#and lost all of my work apart from the first two paragraphs | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elizadrafts · 7 months

Text

the last voicemail

timeskip!oikawa x gn!reader

warnings: all hurt no comfort, mentions on engagement, iwaizumi mentioned???, not proofread

wc: 532

synopsis: after a rough fight with oikawa, you’ve been staying at a friends house for the time being. while you’re unable to sleep, you find yourself listening to a voicemail from an unknown number.

a/n: this is my first fic ! please be respectful when giving me criticisms !! had to edit due to copy errors…forgot the whole first paragraph oops

rest under the cut !

it had been about four weeks since you and oikawa got in the worst fight you’ve ever experienced. doors were slammed, voices were raised, and rings were thrown. your hand had felt bare without the beautiful silver ring that oikawa gifted to you, a promise of his never ending love. none of it felt real, you wished it were a horrid nightmare, that you could roll over and see oikawa’s sleeping figure.

you’ve been staying at your friends apartment for the time being, quick to pack your bags and get out of the house where the fight ensued. it was radio silence from tooru, no calls or texts of any sort. it slightly worried you, but you figured he had moved on already. he had hundreds of fans that were waiting for him, waiting for *you* to mess up. and you did.

tossing and turning in bed, you found yourself sleepless one night, something felt off. you weren’t late for work, it was still dark outside, there couldn’t have been a problem with a loved one, you had lost the one only who lived in the area. finally reaching for your phone, you saw the notification of a voice message from a number you couldn’t recognize, you couldn’t even recognize the area code.

“hey y/n… it’s quite early there.”

frozen, you took a moment to process oikawas voice on the other end. his breathes were short, it was like he had just played a whole volleyball match, a core memory from your high school years.

“it’s been a while since we talked...i wish i could’ve seen you before i left. i never even got to tell you the news.”

racking your brain, you couldn’t remember what he was looking forward to..did he get into a top university? had he landed a good job?

“i left last week, to argentina. made it onto their national team. crazy right? i remember spending nights talking about this to you.”

he forced out a laugh, it was clear he didn’t know how to tell you. hearing this shattered your heart, you remember how you planned to be there to celebrate the moment with him. you planned to go to the airport with him, wish him farewell. you planned to travel the world by his side, supporting him through every up and down.

“i still have your ring. maybe it’ll bring me good luck. make sure iwaizumi’s okay for me, he’ll work himself to death without someone watching.”

another forced laugh, it felt as if he was hiding who he truly was. it was a pain that couldn’t be soothed. you’ve truly lost tooru, there was no apology that could bring you two back to how you were.

“one day let’s meet again y/n.”

the voicemail ended with a satisfying beep. feeling tears well up in your eyes, you realized this was all too real. desperately trying to call him back, everything went straight to voicemail. you couldn’t send one, you needed to genuinely talk to him. this wasn’t how you wanted to end, but the universe doesn’t things for a reason, hopefully.

you’ll remain watching him on the big screens, cheering for him on the side.

#haikyuu x reader #timeskip haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa imagine #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu #haikyuu scenarios #oikawa angst #haikyuu angst #oikawa x y/n #oikawa x you #haikyuu x you #angst #oikawa

219 notes · View notes

bellysoupset · 1 year

Note

I know this has nothing to do with emeto but I'd like to request a fic1... Jonah comes home from a rough shift at the hospital and he's irritated and in a bad mood so he gets into an argument with Leo...

TW: death, but only as context for Jonah's behavior, if you don't wanna read that jump the first 3 paragraphs. Be warned, this one is a punch.

Don't get emotionally involved was one of the first things they learned in med school. There was a reason why first years were obligated to do 30 hours in palliative care. By then they weren't expected to do anything more complicated than shadow the head nurse, but the whole point was so they would get used to the concept of death.

Except you don't get used to that idea, or at least Jonah didn't, not when it was a 10 year old. His little patient had been a difficult case, so he wasn't exactly his, Dr. Peters - Jon's supervisor - was much more involved than normally. Still, Jonah did the majority of the visits and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't invested in the boy's well being.

Then they had lost him, halfway through a seizure. Jonah had clocked out shortly after, Dr. Peters telling him to go home, but instead Jonah had spent a good hour gagging over the toilet, until he was completely empty.

The drive home was a blur, Jonah felt completely disconnected from his body, mind still back in the hospital. He wasn't sure what time it was anymore, nor did he care. He just wanted to sleep this horrible day off and hopefully be able to get back to work tomorrow and actually help someone... Save someone...

"Oh there he is," Leo's voice brought him back to the present. Leo's furious voice.

"What?" Jonah kicked the door shut and stripped off his coat by the door, frowning at his boyfriend. He wasn't even expecting him to be in the apartment, Leo had been spending a lot more time in his dorm, since graduation was coming at a fast pace and he had a lot of work to hand in.

"I've been texting you," Leo scoffed, crossing his arms. Jonah didn't have the energy to grab his phone and check. He left it muted during work so he could hear the pager and he hadn't been bothered to check all day.

"Uhm," Jonah yawned, rubbing his eye, "whatever for?"

"Really Jon?" Leo sounded hurt, "look at me."

He forced himself to look and frowned. Leo looked fine, "you look fine... I'm tired, I'm going to bed."

"Wow," Leo raised his eyebrows, blue eyes sparkling, "we had a date tonight, remember? In that stupid fancy place you like? I sat there for nearly two hours waiting for you!"

So that was what he meant, Jonah cringed, noticing Leo was indeed wearing formal clothes.

"Oh shit... I forgot, I'm sorry-"

"I work in the afternoon and I have two different papers to hand in tomorrow and you said you wanted to see me, so I went to the date instead of finishing my papers... Look at me!"

Jonah hadn't realized he had looked away or tuned him out, he just... He didn't feel well. He was emotionally drained and he felt sick and hollow.

"I'm sorry," he grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face, "but tone down the histrionics, will you? You have 90% of all your work done, you're just a perfectionist."

Way to go, he thought sarcastically as his words made Leo flinch as if he had been slapped.

"It doesn't fucking matter if I have 90% done or 0% done, the point is I made time for you and you fucking ditched me in a restaurant," Leo glared at him, "and now you're acting like an entitled prick."

"Okay Leo," Jonah rolled his eyes, his head throbbing and at this point he'd trade anything for just some fucking peace, "okay. I'm sorry, you're right, you're perfect, as always, can I go the fuck to sleep now?"

"You're a dick," Leo sighed, looking defeated. Jonah shrugged, even if he was feeling more and more like he was about to keel over, queasiness washing over him.

"Okay Leo," he repeated through his teeth, eyes burning, "are you leaving now?" his voice broke at the last syllable. Leo's presence had been a surprise and the fight far from how he had picture ending his night, but he didn't want his boyfriend gone.

Jonah felt horrible, actually physically sick, and he wanted nothing more than to just go to bed, with Leo. If he could just keep his mouth shut, then-

"You're not even gonna explain yourself?" Leo asked in a small voice, "really? You don't care at all?"

"I do care," Jonah shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat, "I do care, I just got caught up in work and- and-" and a kid had died in his hands.

"And?"

"I just wanna go to sleep," it sounded less like a fight now, more like begging. Leo frowned at him and took a step back, further in the apartment, not out. Jonah stumbled forward, towards the bedroom.

"Jonah, what the fuck?" Leo sighed, following him into the suite, "this isn't you, just talk with me-"

He changed directions in the bedroom, instead of sitting on the bed, Jonah staggered into the bathroom, bracing against the sink and opening the register. He splashed his face with water, but it didn't do much to the sticky, claustrophobic sensation. He still smelt like disinfectant, it was making his stomach churn.

"Really? Silent treatment now?" Leo scoffed, somewhere behind him, "you're acting like a child."

Jonah groaned, then gagged over the bowl as the comment refreshened his memory. He heaved, loudly, interrupting Leo, but the dramatic retch only brought up a little dribble of bile.

There was a ringing in his ears, which sounded a lot like someone crying and it took Jonah a whole minute of panting over the bowl to realize it was him. He whimpered, lowering his forehead to the cold stone, feeling Leo's hand in the middle of his back.

"Why didn't you say you were sick?" Leo questioned, squeezing his shoulder, "Jon, shhh... What's hurting? Is this a migraine?"

He didn't suffer with migraines, never had in his life. Jonah shook his head, still bracing against the sink. Despite feeling painfully empty, his stomach was still sloshing uncomfortably, "I'm not- I'm not in pain and I'm not sick."

