to at that time. so i barely listened to it because it made me sad. at the same time, i wanted him back and we talked a lot and ended up getting back together about a week later. but still i didn’t feel happy. and i was listening to this album that was like, all about this everlasting amazing relationship, with so much love and lust and attraction and sexiness and i just could not relate. and that raised a red flag to me. because i’m like, i’ve been dating this guy who is supposed to be the love of my life, for 3 years now and... i can’t relate. and it was then that i realized that he could be so great to me, he was funny, brilliant, attractive, had a great family, treated me so well. but no matter how “perfect” he was, he wasn’t a girl. there was a need, a void in my life that he would never be able to fill. so i did my own thing and i got a job in LA and broke up with him. so to me, reputation is what really helped or forced me to realize that i’m worthy of true love. something that comes from both sides. and not only love but intimacy, sexual gratification, feeling understood and wanted. so ya, bc of that album i had the strength to break up with the guy who could’ve given me almost everything i had ever wanted. i crave love and passion and i’m excited to have that in my future. my standards are higher and i have a better idea of what i want. so ya. i think i want a snake but.. like a happy snake. like with hearts or flowers around it. and to me it represents that album that changed the course of my life but also represents growth and rebirth and starting over

[dogbearinggifts]

Elegy, Part Seventeen

A/N: This is Part Seventeen, and the final chapter (excluding the epilogue) of an AU, based on an idea by @daughterofthemoon99, where Imelda, rather than Miguel, visits the Land of the Dead within her lifetime. Previous chapters can be found here: 

Part One   Part Two   Part Three   Part Four   Part Five   Part Six   Part Seven   Part Eight   Part Nine   Part Ten   Part Eleven   Part Twelve   Part Thirteen   Part Fourteen   Part Fifteen   Part Sixteen

The whole fic is also available on AO3.

********

1917

Héctor had promised to meet her there, and he had never broken a promise before. Yet as Imelda paced, she admitted that this might be the first time, but not the last, that he did.

It must have been her tone, the fear she’d let slip through. Or perhaps she’d sounded too angry when she said she wanted to meet—just enough to let him know this would not be like their usual meetings. He was hesitating, she thought; hesitating so long she would wait for hours, long past the time her parents would expect her home.

Or perhaps he already knew why she’d called him there.

Imelda let out a breath, her next step striking the earth with more force than necessary. He’d guessed. Whether it was her tone or the days she’d spent avoiding him, he’d guessed the reason, and the reason kept him away. Would keep him away. By the time her parents realized what she had, he would be long gone.

If they didn’t know already.

She had to find him. Had to return to town and seek him out, no matter how angry he might become or how many people might witness the confrontation. She’d find him, she’d tell him what he’d done, and tell him exactly what he needed to do to fix it. No would not be an option. Maybe would not be an option. The moment she hunted him down, she would—

Something crashed through the brush, and she jumped.

For a moment, she couldn’t comprehend what she saw. It was Héctor, of course, but he carried his guitar. She’d called him to a serious talk, a talk that might end whatever existed between them, and he’d brought an instrument?

“Lo siento,” he said, breathing faster than usual. “I know I’m late, I—you sounded upset, so I went for my guitar, but it was a little out of tune, so I had to tune it, but it was more out of tune than I thought, so I had to tune it more, and then I looked, and I was supposed to be here and I wasn’t, so…” He balanced his guitar in his hands, adjusting the strap over his shoulder. “I’m here now.”

Imelda understood everything he’d said, and yet at that moment she couldn’t quite comprehend it all. He wore that smile of his, the one that had drawn her in, that still drew her in. Here she was about to make it disappear, and he’d brought a guitar to cheer her.

She’d prepared a speech, a series of smaller points leading up to the revelation, but it had all slipped her mind. There was only the thing she’d called him there to say, stripped of anything that might soften it.

“Estoy embarazada.”

As predicted, his smile fell, plunging him into silence. Imelda drew a breath, recovering the points she’d drafted. This baby isn’t only mine; it’s yours, too. Our child will need a mother and a father, and—

Héctor set his guitar on the ground, coming forward to grip her shoulders. “I—Imelda, is it true?”

She nodded.

“You…you’re going to be a mamá? I’m going to be a papá?”

She blinked.

“You—we—we’re going to be a family?”

“I—sí, but—“

He drew one breath, then another, his hands loosening their grip. He backed a step or two, putting a hand to his forehead in disbelief. She’d expected this.

She hadn’t expected his smile.

“You—I—ah!” He sprang back and took her shoulders again, grin as wide as the sky. “Imelda, this is wonderful!”

Her mouth opened and closed, her voice refusing to articulate the words her mind had stopped producing.