Behind him Leo let out a snort, "yeah, you just threw up randomly and -"

"Not..." Jonah shook his head, "stress. That's all. I'm fine," he forced himself to straighten up and meet Leo's eyes in the mirror. His boyfriend looked concerned, even if there was a hint of annoyance in his face still.

"You're fine?" Leo echoed, skeptical, "Jonah, you're crying."

"I just need to sleep, that's all," he rubbed his temples, wiping away the tears that were clinging to his lashes.

"Yeah, sure..." Leo frowned, moving out of the way so Jon could walk past him. He stood near the bed as Jonah struggled to undo the buttons of his shirt and quickly gave up, tugging it up.

"Uhm, I think I'm going to go then-"

Jon paused, looking at him, "Leo," his voice simply seemed not to be working suddenly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I stood you up, it's just..." he couldn't say it, couldn't bring himself to say it out loud, so instead Jonah gulped against the knot in his throat and said, "can... can you stay? Please?" his voice all but melted at the end, as more tears sprung forward and Leo immediately nodded.

"Yes, of course..." he sounded extremely concerned, but for the moment Leo decided against pressing the issue. Instead he sat down on the bed too, before throwing his arms around Jon and pulling him into a tight hug.

It was the tipping point, because then Jonah lost all control and buried his face on his boyfriend's shoulder, sobbing.

His chest hurt and he couldn't stop thinking about the kid... It was only partially guilt over not having been able to do more, most of it was just plain, simple sadness.

Leo's hand cupped his nape and his cheek pressed against Jonah's temple, "shhh love, I'm here," he whispered, "you're alright."

It was so silly and yet it sent another sob through him, causing Jon to cling painfully to Leo's shirt, wrinkling it in his fist, "I'm s-sorry-I-"

"Breathe, Jon," Leo didn't let him go, if anything he squeezed him tighter, "just breathe in, babe."

It took forever, Jon felt like, for the tears to stop and the sobs to calm down. He felt utterly empty and his head was throbbing like hell, exhaustion weighting down his eyes, but he knew he at least owed Leo an explanation after breaking down on him so badly.

He leaned his head back against the headboard, hugging his knees to his chest, "sorry," his voice sounded like he had just gargled with glass, "sorry about this."

"For crying!?" Leo said incredulously, reaching over to touch his knee and stop the light rocking that Jon was doing, "can you tell me what happened?"

Jon nodded, but didn't say anything. Instead he just stared at Leo, exhausted and then, all in one breath, mumbled, "in the morning?"

"Okay..." Leo nodded, more and more worried, "okay, in the morning."

He got up from the bed and calmly stripped down his own clothes, changing into a large hoodie and just his boxers, then circled the bed and took Jon's hands in his, ushering him up so he could at least get rid of the pants Jon had worn all day.

That was all he managed to do before his boyfriend curled up under the blankets, so unlike himself and Leo was left with no option but lie down too. He rolled onto his side, stroking Jonah's cheek. It was wet again, but he was no longer sniffling and sobbing.

"C'mere," Leo sighed, pulling Jon to him. He wrapped him up in a hug and then closed his eyes. Leo's mind was going a mile a minute and despite several minutes passing in the dark, he knew Jonah wasn't asleep.

Eventually he felt his boyfriend move, letting out a long sigh, "I lost a patient today."

"Aw-"

"Jesse, he was 10. He liked my sneakers that have the pride flag. He - He liked the mutants and I talked with him about X-Men evolution, the cartoons and he binged the episodes on youtube and was so excited and-" his voice collapsed under the weight of the tears and Leo hugged him a little tighter.

"I'm so sorry, Jon," he whispered, kissing his cheek, "I'm sorry."

"It's just not fair, that's all," Jonah whispered, hot tears running down the bridge of his nose and Leo's neck, "it's not fair, Leo."

"I know, I know, it's not fair, my love," Leo nodded, kissing his brow.

#mywriting #sickfic #HEAVY ANGST #jonah banks

59 notes · View notes

sunny-mercya · 8 months

Text

Simplicity

Edmund Pevensie x Male Reader

Fandom -> Chronicles of Narnia

Masterlist

The low humming of Jazz music, which comes from the old crackling radio in the livingroom—loud enough to hear throughout the apartment—fills the bathroom and is a cutting line for the once setting silence before.

Warm steam filled the small bathroom—giving the tiles a glistering of droplets—breathing onto the mirror and fogging it up. A nice comfortable humidity it was for the body and environment of minds.

You and Edmund laid in the bathtub together; you between his legs, back against his chest and while you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, Edmunds arms found a comfortable spot around your stomach—fingers drawing shapes and prodding onto your skin.

The water was as hot as it could be, almost feels like a boiling pot. During the colder months—end of October to mid April—it was nice to take a long bath in such burning like warmth. Though for your own liking, the temperature was just a tad too high and it took you more than just a few minutes to get adjusted to it. But Edmund was the one who had drawn the bath and preferred such temperatures much more.

The Instrumental version of; Bei mir bist du schön, had started and you tapped, drummed even, your fingers in rhythms against Edmunds arms and humming, mumbling the bit of lyrics you remembered—not completely in tune—with it.

One of the many songs you enjoyed to listen to, when it was being played on the Radio—you're still on a lookout for a Vinyl Record of it and even if it would cost you almost half your loan, it was worth it to buy—as it was, during the rough and nightmarish years of war, one of the few enjoyments you had.

Time like these, alone with Edmund and basking in simple togetherness, has become short lived and rare as of current in the last few months. With Edmund having his college courses from early morning to late afternoon and you working afternoons shifts—from 5pm till midnight—you two barely saw each other at all. So time like these are sacred and the weekends cramped with activities as much as possible.

«You want to watch the upcoming movie tonight or read some books?» Edmunds voice was deep low whisper, spooked you awake from your dozing off.

«Both. Though I wouldn't mind taking a nap too» you yawned a bit, the whole atmosphere, the sharing body heat, was making you feel drowsy and sleeping (the whole day) sounded appealing.

«I think, to do both would be a bit much to give attention to. A nap you can't take either, love, you already slept till lunch» deep chuckles rumbled through Edmunds chest, echoing through the room and sounded pleasing in your ears.

The water, which have lost significantly on temperature over the last two and half hour—goosebumps rising on your skin—sloshed every now and then whenever one of you two moved around too much. Creating a play of low and high tides and with a rubber duck and toy boat, it would make a great scene play indeed.

~~~

Scratchy and roughly felt the once soft fluff blankets on your skin now, a itching brush against your naked thighs—irritating.

The cushions of the Sofa didn't felt as comfortable today as you had imagined it would be.

Rigid, uptight and posh, like a guest or friend who visit their friend for the very first time, you sat next to Edmund—who has started to, probably again, read Moby-Dick and being on Chapter 4 already.

You didn't felt like reading nor watching some Television and neither to take a nap, even though you felt drowsy before—but now very much wide awake.

«Ed, bored am I,» you proclaimed as dramatic as you could, dragging the words at the end and lips wobbling, throwing yourself at your boyfriends side.

Edmund didn't take his eyes off from the book, reading the last few sentences—paragraphs—of the page, before turning to the next one,

«Well, what am I supposed to do about it?»

«Ending my suffering boredom?»

«Fine, get the scrabbles and Rommé, since ya won't let me finish my reading, love.» Edmund sighed out loud deeply, closing his book.

Edmund watched how you sprung from the sofa excitingly and walking towards the dresser. Roaming through the drawers in search of the games. The rising of your shirt—which belonged to him—showing a peek of your naked butt, was a enjoyable sight.

Most of the scrabbles round has won Edmund. Which wasn't surprising at all, as Edmund has a vocabulary as big and thick as the Oxford Dictionary, but the game wasn't about winning—it was about annoying and teasing each other, which then would turn into some deep, philosophical, conversations.

«And would you believe it? Clara was such a biatch towards Jeannie for no reasons at all and then, she had the audacity to like come at me and give me shit about me doing my work not properly and like—»

Edmund placed another letter piece on the board, listen patiently to your work ranting and gossip. You always had something new to tell him from your work, a nice change and contrast to his tiring and boring college life.

«Clara was the blonde right?»

«Yeah, blonde and with a horrific green and orange blazer.» you nodded, reminding him of the Blazer you absolutely detested. The colour combinations forever grotesque to you.

Edmund hummed, taking a sip from his tea—which you had made after round three. You placed two more pieces and Edmund couldn't help himself but to chortle, snorting even and choking a bit on his tea.

«Dear, I don't believe, Tresdonning, is word to exist,»

«Well, now it is and will be, Mr.Dictionary» you waved him off, placing another row of words—which probably didn't exist at all, but you didn't care, never had, as you both never played Scrabbles serious and abide the rules at all not once.

It didn't stop Edmund to be a teasing know-it-all arse and correcting you, whenever he got the chance for it. This too was part of the game though, then without it wouldn't be much fun to play at all.

«They bringing Night of the Count in the Television tonight»

«Brilliant, we haven't watched this movie in so long, I will make us some cinnamon bread for it. Eds, you still haven't told me about this weeks college,»

Edmund took another sip of his tea, dragging it into a long one. Compared to you daily doings, his mundane life of college felt boring—so boring how he himself felt sometimes, making him question why someone like you—a person so full of boastfully jolly colours, kind and lovable—would date someone like him, a person of greyish and bitterness.

So Edmund kinda dreaded it to tell you about his week. Pushing around the subject the best he could, though his options were running thin.

«The same as ever,» he begun, moving the scrabbles piece around his fingers.

At some point he spill dumped his entire week, the good and bad, to you and you listen—occasionally asking questions and begging in a way to still hear more about his subjects he had chosen.

~~~

The bed always felt the comfiest, more for safety and off guard, relaxing and causality, compared to the sofa and occasionally the thick fluffy wool carpet in front of the fireplace—where many heated passionate nights were shared.

Moonlight rays shining into the window and peeking through the small curtains gap. Illuminating the bedroom in a slight, bluish like, glow. It brought enough light too see most outlines and your own hand.

Edmund knew you are already deep asleep, ascending into the wonderlands of dreams while he whisper sweet nothings into your ear. Covered with thick layers of blankets and curling against his side, him having you in his arms—tracing his finger softly against your skin, drawing circles on your cheek and going over your lips.

Just laying here, in his bed with you in his arms, during one of the simple days, was something Edmund cherished the most. It mades him aware of how good life in the here and now, besides his life in Narnia, could be.

Edmund didn't know if he could survive a life without you, he would be able to move on if you were about to die suddenly.

«I love you»

Three simple words Edmund whispers in the night, into your ear. Three words with a grand meaning behind it, three words to show just how much you meant for him.

Just basking in the simplicity.

#male reader #x male reader #fanfiction #fluff #chronicles of narnia #edmund x male reader #edmund pevensie x male reader #edmund pevensie #narnia #xmalereader #oneshot

32 notes · View notes

shrike-dyke · 7 months

Text

so apart from betterhelp being ragingly unethical in the sense of hating privacy, it's also ragingly unethical in the sense of being pro-occupation

[link transcript: twitter thread by jennine @jennineak

Feel like I can share my story about BetterHelp.

During a particularly dark time and being affected by Israeli lobbyist attacks on me and my livelihood, feeling paralysed, lost, I signed up to trial online therapy. How BetterHelp works is that it matches you with a therapist after 24 hrs. You’re able to ask for the kind of therapist you want — if you prefer someone who is not white etc which I did. I wrote a few paragraphs about the immense anxiety from racism I’d been experiencing, a very lonely feeling as a Palestinian in this world.

Within an hour, I was surprised to get a match with a therapist from NYC. She was a white woman, had her credentials up but I also searched her up on LinkedIn as I wanted to understand if she was someone who could get what I’ve been experiencing. I discovered that she lived between NYC and occupied Palestine as a settler. I’d never shut down an account so fast.

It felt strange that this happened — it seemed intentional. So I looked up info on the founders of BetterHelp (which I should’ve done before) and discovered that it is an Israeli company founded in 2013 by two men in who served in the Israeli occupation forces.

All this to say: don’t sign up to BetterHelp and/or close your account if. Be wary of who you share what you’re experiencing, had me questioning what they do with our info. It’s no secret that these Israeli tech companies can use people’s information in service of the state, as many of these start up founders work in or have work in intelligence units, and it’s particularly scary when it involves therapy & bearing your vulnerabilities and anxieties. I have not bothered with therapy since. It was the first time in a long time that I felt I really needed it, esp after years of harassment, smears, attempted legal proceedings against me and legal action I took last year that affected me deeply but am not at liberty to speak on.

end transcript]

#betterhelp #palestine #israel

23 notes · View notes

godfreygwilym · 10 months

Text

some notes on how i've been running the brides

when i first set out to dm cos, one of the first things i was really determined to do was give them more in-depth backstories, since— with the exception of escher getting like one paragraph lol— they're basically just. creepy dolls. which i GUESS works with gothic horror but man i would really like to have female characters with personalities!!!!

*combination of my own interpretation as well as concepts ive integrated from other dms, so if you recognize something specific i probably got it from elsewhere

ludmilla vilisevic

physically in her mid-30s, and is aged roughly 230. i play her with an rp english accent, although in my mind she has a nigerian affect. she is very poised and calculating, and always tries to be the one in control of any situation. has a talent for shadow magic, and her own sentient shadow is the closest she has to a best friend. she also has a barn owl familiar named amicus and a cat named eupraxia. when she takes a human disguise, she goes by the name of filena voltanescu.

before ludmilla married strahd, her name was lumina. she is a wizard apprentice who was lost in the mists and stumbled into barovia. naturally very curious, brave and shrewd, she marched up to ravenloft despite all the warnings. her and strahd ended up having a very romantic relationship (despite lowkey reflags from strahd the whole time lol) for a long time since there had been a long spell of no tatyana reincarnation, although they eventually began to fall apart, partially spurred by her feelings of isolation and longing for her family outside of barovia.

at the point that cos takes place, ludmilla is very distant from strahd and is really only going through the motions/trying to stay useful, though she is determined to remain a step above his other partners in terms of superiority. she spends a great deal of her time researching and experimenting on mostly-unwilling test subjects (she is well aware at this point that what she is doing is cruel, but after two centuries she's become rather indifferent). she's very fascinated by the abbot's work.

in my game, strahd has given her emil toranescu, who is imprisoned in tsolenka pass. she is working on developing a method to transfer souls from one body to another— in my game, ismark is the true reincarnation of tatyana, and ireena merely looks like her.

anastrasya "anya" karelova

physically in her early 30s, anya is just over a century old. barovian accent, and extremely flamboyant and charismatic, she loves being the centre of attention. she has a natural talent for communicating with ghosts, who are often her captive audience. not much combat skill beyond what abilities she has as a vampire, but she has a wicked skill for charming people. in human disguise, she goes by ekaterina bogdana.

anya is from minor vallakian nobility, which comes with all the trappings of petty inter-family squabbles. she has had a terribly unfortunate string of bad luck with marriages, all of her betrotheds have met poor fates or ran off. on a fourth attempt, her parents arranged for her to be married to an older landowner who she did not care for at all.

while she was engaged, anya ran into ludmilla (in human disguise) by chance. they grew close quickly and began having an affair. eventually, ludmilla introduced her to strahd, and she was instantly enamoured. before the wedding, anastrasya's betrothed "mysteriously" died, and she was whisked away to ravenloft. at this point, ludmilla and strahd's relationship was very cold, and he became preoccupied with anya.

volenta popofska

physically in her mid-20s, and is about 65 years old. barovian, and has a very floaty and whimsical way of speaking, though very soft spoken and rather self conscious. she often comes off as eerie. her vampiric abilities are amplified, making her a very good rogue/assassin. in "human" disguise, she is called violet spivakhofska.

volenta is a tiefling who was born in a small fishing village on lake zarovich. her parents did not want her, and so she was raised by the village elder. when she passed away when volenta was a teenager, she no longer had any protection from the animosity of the villagers, so she fled. eventually she was picked up by a small group of bandits, who would've attacked her, but she convinced them to let her join.

she bounced around various groups of bandits and thieves for several years, finding a place but never truly fitting in. after one traumatic rejection, she went to ravenloft in search of strahd, who she had heard stories of since she was a child, and had often wished would come and take her away. to volenta's joy, strahd took a liking to her and made her his bride.

even still, volenta is an outcast due to her awkward and sometimes unsettling behaviour and knack for the macabre. strahd enjoys her, but does little to try and ingratiate her with his other partners, and so she remains self-conscious and eager to win his favour.

escher gerst

physically in his late twenties, escher has been a vampire for just over a decade. i play him with a german accent. he is usually very distant and melancholy, though he becomes much more playful when not around strahd. a bard by trade, as a vampire he discovers a natural aptitude for shapeshifting, spurred by a bit of neuroticism over not being able to see his own reflection. in human disguise, he goes by claudius belasco.