“Is it a boy or a girl? No no no, it’s too early—it’ll be a surprise, a wonderful surprise—what about names? Do you like names? I mean, what names do you like? We need a name.”

“I—ah—“

“Maybe Socorro? Ay! Miguel is a good name! How about Miguel? Oh—ay Dios, what if he doesn’t like that name?”

Imelda wasn’t certain she’d caught up with him yet, but she managed to recover her voice. “Héctor, we—“

She didn’t think it possible for his grin to brighten any more, but he looked to her and that was what it did. “Ay! You probably know more names than I do, or maybe you like more of them—or maybe not, that’s fine, I’ll like whatever you—“

“Héctor!”

He halted mid-word, blinking in confusion. “What?”

“We’re not married.”

Scarcely a moment passed before he brightened again. “Well, we can change that!”

Now it was her turn to blink at him.

“I mean, if you want to.”

“Are…” Her voice seemed to have fled, and it took her a moment to find it. “Did…did you just….?”

His expectant smile lingered briefly, then vanished as he released her to grasp handfuls of his hair. “What—no! This isn’t—I had it planned, I wrote a song, I—argh!”

The toe of one boot scuffed the ground in a half-hearted kick, but Imelda’s mind was still racing, desperately trying to catch up to where he was.

He wanted to marry her.

He’d planned to ask. Planned it even before the news she’d shared, and that news had not ended that plan. He wanted to marry and settle down and be a family, and he wanted to do it with her.

“Sí.”

Héctor stopped. “What….what did you say?”

“I said yes, Héctor.” The word warmed her as she spoke it and she smiled. She couldn’t help it. “Sí. I want to marry—“

Before she could finish, he’d caught her up in his arms, holding her so tightly and with such enthusiasm he lifted her off the ground and spun her.

“Ay, te amo, Imelda, gracias, te amo.” She thought he’d continue along that vein, gushing one pronouncement after another, but he set her down and crushed her close again. “I’ll do it right this time. I promise—I’ll ask you the right way, and I’ll sing, and—“

She had heard enough. She stood on tiptoe, tugged him down and sealed his promise with a kiss.

********

1943

Imelda stood in the graveyard, her back firmly to Ernesto’s mausoleum. From the brief glance she’d given, he’d received fewer offerings this year, the marble walls lacking the many cempasúchil garlands that had festooned it the year prior. Satisfying though the sight was, she couldn’t bring herself to look. Not without the urge to tear it down with her bare hands seizing her again.

Héctor had not been buried with the rest of the family, not yet. A few inquiries and a good bit of paperwork filed in Mexico City had allowed her to identify the nameless man by the picture he’d carried in his pocket, both for her family and for a public waiting to learn just how deep their hero’s deception went. But while proving his death had been simple enough, bringing his body home for a proper burial was not. Seeking remains buried two decades prior in a pauper’s grave was no mean feat.

From the plot she’d chosen for him, she could see over the rest of the graves and toward the wide expanse that, one year before, had appeared to her as a chasm strung with bridges of glowing petals. She saw nothing now—would see nothing, even if she returned after sunset, after nightfall. Unless some belonging on a neighbor’s grave caught her eye, the bridges and those who crossed them would remain unseen.

Perhaps she’d see Almarza first; perhaps she’d catch Héctor on his way across. Perhaps his joy at seeing her again would drive the cause from his mind. Or perhaps he’d groan: “I married a graverobber.”

Imelda smiled. She could imagine him saying it, picture it in his voice, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to hear it from him as he stood beside her or before her, hand to his forehead. She wanted to tease him about his first offer of marriage, watch him shake his head at the memory. She’d accepted it then, and she’d done it before he’d mentioned the song he’d written, before he’d coaxed her out onto her balcony with its notes.

She’d have accepted if there was no song, if that simple smiled optimism was all he’d given her, and she wanted to tell him that.

She wrapped her arms around her middle as a breeze stirred cempasúchil at her feet. The dead would cross at sunset, and sunset was still hours off. If she stayed until then, or returned just after, she could take a look. Just a quick look, just long enough to be certain that the bridge was beyond her sight.

Twenty-two years had passed since Héctor walked out that door, out of town and out of her life. In that time she had built a family and a business, lost friends and gained respect. He wouldn’t return; each year had only sharpened her certainty of that fact. 

But then, there was a world of difference between wouldn’t and couldn’t. She’d known this too, but now that the former had been replaced with the latter, there were times she felt she had been tossed into a cenote and left to tread water.

Imelda watched the horizon, felt the breeze brush her skin and ruffle her skirts. The bridge did not appear.

It wouldn’t, she knew. Not yet, and not for her. The curse had been lifted, and barring an accident or some other untimely demise, she wouldn’t see the bridge for years.

With one last glance, Imelda turned and retraced her steps. Tonight, Héctor would come home, and she would welcome him.

********

The first stranger had appeared in the zapatería earlier that year, newspaper clipping in hand. Ernesto de la Cruz Not Author of Songs, the headline read; Imelda had seen it elsewhere.

“Is—is this where Héctor Rivera lived?”

“Sí.”

Imelda’s foot twitched against her ankle. Once her boot was off, she leaned down, slowly, to lift it and set it on a recessed shelf behind the counter, within easy reach. The man didn’t appear angry—but then, fury had been wholly absent from Ernesto’s expression for as long as he’d kept his hands around her throat.

He nodded at that, in the distracted way that said he’d sought confirmation. A quick glance at the article, and then he returned his attention to Imelda. “I heard the guitar was his. Your husband’s, I mean.”

She shot a look toward Julio, who was attending a customer. His quick glance confirmed: If things went sour, he’d be at her side in an instant. “I gave it to him as a wedding gift.”

“May…” He trailed off, drew a breath, and began again. “If you have a photo of it…?”

Another glance at Julio sent him toward the workshop, which brought Óscar and Felipe through the door. She relaxed. They might be needed in the workshop, but she’d rather have three at her defense if this interaction took a turn for the worse.

The only problem was that, from the expectant looks they wore, she now had to make a decision.

Imelda looked to the stranger again. Still no anger, still no smirk. Only curiosity. No—this wasn’t curiosity; it was too mournful for that. This man looked for all the world like he’d been called to identify his amigo’s body.

The twinge of sympathy came before she could quash it.

“Julio,” she said, and her son-in-law drew himself up as if snapping to attention. “Go fetch the family photo from inside.”

With a questioning glance toward the twins that didn’t slow his pace, Julio did as he was told. Imelda presented it to the stranger, holding it some centimeters away when visions of the frame smashed and the recently repaired photo torn to pieces entered her mind. He didn’t protest. He simply gazed at the photo, nodding in realization.

“That…that’s it. That’s the guitar.”

Imelda nodded. She’d turned her attention to the photo, but it didn’t rest on Coco. She’d sat quietly as it was taken, as patiently as a child of her age could have, but it was Héctor who had threatened the final product. Even for a serious family photo, he couldn’t keep a smile from his lips.

“He and el Señor de la Cruz. They knew each other?”

“They were amigos long before I met Héctor.” She knew she ought to meet the stranger’s gaze, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the image of her husband, from that calm smile he’d been unable or unwilling to hide. “They had all the stories and jokes you’d expect—sometimes, all they’d need to do was look at each other and they’d burst out laughing.”

“Ay Dios. De la Cruz, after your husband died—he never told you?”

“No.”

“Ay Dios,” the stranger breathed again. Imelda managed to meet his gaze a moment before he cast it to the floor, head in one hand, and the twinge of sympathy stabbed her again. The evidence found suggested Héctor’s death had come about by accident, though details had been withheld from the press. According to the prevailing theory, Ernesto had simply absconded with songbook and guitar without pausing to inform the man’s widow of his death, leaving his friend’s body for strangers to find. Imelda had always found the notion too gentle, extending too much doubt toward the man who had taken Héctor’s life and possessions with little apparent remorse.

She’d known the full truth and seen the assumption through her own eyes, but in that moment, she saw it through the eyes of this stranger—and what she saw was monstrous.

He gazed at the floor for long moments; then, as if woken from a trance, shook his head slightly. “Perdóname,” he said. “And—gracias.”

Only after he left the shop did Imelda feel she ought to have said something.

*******

Coco was not within sight when she arrived home, and she wasn’t in the kitchen, either. One small, sad smile from Rosita, and Imelda knew where her daughter had gone.

She found her in the room she shared with Julio, kneeling on the floor with letters scattered beside. Imelda didn’t need to see the handwriting to know who had written them or why they had been brought out. She simply knelt beside her daughter.

“I put his songbook on the ofrenda,” Coco said, lowering the letter she’d been reading. “I know you said he might want to have it.”

Imelda closed her eyes. She could almost feel his hand over hers, hear the trepidation as he spoke. “You don’t have to keep it, Imelda.”

“The guitar is there too,” Coco went on. A small smile touched her lips. “Victoria wanted so badly to play it, but I think it’d be best if she learned first?”

Imelda nodded absently. Ernesto’s estate had handed over the guitar and songbook with surprisingly little resistance, though she suspected the move had been less an act of benevolence or contrition and more an attempt to quell rumors they’d had something to do with the narrow scar across her neck. If the words still hissed between townsfolk and strangers alike—“She found something they’d wanted to hide, and she nearly paid the price”—was any indication, their decision had yielded only partial success.