escher is also from outside the mists, the son of poor farmers who ran off to join a bard troupe. he loves stories and music, and has a knack for various instruments, but particularly enjoys the lute and the violin— strahd has gifted him two exquisite models. his troupe was caught in the mists, and unbeknownst to him, strahd began spying on them. outside the village of barovia in the svalich woods, strange orchestrated a wolf attack on the group, sparing escher so that he could swoop in and save him. when escher awoke in a plush bed in ravenloft, he became deeply enamoured with strahd, who he saw as a fairytale prince. they had a very passionate relationship with strahd lavishing many gifts on escher before convincing him to let him turn him into a vampire.

despite not being together long, however, strahd has quickly become rather bored of escher's antics, who became desperate to stay in his good graces to avoid being sealed into the crypts. after the revolt in the village of barovia, strahd took doru as a vampire spawn. escher and him would have been close friends, if escher wasn't so deeply self-conscious and paranoid over his own status. eventually, he convinced strahd to starve doru to the point of madness and return him to his father at the church. escher would feel guilty over this, were he not so deeply concerned over his own self-preservation.

also due to strahd's coldness toward him, escher developed a fascination with vallaki, where he often goes in human disguise. here, he took a human lover, a painter named anton. anton became involved with the feast of saint andral, when escher gave him a bag (secretly containing the bones) and had him deliver it to the coffin shop. during the chaos of the feast, unfortunately, strahd had anton killed— escher beseeched the party to bury him properly and behead him so he would not return as a vampire spawn.

#curse of strahd #my stuff #i will probably have to edit this later Lol unfortunately trying to edit on tumblr mobile is like scraping plastic off a frying pan #also one of my players wrote a very wonderful ludmilla/strahd story that i hope they'll publish on ao3 #ive also written a ~5k drabble about escher and started two for anya and volenta that i have not finished #anyway overall i hope it's quite clear that the brides are all indivuals who are very lonely/crave affection and fear punishment which #informs a lot of their behaviour

20 notes · View notes

rhythmic-idealist · 10 months

Text

Hi all. Some of you know my partner @crimeronan - maybe for her original fiction, her fanfiction, or her assorted queer/polyamorous/chronically ill life blogging.

If you do know—or know of—Kitkat, you might know them as a resource, or as a writer, or as that person who has been known to sit down and write six paragraphs of advice to the scared young person in their inbox. Perusing their blog I see people trading autoimmune stories, younger queer and polyamorous people asking questions about what it's like to be in your mid twenties and settled into those things, and people who found stories who resonated in ways stories don't always succeed at.

Or maybe not! That’s my platonic partner of four years. Happy to introduce u.

If you ARE aware of Kitkat, you might know that she recently FINALLY got an initial appointment with a rheumatology clinic. This after a big medical mystery that’s spanned over two years and taken them to the ER more times than anyone can feel good about.

The good news is that things are FINALLY moving forward. Kitkat has posted a lot more about that entire saga, if anyone is interested, but the main thing right now is that there are test results that are usable in a diagnosis, there will be a diagnosis that is usable in treatment, there are follow-up appointments in the very immediate future that will do a lot of good. It's all kind of astounding after the amount of time it took to get here.

The bad news is that their car broke down.

To say the money situation is already tight would be, though I’m sorry to put it like this, understated. Kitkat makes most of her money from freelance writing, and, first of all, is a fucking wizard at it in ways I don’t understand. But she recently lost her biggest consistent clients when— and she was told this outright— those clients switched to ChatGPT.

Perhaps more to the point— they're often too sick to work. They've pivoted to gig economy delivery jobs, but that is an enormous physical demand on ANYONE’s body, let alone when you’re severely sick.

So that’s where the financial situation is at right now.

I do slot into this, so to give you the story on that: I’m moving to Oregon to live with my partners next month, and will be contributing to the household income then (which is why I'm moving so soon). But I was originally planning to finish trade school first and move in January 2024, so everything’s very last-minute, and a little haywire. I now have at least one job interview lined up in town, but I won’t even be in Beaverton until mid-August, and this auto repair bill is due now.

Basically: because of this auto repair bill, they’re not going to be able to make rent. I expect we as a group will probably be okay once I’m in Oregon and more established/able to help out with the household income, but things aren’t there yet, and this isn't money we're going to be able to make back later.

Kitkat's been too sick to work consistently for so much too long, and that's why they need to turn to community support right now.

(I know Tumblr is famously not a "meet every goalpost before deserving help" website, and I think a lot of fundraisers with less explanation than this deserve support. I'm just a very wordy person. Thanks for bearing with me.)

Kitkat has limited mobility and is going to need to get to upcoming appointments, and speaking honestly, also just really needs access to a car to make things like groceries feasible. She’s not the only one in the apartment with limited mobility or chronic pain. Add to that the gig delivery jobs as a main source of income right now, and this is a necessary bill, just one that is sky-high relative to the income trying to tackle it.

So, you know, hello. I've brought a couple of fundraisers onto Tumblr in the past on other people’s behalf. This time I’ve gotta ask on behalf of my own found family.

The bill has come out to $717.80.

As of now, rent money has been used to pay it—the car has been repaired now, but that money was for rent and daily expenses. There is already financial assistance in play, particularly Medicaid. As it stands, because of this bill, they're not going to make rent.

To account for GoFundMe's fees of 2.9% + $0.30 per transaction, the goal is set to $750.

If you’re in any way able to give, the link is here: https://gofund.me/c0f9d7fe

Otherwise, a share goes a really long way.

Thank you a ton for reading this far. Times are hard all around, so please know: this post is an appeal to those among us who have disposable income and are looking to donate some of it.

Thank you.

$1,323/750

Date posted: July 27th, 2023 Updated: July 28th, 2023

#mutual aid #kitkat car gfm #I WILL MAKE a short post at some point #God. wordy person ever (me)

8 notes · View notes

yourroyalhoneyness · 9 months

Text

So I may or may have not lost motivation for this story I was going to try to get to 2000 words but only finished it halfway I did try to finish the story but I really couldn't so I'm going to leave the prompt and a bunch of details for it if anyone would like to adopt the story or pick it up but I would like it if someone asks beforehand to pick it up but I will leave the summer and paragraph for what I had planned,

This is basically mostly what I already have written so like whoever wants to read it and thinks it's interesting enough to want to pick it up and finish it and ask me

This was for a mirage and Noah fanfiction

Prompt:" your staring." " you're glowing, my love, of course, I will."

Summary: Mirage has been gone for a while on a recruitment mission to go meet with Autobots that were just arriving on Earth they've been gone and separated for a week and they've recently started dating for the past few months but soon when arriving back with Noah something felt different about them being separated for the first time since they started being together Mirage is not being able to stop or help himself from noticing that noah practically glowing and can't quite seem to keep his hands to himself more than usual.

My bad about the summary I did try to summarize as best as I can

Warning:slightly NSFW, fluff, and cursing

900+. Words

Title : luminous beau

Noah and Mirage have been dating for a few months now. And have become ever so close. Due to changed states of relationship. They were inseparable in the beginning, yes, but.

Making being separated from not only your best friend who happened to now also be your BOYFRIEND. He gets Mirage had to take off on a regroup mission too. Meet up with the other Autobots that just arrived now on Earth.

It made them more difficult to be apart from one another

Even though it didn't seem like much of a difference. It did not go unnoticed by a few. They want to keep the relationship between the two of them. And very little is knew about them. (The ones being Bee, Kris, and Arcce. And hopefully no one else at the moment.) Wanting to keep the PDA at the almost normal level. Even If there was a difference, it wasn’t noticed.

But now it has become a laborious task. They could not keep their hands off of one another. Especially Mirage, when they are alone with each other, along with being separated from Noah. This has also been another difficulty since they got together.

Though being back, Mirage is being more clingy than usual. He can't help but want to feel up to his human. With his optics, and servos, anyway, that he probably can. Can you blame him? Mirage has the most gorgeous, badass, and sharp-witted man as his boyfriend. It was hard for him not to show off his boyfriend to the world and let everyone know he was with the human. So excuse him for noticing Noah. Once he had arrived back so he could be back with Noah. And that he looked even more amazing than usual.

Noah took notice of this change immediately, though. It is different from all the other times they have been away from each other. He was not against it at all. He was just not used to receiving so much affection. Or to being the one taken care of. Instead of him being the one to take care of everyone else. But hey, he is not complaining. In reality, He can't help but somewhat bask in it.