“¿Estás bien, Mamá?”

The question had come often within the past year. After the attack. After the investigation into the songbook returned news of Héctor’s death. After that first encounter with a disillusioned fan of Ernesto’s. Sometimes Coco had asked first; sometimes Imelda had, but each time it produced the same answer: a nod, a few words of comfort. They’d held each other, to be sure; they’d spoken of Héctor and what had happened and they’d shared tears. There were still things Coco kept to herself, Imelda knew, just as she had done.  

But those things Coco kept hidden—those were private matters. Hurt that did less damage when concealed than when brought into the open. Questions with expected answers. She had every right to bring those things to the surface, to shout and weep and accuse if it came to that, but she hadn’t, and Imelda wouldn’t cajole her into it.  

The things Imelda kept hidden, the story she had stashed away within her own mind, was different.

“I sing to you. You and Coco, every year.”

On the other side of the bridge, her Papá waited, and sang, and thought of her. His daughter had kept his letters hidden, saved the scrap of portrait that Imelda had never quite worked up the nerve to throw away. Coco had held fast to those few memories she’d formed, with nothing to sustain her but the belief she would see him again. 

Hearing the story wouldn’t be the same as seeing it with her own eyes. It wouldn’t be the same as seeing Héctor, as hearing that he’d intended to return in his own voice. It wouldn’t be certainty.

But it would be far more than she had. 

“Coco, I….” She sighed, her gaze dropping briefly to the letters—the songs he’d written for his daughter. “I never told you what happened last year, while I was gone all that time.”

“I thought you didn’t remember.”

“No, I remember.” Imelda returned Coco’s intense curiosity with a small, sad smile. “I remember everything.”

*******

Héctor felt exposed.

It wasn’t the extra border agents who seemed to have all found excuses to be near the desk when his turn came. Nor was it the police officers who had drifted over as much as their posts would allow. Neither occurrence was uncommon, in his experience; people found a way to be close when the time came to enact his latest bridge-crossing scheme.

But there was no scheme this time. No disguise, no ruse, no distraction thrown toward anyone who might keep him from the bridge. There was only him. 

The border agent handling photos on his side of the desk was a woman named Claudia. He’d seen her before, and she offered a smile. “Héctor Rivera. Let’s see what we have.”

She might not have learned his name over the past twenty years of failed crossings. It had dominated newspapers and conversations in the months following Imelda’s visit. He’d fielded questions, given answers, and, in the weeks and months preceding Ernesto’s arrest and Raúl Badilla’s capture, he had never been far from the watchful, protective gaze of one officer or another. His name had become as well known throughout the Land of the Dead as the man who had sent him there.

But without a photo, no amount of recognition would get him across the bridge.

He scarcely had time to panic over the what-ifs—what if the photo was destroyed after all, what if she couldn’t find it—before Claudia looked up with a smile.

“Here you are, Señor Rivera,” she said, turning it so he could see, “on your family’s ofrenda.”

And there he was, one hand on the guitar and the other on Imelda’s shoulder. On the agent’s desk. On his family’s ofrenda.

He tried to stammer something, some word that slipped his mind. Mamá Antonia took his arm a second before he remembered the word was gracias.

“Ven, Héctor,” she said. He hadn’t removed his gaze from the photo, but he heard the smile in her tone. “She’s waiting.”

********

Santa Cecilia had changed.

It was expected, after a twenty-two year absence. New buildings went up. Old ones were added to. Imelda’s family—his family—explained the changes as they passed, but he heard little of it through the single fact running through his head.

He was here. Back in Santa Cecilia, walking streets he hadn’t seen since the day he walked out the door. Despite beginning each crossing attempt with a reminder that yes, he would make it this time, he would get across that bridge and he would make it home, Héctor knew then that in the back of his mind, there had always been doubt.

If any of it remained by the time they reached his old home, it vanished when he stepped through the gates.

It was larger than he remembered; but then, the family had grown. The mischievous children he remembered were now Tío Óscar and Tío Felipe. Coco was a mother. There would be more space, more rooms in their home, than the simple house he’d left.

There was movement everywhere, family both living and dead streaming from one room to the other, laughing, talking. A short man with a mustache danced with a small girl to a song playing from a phonograph Héctor couldn’t see. Julio and Victoria—his granddaughter and son-in-law. So many people moved about, so much joy was palpable, that for a moment he couldn’t think what to do or where to go. He could only watch. 

Imelda stepped through a doorway. Before his mind consciously formed the thought, he followed after, stopping just inside.