Even now, he doesn't stray from being held on top of the mech's lap. Not stopping Mirage from nuzzling into him while he worked on the commissions that were brought in for him to repair. He didn't mind at all and didn't stop him from continuing the action. He had missed the Mech too. Instead, he leaned his head back against the Bots’ metal cheats to give him more access to spots he didn't have before. Mirage gladly took immediate advantage of the gesture. Permitting his engine to produce a sound much like a purr. Buried further and littering the new areas with kisses.

Near seconds had passed, and kisses had quickly escalated into hickies. Mirage grazing the sweet spots. His servos moved to pull Noah closer to him.

Noah had long forgotten what he was doing. He would look for whatever it was he had been working on later. He Doesn’t stop Himself from the whimpering, crumbling mess of a man. That became of him. He moved his arm to reach the back of Mirage's helm to pull each other as close as possible.

The act made the Mech smirk against his human mate's skin. That was all he needed to increase the acts and continue his onslaught toward the human.

“Mmmmm…Raj.”

“Yeah, baby what is it?”

Noah could hear clear as day. The smugness in Mirage’s voice. Baster is not going to even try to hide it. Mirage wants him to be begging for more of what is coming. But would not give in any more than he already has. By the way, Mirage's array plates were heating under his ass. It seemed that Mirage wanted this a little more than he did.

He turned in the mech's lap. Pulled him into a needy kiss. Started to grind against the covered spike. Taking his turn to attack his lover's neck cables and a bundle of wires along his arms. Assaulting the sensitive ones. These deeds pulled. An Assemble of a small choir of groans and whimpers.

“Fuck Noah…mmmm babe.”

“Si mi Amor?” The countered act was also full of the same smugness. That Mirage had been present before.With the same actions too.

Mirage couldn't wait any longer to get to the main events. It impressed him he didn’t take him for a good time so as he entered the garage. But want Noah to wait to make them wait longer.

Even though the illusionist could make it go faster and just get his way. He just let his human have his way. But if this didn't speed up soon. He was going to take things into his servos.

“Come on- mmm let’s get to the fun part…please.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know I'm having fun.”

Mirage couldn’t resist the urge to roll his optics and start squirming. Needing completely different attention and more action. No matter how hot it was when Noah teased him. He hadn't had his boy in almost over a week, And really needed him

“I am having fun too but can get to the part of Awesome instances pleasure for you the both of us,” Mirage suggested with desperation.

"Are you sure you don't want to even try to wait a little longer? We do have all night and all of tomorrow too."

Mirage optics wide at this new bit of info . Now he knew one that seem to be one of the reasons

#transformers #autobots #maccadam #idk what im doing #noah diaz #miroah #mirage #I lost most of the motivation for this story #I really did try to finish it #if you are or would you like to adopt this fake please ask beforehand #I really did try #i'm tired

17 notes · View notes

zonnemaagd · 1 year

Text

My dearest @midnights-call has tagged me to match a single song to every wip. Since I have playlists of more than 30 songs for each project... picking will be hard. Especially because those are all old and I've found so much new music haha, but these are the ones I want to go for.

Phei of the Wind - 風の道 | Way of the Wind by Ōnuki Taeko and Sakamoto Ryūichi

Apart from the obvious title match, I think that this paragraph matches the wandering lost nature Phei is haunted by matches up very well.

One day My heart will warm As I wander Without Purpose

So Long, Traveller - しあわせの箱 | The Box of Happiness - Salyu

This one is here for two reasons. First off the steampunk aesthetic of the Professor Layton series maps super well onto my queer short story set at an old train station, so one of the ending credits for those games is a perfect match. Secondly, if you take themes of trans people accepting their own body, and perhaps saying goodbye to the person they were, these lyrics match quite well, wouldn't you say?

When I think of the memories We shared long ago There's a part deep within me That wants you to know

Though I left without warning Without a goodbye I have faith that soon someday You'll be by my side

So Long My Eyjafjörður | Där hjärtat satt förut | Where my heart used to be - Veronica Maggio

A story all about Sigga finding her heart again, even if she has to give it up before the story's up. Especially when look at from the perspective of Sigga leaving Sera behind.

In three years you can live an entire life There's enough time to fall apart There's enough time to put it back together again You make up a new character You find someone to fall in love with You move in together, you move apart I don't mean any harm of course I promise to be there But I'm an idiot Something small easily turns into something big While some people learn from the experiences of their life, I forget what I've done

Starpath | Hee Joh Jip | Hey there Jip - Racoon

Possibly the story I've talked about the least, but consider a grumpy antiques salesman in space that accepts no one nearby, lest he forms an emotional connection to anyone else. See for yourself.

They say that you gave away your heart once And that she folded it in two and shoved it in a box together with your trust

(the translation doesn't work very well but please listen to it, it's brilliant even if you don't know the words.)

I am tagging @sleepyowlwrites @magic-is-something-we-create @chauceryfairytales @florraisons @authoralexharvey @mychemicalnations because I'd love to know what music you're into! No pressure though~

15 notes · View notes

cienie-isengardu · 2 years

Text

My RepCom Musing: Men in kitchen... or lack of thereof

With more than twenty mouths to feed, meals at Kyrimorut had now acquired an industrial scale. The complex was more than a house. It was yaim-part barracks, part hotel, part married quarters, part farmhouse, the archetypal Mandalorian clan home. They were lucky that Laseema, Atin's Twi'lek wife, had worked in a restaurant and so could manage a kitchen. She knew all the complicated stuff about portion sizes and making sure everything was ready at the same time. Ny was happy to take orders from her.

Imperial Commando: 501st

I’m trying very hard to remember that this paragraph shows us the Ny’s POV but even then this does not put men of the RC series in a good light. I’m sorry but oh so genius NULLs who can create a complicated programs presumably based on mathematical algorithms to steal incredible amount of money from banks and who can pilot a hybrid of space and submarine ship just by reading manual couldn’t figure out how to deal with portion sizes or cooking two things at the same time? Even working together, in pairs or ya know, all the six super soldiers putting their big brain to use? I’m sorry, Mandalorian veterans who are soldiers and part of the army all their lives aren’t capable of going into the kitchen to make a proper meal for their family because 20 people to feed is such a horrible and difficult task? Laseema is awesome, sure, but she didn’t married Atin to be tied to kitchen because men apparently are fucking useless in this homestead. Not to mention she worked as waitress and sex-worker dancer, not as cook which is a huge difference between serving food and preparing it.

And yeah, Ny may just assume the Skirata clan is lucky to have Laseema to take care of things because feeding so many people is hard and she is doing so well, but I think it could be much easier if the men actually deign to come to help. Because when it comes to cooking meals, it is Laseema, Besany, Jilka, Ruu Skirata, Ny (on her own choice to help) and even Arla Fett:

In the kitchen, Vau, Uthan, and Gilamar sat at the table watching the holonews, while Besany and Jilka helped Arla serve up the meals. It was the first time Arla had joined them. She looked lost, but then a kitchen was a chaotic, noisy place after years in a padded cell.

Like, SERIOUSLY? I’m so angry I’m willing to quote all the moments when our female characters are mentioned closely tied to kitchen and cooking just to prove this point.

The only two (three) men I’m willing to give some slack are:

ATIN

Who gutted and most likely scraped the fish scales for Laseema:

Ny was surprised by the rebuke, but Jilka didn't snap back. She went on chopping, eyes fixed on the table. Atin came in carrying a plastoid bowl full of gleaming freshly caught fish.

"Kaminoans eat fish, don't they?" he said, as if he was having second thoughts. "I never asked back in Tipoca. We didn't eat with them."

Laseema picked up a fish by its tail. "Did you gut them properly?"

"Of course I did. And it's going to take me ages to get the smell off my hands."

"You're a darling. Now all I need is some gihaal stock to poach them in."

CORR

Corr poked his head around the kitchen door. Ny wondered if Jilka could tell all the clones apart yet.

"Can I hide in here, please, ladies?" He gave them his best cheeky-boy smile and swaggered in. "The atmosphere's a bit intense out there. Aiwha-bait alert."

"Since when does the kitchen have a FEMALES ONLY sign outside?" Jilka asked. "Make yourself useful, soldier."

Corr winked, took the knife from her hand, and began chopping with surprising speed and skill. The more surprising thing was that she let him.

and

"Who's for more eggs?" Corr yelled over the hubbub. He'd volunteered for kitchen detail with Ny this week, probably to impress Jilka, and Ordo decided it was working. She watched Corr when she thought he wasn't looking. "Make the most of these. The nuna can't keep up with you greedy shab'ikase. It'll be boiled mealgrain until they start laying again."

(and yeah, the first mention of Corr’s help was about him trying to hide in kitchen to avoid a tense atmosphere created by Kal meeting a Kaminoan Jedi survivor of Purge and later, he tried to impress Jilka but he at least was in the kitchen helping ladies)

and honorable mention of WALON VAU:

While Besany wrestled with dough, and Scout and Ruu sliced the haunch of shatual that Mird and Vau had hunted, Ny made igatli from scratch, following a recipe on a datapad propped on the kitchen table.

And yes, Fi, Parja and Corr hunted too and generally all members of the clan clan helped with fishing, but the text at least strongly suggests that Scout and Ruu got not so much as a hunted animal to deal with, but skinned (and gutted?) one so the meat is ready to be portioned for a meal or preserved to eat in the future.

That is. The three men who are apparently reliable. And surprise, surprise none of them is Kal or trained from start Kal’s boys. Geez.

#star wars #republic commando #My RepCom musing #walon vau #atin #corr #ladies of repcom deserves fucking better #That is. The three men who are apparently reliable. And surprise surprise none of them is Kal or trained from start Kal’s boys. Geez.#nor is mij heh #ii think only uthan wasn't push into kitchen duties?#i'm sorry if i miss any man but seriously IC:501st piss me off with this kitchen nonsense #also it seems like atin and vau are here to deal with the dirty stuff like gutting animals what makes me laugh actually

37 notes · View notes

semperama · 1 year

Note

10 and 18 🙏🙏🙏

Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

To me, if I said a piece of writing "haunted" me, it would just mean that I cannot stop thinking about it/am obsessed with it to an unreasonable or unsettling degree, and yeah, that happens to me with other people's writing all the time!! Both with published fiction and also with fanfic. It's so basic of me, but I definitely felt that way after reading The Secret History by Donna Tartt, and also My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante. And probably others too, but those are the two books that first come to mind when it comes to things that consumed my every waking thought for days after I read them.

For my own writing, hmm. I feel like when I'm haunted by my own writing, it's only during the writing process, and it has a more negative connotation. I often get this feeling where I'm obsessed with the world and the idea of what I'm writing, but when I'm in that phase, I'm usually failing at actually putting words on the page, probably BECAUSE I'm overthinking. I'll lay awake at night drowning myself in little scenarious, but never actually write them down, or when I try to write them down, they don't live up to my imagination. That's a bad place to be!! As fun as it is to be consumed by something like that, I definitely don't do my best work when it's happening.

Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

Oh dear!! I'm so bad at these commentary things, mostly because, as I hinted at above, I think I do my best writing when I'm not thinking too hard about it, so it's often hard for me to go back and talk about how I came up with things or my thought process behind it, because...ideally I wasn't having too many thoughts! But I guess I'll attempt to talk about the opening paragraphs of A Praise Chorus:

Max gives him a birthday card. The envelope is blue, and Daniel thumbs it open carefully to find a picture of two cats in party hats and a hand-scrawled message inside about how he’s over the hill. He laughs and pulls Max into a hug, his mind racing a mile a minute about how—It’s weird, right? It’s so weird. The only people who send him cards anymore are his parents. No one else here got him anything. A lot of them have probably already forgotten it’s his birthday, too focused on their own plans for the weekend, getting laid or getting high.

“Thanks, man,” he says, squeezing Max’s shoulder as they break apart. He can’t look him in the eye. Something itches between his shoulder blades, where Max’s palm rested for maybe a second too long. “Let’s get a drink, huh?”

“I got it,” Max says. Daniel scoffs and waves him off, but later he catches Max slipping a credit card into the hand of a passing waiter. He’s a fucking kid, not even 20 for a couple more months, not even through his second year of F1, and Daniel can afford to buy his own bottles. But Max catches his eye and gives a thumbs up, two bright spots of red high on his cheeks that Daniel would think were sunburn if he didn’t know better.

So, I've recently talked about how the idea of the birthday card saved this fic, because I was totally lost about how to begin it when I first started writing. I originally was trying to open the fic with Max doing the shoey, but I think the reason it wasn't working is because that wouldn't freak Daniel out enough. Which is a weird thing to say about a guy drinking champagne from a shoe, but ultimately I think that's the kind of thing a guy can shrug off as just guys being dudes, you know? Whereas showing up to a San Tropez birthday party with a card of all things is just uncanny enough to send Daniel into a crisis, lol.

I think the part where Max insists on paying for the drinks really drives it home, because again, it'd be totally normal for your buddy-pal to insist on buying you drinks on your birthday, but since Daniel is already off-kilter, it takes on a different kind of meaning for him. I think it sets the tone for the rest of the fic, where Daniel starts to question what's normal and what's not and what it is he's actually feeling. The road to untangling his denial had to start with something he couldn't deny--the birthday card and how it made him feel--and then suddenly it became harder for him to cope with even normal friend stuff.

I hope all that rambling made sense, ahaha. Like I said, I'm bad at this!!

#writing asks

9 notes · View notes

poetzproblem · 2 years

Text

So my writer’s block is still a thing, but I’ve been trying to pluck away at a paragraph or two here and there when inspiration strikes. I didn’t get anything finished for faberry week, but have a fababy teaser that may or may not get finished someday. ~~~

It’s quiet, which isn’t all together unusual on a Friday afternoon. In fact, it used to be a near regular occurrence in the days before Calliope had been born, when Rachel would rush off to the theater and Quinn would be left alone to write or bake or shop for a few hours without interruption. Life after their daughter has been wonderfully less quiet, but even now, with Callie spending part of the day in her pre-K classes, the quiet hours are few and far between, especially now that Rachel is on an extended sabbatical from her previously insane schedule.

It’s a good thing.

It’s a wonderful thing.

It’s a thing that Quinn has been wanting for years. She’s ridiculously proud of her wife and every amazing thing that she’s accomplished—things she’d vowed to achieve practically from the moment she’d been out of diapers and had made happen through sheer talent and force of will—but Quinn had failed to fully grasp the bitter reality of sharing Rachel with the inhumanely long and irregular hours of a show business life. Oh, she’d been stupidly confident about her preparedness when they’d gotten married, of course, but adding a child to the mix had made everything so much harder than she’d anticipated. She will never outright admit that Rachel had been right about that part of becoming moms, so she grins and bears it with stubborn resolve because she wouldn’t dare change a single thing about their family.

Even now.

Especially now.

They’re alone in their bedroom, the early afternoon sun streaming in through the windows, warming their skin. Oliver is curled up on the floor, exactly centered in a bright patch of sunlight as he naps with his nose tucked into his paw. Callie is currently blocks away in her classroom at the Brownstone School, no doubt concentrating on whatever educational craft Miss Polly has sprung on them today, safe under watchful eyes until the time comes for her mothers to pick her up. Their friends are at work or maybe at home, lost in their own lives and families until the next time they talk. And Rachel is here with her, lying on their bed in the stillness of this moment, just the two of them.

No.

Not just the two of them.

Quinn’s lips curve against a cotton covered breast, gaze drawn to her palm where it rests low over Rachel’s belly beneath her wife’s trembling fingers, warm touch united on the strip of bare skin between her bunched up shirt and unbuttoned jeans. Rachel’s other hand is tangled into Quinn’s hair, where it’s been for ten minutes now, ever since they’d come home to their quiet apartment and wordlessly headed straight to their bedroom to fall into this position across their bed.

It’s been about a month now—twenty-two days (but who’s counting?)—since Quinn had sworn to Rachel, right in this very bed, that it was happening this time. She’d had a good feeling. (She’d had one the first time too, but maybe it had only been relief that they’d gotten through the even more unpleasant cocktail of fertility drugs than what they’d suffered through with Calliope. Maybe it had only been her own naivety after two easy pregnancies, thinking that nothing could ever go wrong.) But this time around, they’d both approached it with more caution.

After ten days, there’d been a positive test with good hCG levels, but they’d had that the first time too, so they hadn’t celebrated. Well, they hadn’t celebrated much; every hope and joy expressed was still tempered with caution.

At thirteen days, the results had only gotten better, and better again at sixteen—it’s the only thing Quinn had wanted for her birthday this year—but they still hadn’t celebrated; hadn’t let themselves fully settle into thinking it would happen for certain this time, even with Rachel suffering through the persistent nausea of morning sickness that doesn’t always confine itself to the mornings but still seems so much milder than what Quinn had experienced twice. Neither one of them can quite decide if that’s a worry or a relief.