Even without the family portrait to guide him, it would have been easy to see which offerings were his. He’d expected a letter or two, perhaps some chapulines, and chapulines were certainly present. They sat atop a new suit, folded neatly beside a pair of shoes. More food, more gifts were there as well, but his eye was drawn to the basket of letters all bearing his name and the sender—some from Imelda, some from Coco. His songbook and guitar proudly adorned the ofrenda of a family that had once banned music.

Imelda set the candle back on the ofrenda, paused as though she’d heard a noise, and turned.

She won’t see you. Héctor had known this even before his death. The dead could not be seen, they could not be heard, not by any still among the living. Speaking with Imelda, looking into her eyes and holding her in his arms—it all had been an exception, and a rare one at that. In the Land of the Living, he would be a presence, nothing more.

Yet for the briefest of moments, her eyes seemed to meet his, and he could have sworn she saw him standing in the doorway. Then her gaze drifted past him, through him, and all he could do was step forward as she turned back to the ofrenda, half-facing him as she watched his photo. 

“You promised you’d come home.”  

There was no trace of accusation in those words. No anger, no despair. Simply a statement of fact. Héctor did not answer it, and not only because she wouldn’t hear.

“I missed you, Héctor. I waited for you, I prayed for you, I…” She bowed her head in silence. A few tears slipped free.  

I’m here, Imelda. He wanted to say those words. Useless though they would be, he wanted to say them in the vain hope she would hear them, even as a whisper. More from instinct than anything, he laid a hand over hers.

She looked up. Not at the photo, not at the rest of the ofrenda, but at the place where he stood.

She couldn’t see him. He knew that. Her gaze was nothing more than a lucky guess, or an educated one. Yet even so, the smile she gave him set his chest fluttering and aching all at once. She closed her eyes, tears glistening on her cheeks, shining beside her smile.

He wanted to pull her into his arms. He wanted to hold her close and spin her around the room, not to the music or any semblance of rhythm but simply from sheer joy. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to do both at once, but he stayed where he was, hand over hers, giving her a smile she couldn’t see.

She knew he’d come home. 

And that was enough. 

********

A/N: Enjoying this fic? Read on to the epilogue.

#pixar coco #coco fanfic #coco au #elegy #imelda investigates au #coco #au #fanfic #imelda rivera #hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz #coco rivera #rivera family #hector x imelda #imector #long post

[my-sweet-valentine]

Stranger

„Babe? If you could describe the first time we met in one sentence, what would that be?“ he asks her making her look up from the book she was reading. His eyebrows hovered over his peaceful blue eyes.

“Um, where is this coming from Luke?” she simply wondered. It wasn’t like him to bring up the things of the past out of the blue like this. Especially since it hasn’t always been smooth sailing for them.

“Well, I am writing this song, and I kind of need the other person’s point of view. So, can you help?” his smile alone, that was wider than it normally is, could make her do anything he asked her to. Well, maybe anything except this.

“You know I am not really comfortable sharing my thoughts like that, Luke.” her face clearly had please don’t make me written all over it. “Besides, you have been more than capable to write your songs without my input in the past. I think you’ll manage.” she said getting up to peck his forehead quickly.

“Oh, come on. Can you just tell me what it felt like when we first met and when you fell in love with me?”

“Sorry to burst your bubble baby, but when I met you I did not fall in love with you. Did you think I did?”

It hadn’t occurred to her that that’s what he thought their first meeting meant to her. She studied his face, while his once peaceful eyes were now not so peaceful. “I mean, I know you didn’t fall in love with me from day one, but you must have felt some attraction. Didn’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I felt a connection, yes. But I can’t really say I felt an attraction.” she said heading for the fridge to get anything really if it meant she could avoid Luke’s interrogation.

“Oh. A connection. Just that? Just a connection? You didn’t feel attracted to me? Not even a little? Babe, I’m pretty hot.”

“Okay, yeah. I think this discussion is over right about now.” Even though she couldn’t help the smile from appearing on her face, she tried to keep a stern look.

She wasn’t in her happy place right now. Sitting on a hotel bed with a noodle cup half empty by her side, and her laptop in front of her ready to finally start writing was definitely not her happy place. The problem was, her brain was full of ideas but no matter how hard she tried to put them into words, she couldn’t. Being in L.A. for a writing conference was supposed to fire things up, but so far there were zero major changes on anything except her credit card. Debating on whether she should keep trying or go downstairs to the lobby for a quick walk, she decided to just take a small break and go downstairs after all.