Even now, less than an hour removed from their six week checkup and the ultrasound that had proven to them that, yes, there is one (and only one, to Rachel’s immense relief) healthy, viable embryo with a perfect, beautiful heartbeat growing safely inside of Rachel, they both understand that nothing is guaranteed. They've learned that the hard way and send up daily prayers in two religions that they’ll never have to experience the lesson in that particular way ever again.

But—

There’s a perfect, beautiful, wonderful, amazing, miraculous little life inside of her wife whose heart is beating so steadily and, sweet Jesus, Quinn is so fucking happy right now. She wants this so much; is so excited for it.

She’s been a mother for more than half her life now, but only a mom for five short years, and she’s good at it. Beth and Calliope are the best things she’s ever done. She’s proud of her life, of her books and her friendships and her marriage, but her daughters are her greatest accomplishments. She loves being a mom, and now she has the chance to do it all again with the little person growing under her palm. There’s a little piece of her inside of Rachel, and holy cow, is it weird to think about. She’s used to doing this the other way around, and she’s not really sure what she’s supposed to do when it isn’t happening inside of her.

All of her protective instincts are already fired up to dangerous levels, and she’s afraid she’s going to end up hovering as much as Rachel did. She already wants to keep her off her feet and in this bed for the next eight months. It’s awful and wonderful and Rachel is never going to let her hear the end of her I-told-you-sos. She’ll listen to them on repeat as long as Rachel stays relaxed and safe and pregnant while she says them.

Pregnant.

Quinn’s smile grows. This is further than they’d gotten the last time, and her good feeling is rearing up with a vengeance. She can’t wait to see the proof of their second child really begin to show in her wife’s body. Already, Rachel’s breasts are more sensitive, and Quinn swears they’re even a little bigger than they were just last week. (She’s intimately acquainted with them after all these years so she would know.) But there’s only the tiniest, firm curve to her belly, hardly noticeable at all, and Quinn can’t wait to see and feel their baby moving under her skin—where her own fingers are splayed wide, seeking the extra connection.

When Rachel’s fingers slot in between hers, Quinn lifts her gaze to meet glistening brown eyes. “We’re having a baby,” she breathes out reverently, her smile irrepressible.

Rachel’s lips quiver into an answering smile. “Yeah, we are.” There’s a breathless tremor in her voice, but Quinn can hear the wonder in it too. Everyday, Rachel grows a little more confident that it’s really going to happen this time, and Quinn lets her hope run free.

#teaser #don't blink #fababy #faberry #faberryweek2022 #faberry week 2022

29 notes · View notes

daarleann · 1 year

Text

ENG 112

Originally, I had come into this English class with a bad attitude. I was upset that I had to start this semester fully knowing I was suspended from my last college due to poor grades and needed the credit to be allowed back into said college. I was on a self loathing train once I started. I didn't join the class late because of my poor attitude, I was just not in it mentally and got lucky with registrations since I started the whole process late.

Apart from the start being extremely rocky, I did retain newer writing skills. I learned how to skim wordy texts better. Learned that not every line deserves to be highlighted and one thing I constantly struggled with that I got a better grasp on, was staying on topic with my papers. I get in my head over giving in perfect work that I wind up giving in mediocre work that's all over the place with one or two solid paragraphs. I gained more confidence in my writing thanks to you as well. I came from the New York School of Interior Design, where the only form of writing assigned were detailed 500 word papers about a 300 year old Egyptian or French Rococo room or piece of furniture we viewed at the Met museum. I quickly forgot the process of writing and for once felt “Wow, this is a fun paper to write!” instead of losing my mind because I’m 30 words short on my paper and can’t be bothered to stare at the piece of furniture any longer.

If I were to take this class over from the beginning I’d start with a better attitude. I looked at English as a drag because I’m used to sitting in a 3 hour class and doodling varieties of rooms and furniture to create a 3D model of. I kept thinking “I can’t sit here and just think and write for two hours, this is so boring!” But Julia had her ways of keeping me interested in a text that at first glance I’d look at and assume it was going to be a snooze fest, but the second Julia started to take apart the text I’d be hooked. My one and only complaint would be Julias very detailed instructions. I’m used to bullet point instructions that are straight to the point so seeing that she was very detailed on the majority of assignments had left me feeling overwhelmed. Then I’d feel overwhelmed with everything down to my own notes and it leads me to procrastinate.

The skills I’ll continue to work on is staying on topic with papers. I’ll start to write down all my ideas on a different sheet instead of forcing it to fit into my paragraph, I’ll train myself to read the whole text and annotate the parts I feel are important instead of working based off of my bare memory. I regained my interest in literature after taking this course so I will continue to read books like I used to. I was a huge bookworm back then but I guess after 4 years of interior design college I had lost the love I had for reading because any form of reading I ever had to do was about furniture, so you can see why I got bored of reading so easily. I am glad I chose Julia’s english class because it did feel refreshing to finally have a professor that cared and showed it. I will forever be grateful to her for that. The feeling of being seen and to be known by my name and not be misgendered or called just “Miss Barreras” was a new experience in an academic setting. Thank you Julia, thank you for your kindness, care and patience. It will not be forgotten!

7 notes · View notes

farfromstrange · 1 year

Text

Funny story…

I was telling my mom about how I wrote 670k words for a single fanfiction series, which is more than a novel or two, I think. Not to speak of the reader inserts and everything else I’ve got going on.

Anyway, she then asked me if she could read it. I told her that it’s not as innocent as she thinks my writing is, and it’s dark as hell. She told me she doesn’t care, she just wants to know what I’m working on. Problem is just, she doesn’t speak English, so I’m over here translating the godforsaken first chapter into German and boy does it sound stupid. I don’t know if I can show her that without cringing.

Like, what is it with my mother tongue and having such complicated grammar that I need to sometimes change entire paragraphs to fit the actual meaning behind them. I know that’s basically how translation stories works, but with German it’s just… it’s hard, man. And I don’t know if she’s going to like it, which adds to my anxiety, so now I’m just staring at my screen and questioning my existence.

I was born here and my written German is worse than my English, and that says something.

So I made this and my friends absolutely lost it when I sent it to them:

The “sign” on the bottom right roughly translates to “sweeping week”. We basically have to clean our apartment building (if they’re not a huge high rise or owned by people who can afford weekly cleaners or something) every week, and every week a different apartment gets the sign so they know it’s their time to clean the building. It’s not that big of a deal. I’m usually done in about thirty minutes if all goes well. It ensures things are relatively clean, so that’s good. But it’s a German thing and I thought it was fitting.

Bonus from my friend:

#matt murdock #charlie cox #daredevil #lizzi talks #writers of tumblr #i read this in a very aggressive German accent #i know these are all stereotypes (the emojis) but they’re basically true #in my mind at least #german core #this sounds so stupid #but I’ve been hollering for the past 10 minutes #foreigner's god #bilingual problems #like mom just learn english smh 🙄#just kidding i love her #but english is easy compared to german

5 notes · View notes

newartistgirl · 2 years

Text

Second part to that other Linked Universe prediction post

If you made it here from the other post thanks for this ride with me!

(Again, I apologize for any spelling or punctuation mistake, I´m not a native speaker)

Given the fact that I can´t use him being one of my favourites as an argument for tumblr (I swear every fricking time, if I like them or find them to be the ones with the common sense they are sentenced.) I have to use another. And that brings us back to storytelling (I know this is pretty subjective, but at this point I´m just trying to convince people with my opinion, not actual facts) Just stop for a moment and think about it. How many subplots would Time`s death open? I will just talk about the ones I´ve thought about.

1. Twilight. In the first descriptions of the characters it was specified that Time, Twilight, Warriors and Legend have some kind of leader traits. Going further with Legend saying that he is not a leader type and Twilight specifying he feels otherwise. With their leader gone someone should take the place, right? And the first one to come to our lovely minds is Twilight for evident reasons. Just imagine that character arc of him becoming the leader the group needs after overcoming his mentor´s death. Time has always been the one he has looked up to in any situation he was lost in (literally there are panels on which he is seen looking at Time for guidance/approval or waiting to see what he would do), so now imagine him being all alone (”alone” he would have the rest, but not him). There is also a chance of maybe him going deilusional and having a real hard time trying to get over his loss (How many cool concepts come to mind with that?)