She grabbed her phone, and room key and took one last look at herself in the mirror. She was wearing the most regular pair of jeans she probably owned and her favourite T-shirt tucked into the jeans, but she didn’t really care. All she wanted anyway was to get some fresh air and maybe a bottle of water. Thinking that perhaps inspiration would strike in a somewhat different environment, she also brought her laptop.  

As glad as she felt that she was able just at 24 to support herself financially and to be able to get a room at a hotel like this, all on her own, she couldn’t help but be angry at herself for getting lost. How hard could it be to just find the elevator? Walking around for what felt like 10-15 minutes she finally managed to get to the lobby.

Looking for the perfect writing spot next to the window, she wished she was back to where she normally wrote everything. Back home, she had a special spot, next to her bedroom window. Something about watching people go on with their everyday lives. How some were rushing through the endless crowds, while others were taking their time simply just strolling through. It all made sense. And it all triggered a different idea, a different story. So maybe sitting next to the window again would help.

Writing always came easily to her. It wasn’t as if she was the best of course, but ever since she was a little girl, all she ever wanted to do was to become a writer. A few months ago when she was flying home from L.A. she had this amazing idea for a story. She had almost five hours to write everything that was on her mind. When the plane landed she didn’t even realize how fast the time had passed. And she was also quite pleased with the result. She pitched the draft to her writing counsellor the next day and he was very impressed.

So maybe there was something about Los Angeles that created the perfect flow when it came to her writing. Especially empty lobbies at 2 am, where it was quiet enough for her to pour her thoughts out. Searching for the perfect writing spot, she noticed a rather small couch by the window with a small table in front of it and an armchair next to it. Maybe the cute setting would help get things moving. So, cute setting it is.

After getting comfortable on the couch and looking out the window for a solid 20 minutes, she decided it was time to just start typing away. And she did. This turned out to be a good, but slightly boring idea after all. But she had made progress. Looking at the clock she realized that she been down here for almost an hour. And of course, writer’s block strikes once again. Well, maybe it was time to get to bed, she thought. It was enough writing for today.

Packing up her things to go upstairs to her room she didn’t notice the person walking behind her and she tripped over them and next thing she knew she was sort of lying on the floor.

“I am so sorry. Shit, are you okay?” she heard the person ask. It was a guy standing in front of her offering his hand to her, to help her get up. She took his hand not really paying any attention to his apology. She couldn’t help but feel angry at him for knocking her down. “I really am sorry. I was looking at my phone, and I’m really tired, to be honest. Which is not an excuse, at all, but I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” she simply answered, giving him the best compassionate look she could pull off right now. To be fair, he did knock her down.

“Still I’m so sorry.”

“I wasn’t paying attention too. It’s okay.” she offered him a smile this time, feeling kind of bad that she got angry over something so stupid. Perhaps it was the fact that her brain was drained and it was 3 am. “Don’t worry about it. Really.”

He nodded this time finally feeling a little better for what happened. This certainly wasn’t a great time for him. Walking around completely oblivious to his surroundings and knocking people over is just not who he is. And he felt really embarrassed about it. In fact, he wasn’t even hiding it. Life was just too much at that point. He was so tired to the point he couldn’t sleep. Lately, he thought that he probably developed some sort of insomnia since he was walking around the hotel at 3 am.

“Oh, it’s Luke by the way. My name I mean.” his words came out faster and slightly weirder than he was planning as he extended his hand to her. She looked pretty, was what came to his mind. Tired, but pretty. She didn’t have that hard look in her eyes anymore. Which was a good thing?

“I’m Skye.” her handshake was so graceful he thought. She was giving just that right amount of squeeze and it just felt like it was the right handshake. Also a weird thing to think of, he mentally said to himself. “Nice to meet you.” she said then.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too. Not so nice that I knocked you down, but you know...” he trailed off.

She gave him a smile this time. “Please, stop apologizing. It’s no big deal. It’s not like I got hurt.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Okay, I won’t say it again.” he said smiling back at her. “So, you’re a night owl too, huh?” gesturing towards her laptop he questioned.

“Not usually. But, since I couldn’t get anything done in the morning hours I thought that maybe the night would be my friend and turns out it was. I guess the quiet helps me write better.”

“Oh, you’re a writer?” he said taking a slightly uncomfortable seat at the arm of the couch.

“Barely.” she replied while sitting properly on the couch. Close -but not too close- to him. “I came to L.A. for this writing conference, which might have been a waste of time actually.”

“Why is that?” he asked her. “If I may ask.” he added realizing he was coming off a bit too strong.

“I’m not really sure I’ve figured out what my groove is if I’m being completely honest. But I’ve got some determination in me left, so let’s hope this doesn’t turn into a flop.” she said laughing at herself basically.

“Oh come on. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Finding your groove, your rhythm, your genre or whatever you want to call it isn’t always easy. And I think that if we didn’t have such a hard time finding it, it wouldn’t be worth it to call it ours. Don’t you agree?”  he told her, even though he knew that this was an advice he was also struggling to follow.

 “Um, I do actually. That was such an amazing way to put it. You seem to speak from experience? Or am I wrong?”

And that’s when he realized that she didn’t know who he was. It was so weird talking to someone who didn’t know that he was Luke Hemmings, lead singer of a worldwide known band. She was just some girl, in a hotel lobby, who he knocked down of course, but she was talking to him so freely. And that felt really different from how conversations with people usually went. So he decided to just keep it that way.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t know. I’m not really familiar with composing anything on my own. Which is weird, since I’m giving you advice on that exact same topic. I just thought that it was the right thing to say.”

“Well Luke, even so, your advice was probably the best advice I was given in a long time, so thank you.” she said giving him another smile.

“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do. So, are you writing anything at the moment?” he proceeded to ask feeling as if he didn’t want the conversation to drop.

“Ugh, it’s probably too bad to even think of. It’s not worth writing further on it, but my studying coach gave this assignment with the purpose of leaving my comfort zone, so yeah...” she stopped for a minute looking at her screen. “It’s shit actually, I might have to start all over again tomorrow.”

“I could help you with that.” he offered, leaving her confused as to how he could be of help to her.

“How?” she asked him.

“Well, I could read it and tell you what I think. What kind of story is it?”

“Um, it’s a romantic short story, but I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not? I’m a complete stranger, who you’re never going to see again, so even if your story is that shitty it’s not like you’ll see me again tomorrow to remind you of how shitty it was.” he answered her, trying to persuade her realizing his comment wasn’t coming off as funny as he ought to. That’s it, he thought. First I knock her down, then I’m rude to her, she’s gonna start screaming, at best.

But instead, he heard her laugh. She got the joke, apparently. “Well, you do have a point. Plus, you made me have a not so wonderful collision with the floor so my shitty writing could be a way of punishment for you.”  

“There’s also that. Okay, let’s get some reading done. Come on.”

He noticed she was being a little hesitant for a moment. “You don’t have to do this, it’s okay. I could just delete it and start over tomorrow.”

“I think it would be a very bad idea to erase something you’ve created without sharing it with someone first. What you don’t like might turn out to be someone’s favourite.”

“Alright, fine. Here you go. Feel free to vomit. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And with that, she handed him the laptop. He took a better seat closer to her, sitting properly on the couch next to her. Without saying anything further he dived into the reading and spent the next 40 minutes doing just that.

Skye definitely thought that a stranger was so eager to read something she wrote. She also found it a little weird, and it was, but for some reason, she was also expecting him to finish and listen to what he had to say. He was right, it wasn’t as if she was going to see him again tomorrow, so why not? Constructive criticism wasn’t something she was afraid of, anyway. Taking a moment to really look at him, she realized his eyes were blue and even though she looked at him while they were talking before, she didn’t really look at him. He also had his semi-long blonde locks falling over his forehead. Luke was a handsome man, no argument there. He looked like he was around her age. He had a unique sense of style, nothing like the guys she usually pays attention to.

At that point, Skye realized that she didn’t ask Luke anything about himself. Where is he from, what does he do for a living? He knew she was a struggling writer, but she didn’t know anything about him. He really was just a stranger.

“Alright. I think I’ve finished it. Is that where it ends?” he asked her pulling her out of her thought while also pointing at a specific spot on the screen.

“Yeah, that wasn’t clear, huh?”. Strike number one, she thought.

“Well, no. Overall, it was really good. I would definitely like to see how it would continue. But the ending was a little unclear.”

“It won’t continue. That’s the point of it being a short story. And for the ending, yeah I get what you’re saying. I just couldn’t think of something better.”

“Hold on, you mean there won’t be a next chapter? Come on that’s a little torture don’t you think?”

She laughed at how bold he turned out to be. “So, how would you continue this story then? If it was to turn into an actual book?” she asked him.

And maybe she shouldn’t have, because they spent the next couple of hours writing a continuation. What once was her short story, turned out to be the smaller part of an actual book. Poorly written of course, since it was just a bunch of ideas thrown into a white canvas. Skye let Luke take the lead because it looked like he was having fun writing it and sharing his ideas with her.

And after nearly two hours of bombarding her with his extremely creative and unrealistic ideas, and with his funny and smart remarks, they were finally content with the masterpiece that they’ve created. Which was yet to be named, but that didn’t matter.

“I think we’ve written a masterpiece. In fact, if we wait a couple hours more we might just be able to be there when the publisher’s office opens up.”