2. Warriors and Legend. You might be asking yourself. How have this two made it to a Time´s death post and get a special mention apart from the rest? Well, picture the scene for a moment. Time gone, Twilight devastated, but the group needs a leader (there is also that little side of me who wants to see maybe all work without that leader figure, but thats for another post). Needing a new leader and having Twilight off the table for some time with his struggles wouldn´t it be nice to see our lovely captain and his friendly mocking pal, the veteran, working together as leaders. Because, as I said before, it was specified in both cases they have some sort of leader traits. Plus, we have already seen both taking the lead at some point, especially with the newest updates, so it wouldn´t be so crazy or something jojo hasn´t already messed around with. Only, this time, on a greater scale, cause they wouldn´t be taking the lead “momentarily” but for a longer period of time.

3. Malon. Angst. This meaning hurt. I think it´s pretty obvious where I´m going with this one.

As we know Twilight is a descendant of Time so that obviously implies that he and Malon had kids. However we do not see them as parents, and wether I ought to continue with a “yet” or not is not clear yet. Something we know for sure is that Malon has to be pregnant before Time dying or else we would presence one unndoubtedly and utterly unexpected plottwist (Too unexpected in my opinion) So a lot of this thing that readers for some reason tend to like called pain would be inflicted. Just imagine the conversation between Twilight and Malon (Because, yes, Twilight would be the one to deliver the news. Or maybe he wouldn´t due to his own conditions after Time´s loss. Both could be actually really painful if done well)

4. Other. In this category I fit not so relevant but little thoughts I´ve had of the rest of the group while thinking through all this. First one to be mentioned, and maybe worthy of having his own paragraph would be Wild. Being the closest to the guy who is broken due to the loss of his mentor has to be tough, especially when Twilight himself is somewhat that figure for Wild. Would he wonder what it feels like? Technically he knows what it feels like because, right now, he is kind of going through that, so maybe it would be better articulate to say he knows very well what it is like walking on those shoes and not just feels sorry for his friends pain but also understands it very well (also adding all his backstory with the champions) And don´t get me started on the rest of the group who might be more “innocent”. We have already seen Four cry and Twi is not even dead yet.

5. Dark Link Wild theories. And no I don´t mean to imply the theories are wild. Wild has been in the target for some time now for his strange attitude in the latest updates. I´m not going to dive into that. I have never actually really believed that was the case but, to be honest, last update got me thinking something is going down with him and Four. Wether an apology or the confirmation of the theories (maybe both) will not be known until next update. In my opinion I more of an “apologies” girl. I do not know how much the story line has progressed, but having in mind this started as a series of random comic strips to show their interactions and the fact that it´s based on comradery I doubt they are going to get THAT fragmented. At least not that much. Not to the point of Wild being suddenly evil and Twilight dying now. (And if he comes to be, I hope it won´t be for long)

All of that (especially the last paragraph) it´s just my opinion on this matter. Any other thought will be well recieved :)

#linked universe #lu #lu legend #lu time #lu twilight #lu warriors #linkeduniverse #lu malon #linked universe theory #lu theory #lu rants

7 notes · View notes

kamreadsandrecs · 10 months

Text

ByJohn Wray

For the entirety of my writing life, Cormac McCarthy has been a mountain. Some of the novelists of my generation found the mountain beautiful; others found it oppressive. But virtually all of us, whatever our position or attitude, existed in its shade.

In spite of the enormity of his shadow, however, I’ve never before written about the author of so many novels I’ve studied and admired. In the two decades since my first book was published, I’ve fielded the boilerplate question about my influences no end of times, name-checking an almost absurdly ragtag crew: Shirley Hazzard, Denis Johnson, William S. Burroughs, Amos Tutuola, Lydia Davis, Toni Morrison, John Berger, Ursula K. Le Guin — even, just a few weeks ago, whoever ghost-wrote David Lee Roth’s memoir, “Crazy From the Heat.” But one name I’ve conspicuously avoided all these years has been that of McCarthy, who died last week at 89. Why on earth is that?

The omission wasn’t due to any lack of impact on my writing, that’s for certain. I might never have finished a book if not for “All the Pretty Horses” — and I don’t mean this in some vague or sentimental sense. When McCarthy’s sixth novel swept into my life, I was 24 years old and living in a tent I’d pitched in the basement of a warehouse under the Manhattan Bridge. I’d recently lost both my job and my apartment, and a friend thought a book about cowboys might distract me from my woes. What neither of us imagined was that the glossy trade paperback with its attractively minimalist black-and-white cover would act as the catalyst for my entire professional life.

From the first paragraph — from the first sentence — “All the Pretty Horses” reconfigured my understanding of novelistic language so radically that months would pass before I felt able to read anyone else. All these years later, its opening still hits me with the force of incantation: The candleflame and the image of the candleflame caught in the pierglass twisted and righted when he entered the hall and again when he shut the door.

That line has lost none of its mystery, its austerity, its elegant foreboding. Part of what makes it so memorable, of course, is its odd, self-consciously archaic cadence — the oft-cited ‘biblical’ loftiness of McCarthy’s prose, which may be one reason few writers of my generation care to cite him as an influence. But although I registered the novel’s considerable stylistic debts both to Hemingway and Faulkner — not to mention “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” — I was so intoxicated by its music that the point seemed academic. It didn’t matter that McCarthy’s literary models were obvious, because he wrote as well as they did and occasionally better. For a would-be novelist struggling under my own debilitating anxiety of influence, no more valuable lesson existed. I received it as a physical sensation. I could breathe.

But something even more powerful was at work as I read, something harder to make sense of, let alone characterize: At the time I thought of it — always in italics — as the sound. Intuitively, on the margins of my consciousness, I came to understand: The sound was the thing. It set the mood, it lit the world, it kept everything in motion. This second lesson was, if possible, even more pivotal than the first: Never mind your plot outline, your carefully thought-out themes, your take on human nature. Forget your own name if you have to. It may take years, it may be agony — but find the sound. That’s all you need. The rest of it will follow.

The news of McCarthy’s death — somehow surprising, even startling, in spite of his age — is the reason, of course, for this belated mea culpa. I can’t help but think, looking back, that certain younger writers, myself included, resisted acknowledging McCarthy’s influence not because of what he was, necessarily, but because of what he represented — and whatever our conception of him now, he has also, with his passing, come to represent the past.

But this was true, curiously enough, even during the long years of McCarthy’s prime. Vital as his best work always was to me as a point of reference, the man himself, and how he (purportedly) lived — his Olympian detachment, his monkish day-to-day existence, his refusal to give interviews or readings or to besmirch himself in any of the myriad ways demanded of working writers nowadays — always seemed an impossible act to follow.

Until the runaway success of “Horses,” when McCarthy was 59, none of his novels had sold more than a few thousand copies, and he gave every impression of finding obscurity pleasant. At times his very existence, out there somewhere, banging contentedly away on his Olivetti Lettera, could feel ... daunting, I suppose. He regularly refused lucrative speaking engagements, teaching positions, and — needless to say — any social media presence whatsoever. What young writer could get away with that today? Perhaps more to the point, would any of them want to?

For this reason and others, McCarthy’s passing feels to me — as I’m sure it does to many — like the closing of a long and momentous chapter in American letters. He was, de facto, the last of the great Harold Bloom-anointed White Cisgender Male Authors, and no small number of critics and academics, I suspect, are now quietly wishing that era Godspeed.

White cisgender male though I am, far be it from me to disagree: I’ve never felt the awe and adoration for Bellow and Mailer and Irving that seemed mandatory among well-read middle-class readers of my parents’ generation, and I’ve always been slightly nauseated by Updike’s randiness and verbal exhibitionism. McCarthy, however, though he was born in the same year as Philip Roth, was never a member of that particular gentlemen’s club. I imagine he must have struck a writer like Updike as a walking anachronism, a coelacanth-like living fossil from the high modernist age. And in fact — occasionally for the worse, but very, very often for the better — that’s exactly what he was.

None of which is to say that McCarthy’s body of work, or even his worldview, has subsided into irrelevance with his death — just the opposite. I was recently asked by a music magazine to write a list of “novels for metalheads,” and my thoughts went instantly to “Blood Meridian,” his end-of-days magnum opus of the American West. The conjunction of metal and McCarthy isn’t as far-fetched as it might seem; in its pitch-black reckoning with humanity’s most self-annihilating urges, the novel could easily be read as an allegory for the Anthropocene. The apocalyptic orange skies that recently darkened the East Coast might have been conjured directly from its dread-filled pages.

I had a dog-eared copy of “Blood Meridian” beside me when I wrote the following passage in my most recent novel, in which a teenage boy hears heavy music for the first time: “He was being offered the same purifying fear, the same catharsis, the same revelation midnight slasher movies gave: that everything wasn’t going to be all right. Not now and not ever. And that made perfect sense to him.”

#cormac mccarthy #writing #books #reading

1 note · View note