“Oh yeah, this baby is definitely going to the time’s best sellers.” she joked. “I think we’re gonna make a fortune.” Skye said earning a chuckle from Luke.

“Um, Nicholas Sparks who?” he answered making her laugh this time.

“On the downside, I think we have officially ruined the short story that I was supposed to submit to my writing counsellor.”

“This can count as a short story. A short part of a book isn’t a short story?”

“I’m afraid not, Luke. But that’s okay. I’m going to figure something out.”

“Well I am certain that you will.” he replied to her. It kind of busted up her confidence.

She couldn’t help but smile at his comment.

Skye definitely had a great time with Luke writing this “masterpiece”, but looking at the clock and realizing it was almost 6 am she knew it was time to call it a night.

“Wow it’s 6 am, and I’ve got a flight to catch in five hours. I totally lost track of time.” she informed Luke, even though he knew that this was going to come to an end at some point. But seeing her rush to gather her stuff and leave made him feel worse than he thought he would.

“You and me both. You’re going back home?” he asked hoping not to sound too eager, although he failed.

“Yeah, back to New York. What about you?” she asked still not sending a glance his way, while she continued to gather her things.

“Well, I’m not going back to New York, if that’s what you’re asking.” he simply said. Intending to sound a little bit rude. To be fair, Skye hadn’t asked him a single thing about him. And she noticed.

“I’m so sorry. This entire time has been about myself I didn’t ask you anything about you. Luke, I’m so sorry. I’m not normally like this.” Skye did her best trying to apologize.

“Well, that’s okay. There’s one thing you can do to make it up to me.” Luke told her.

“Of course. What is it?” she asked him.

“You can promise me that you are going to continue this story that we wrote together. You can extract the cheesy and really cringy parts that were mostly my ideas. But the original story was good and I would like to know how you would write the continuation. Even if you don’t pitch this idea to you writing counsellor.” he replied leaving her quite stunned. She didn’t expect that he would care so much for her story.

“Okay, so if I do continue this story, how are you gonna know?”

“Oh, right. Well, I guess there are two things. You..” he trailed off while pulling out his phone. “Are going to give your number.” he continued while handing her his phone. He noticed that Skye looked a little hesitant. No matter how much fun they had creating this short story, didn’t change the fact that they were simply just strangers. “All for the sake of the story of course.” he added which made her laugh.

“Of course. Smooth.” Skye replied, smirking at him.

She took the phone from his hand and saved her number on his contacts.

“Well, there you go.” she told him handing the phone back to him. “Although, I am sure this is going to be such a huge disappointment for you. I don’t think I am going to be so good at continuing this story without you.”

“I am sure you are going to be just fine.” he honestly replied.

She nodded and suddenly realized that this was getting a little confusing for her, and of course she had a flight to catch in five hours and she also had zero hours of sleep last night. Although, sitting here, and looking at him made her feel weird but at the same time at ease, like she hadn’t felt in a very long time, she had to rush upstairs.

“I really have to go.” she told him.

“I know.” Luke answered.

“I guess, look forward to hearing from me when I have the next part ready?” she asked, mostly to herself. Was she really going to do that?

“You bet.”

“Great. Well, it was amazing. And I had fun, but I’m gonna go now. Have a great day, whatever it is that you are doing today. Since I don’t know what that is.”

“Oh, for starters I am going to get some sleep.” he simply said.

“Okay. Great. Till next time we talk?” Skye asked.

“Absolutely.” Luke replied.

She took a last good look at him since she didn’t know when and if she was ever going to see him again. And then just left. She made sure not to turn around as she was walking away. She didn’t need to embarrass herself more than she already had. But she felt his eyes on her back as she was leaving.

Skye hurried upstairs to her room, packed her bags and left the hotel in two hours. Since she was one of those people who wanted to be at the airport a million years before her flight was departing, after she checked-in, she sat at this little lounge and opened her laptop. And for as long as she was waiting, she couldn’t stop staring at the story that she and Luke, a stranger really, wrote. The almost five-hour flight helped her compose the second part to this awesome, fun but at the same time cheesy and extremely unrealistic story. She suddenly felt the urge to finish the next chapter as fast as possible, if that was the only thing that would allow her to speak to him again. Even just via text.

Luke, on the other hand, feeling some sort of warmness in his chest from this experience that gave him more than people would think, couldn’t stop thinking about the girl that he was so happy he knocked down. After he watched her walk away and disappear into the elevator, he checked his phone to see her contact. He wasn’t worried about her giving him a false number. Not at all. Actually, Luke couldn’t help but feel the smile spread further than just his face when he saw that she had put her number under the name Stranger.

All feedback would be appreciated. 

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