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peanutbutterand · 8 days

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i miss you, i'm sorry; lmh

in which alcohol and a broken heart prompts you to make a phone call to your ex.

~ Angst with a capital A.

wc: 1.6K

Reference(s): “I miss you, I’m sorry” written by Grace Abrahams and a line from Notting Hill directed by Roger Michell

“I miss you”

The flashing lights seemed to somehow mute the chaotic noise around you. Head hurting, mind overwhelmed, and still, your fingers unconsciously danced across the screen of your phone, typing a number you had deleted months ago.

Some things don’t stay the way they're supposed to. Out of sight, out of mind right? Funny how all logic and rational thinking is suddenly muddled by the denial of a broken heart.

“y/n.”

If it weren’t for the alcohol in your system, you’d cry at the sound of his voice. Instead, the concern in his tone forced a bittersweet smile to form on your face.

He shouldn’t be worried, he shouldn’t have even answered. But he did. And you hated that you knew he would. Because even in your drunken state, it was so natural for you to go back to him.

“You promised.”

You felt pathetic. Clinging onto his promises of forever, even when you fought his declarations towards the end of your relationship. The need to be right overpowering the need to be loved.

It was careless, taking everything you loved and disputing it with cruel words driven by a fixed mindset. And he did the same. Hurt people hurt people, because no one wants to be hurting alone.

You did your best to move on. You really did. It was easy at first, fueled by anger and pinpointing all the blame of your failing relationship on him was something you did with your head held high.

And then all of a sudden, your pride became too hard to swallow and all the hate you spewed ricocheted in the forms of longing and regret.

You often found yourself reminiscing about fights in his apartment and the disappointment that came with broken dishes, just to get a glimpse of him.

Because he was always readily available in your mind, whether it be in the form of heartbreak or not. And the extent to which you would willingly fall back into these moments only resulted in any progress of moving on to slip through your fingers.

“y/n, where are you?”

How do you move on from someone who is so deeply engraved into your mind, someone who has touched every part of you with sweet kisses and gentle hands, someone who starts your thoughts and always ends them.

For these reasons, your doubts and hesitations were not baseless. Because how do you move on from someone you once promised forever to? It almost seems wrong to do so.

“I don’t know what to do Minho. Everywhere I go leads me back to you. Everything I know brings me back to us.”

There was so much to say, so much you wanted to tell him. It was desperate and embarrassing, but others might say you were simply in love; that you were just a girl, talking to a boy, asking him to love her.

“Y/n, please….go home.”

“I can’t.”

“Y/n–”

“Every corner of that fucking house is haunted Minho.”

It was suffocating. Home was no longer home but a place filled with traces of his presence. Bittersweet reminders of the life that once flourished remained in every room.

His coffee cup in the cupboard, his hoodie tucked away in your drawer, the silly love notes he left embedded into your books, his morning kisses, his laughter, his smile, him.

He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Even in his absence, he was consuming you. So no, you wouldn’t go home, you couldn’t. Because the definition between home and Minho seemed to blur overtime.

“I don’t know what to do anymore."

The drunken daze was now fading away, your clouded mind becoming overwhelmed with the sober emotions that flowed through your body, because they were one in the same when you were drunk, just easier to handle in a state of intoxication.

“I thought you hated me.”

Such a statement was not meant to be laced with the gentleness he evoked, so much so, a certain heaviness clung to your chest. For the reminder of the three words you spewed at him the last time you spoke will forever bring feelings of angst and regret.

“Minho…”

Some things are better left unsaid. Until the time comes when those things are all you can think about, clouding your judgement and cultivating a narrative of missed opportunities guided by the words “what if”.

You had many. And they creeped up on you, leaving you lost in your thoughts of love that you’ll never be able to live, at least, not with him.

But not was not the time to wallow in your self pity and despair. Not after all the time you had dedicated to pondering over the “what ifs” and certainly not when the person these “what ifs” revolved around was here, listening to you.

“I was angry and upset and desperate to hurt you. I don’t hate you—I never could. I’m sorry.”

The slow sigh that ran after your words displayed your relief more than you intended. Thinking back to the last time you spoke to him was routine for you.

But this time, instead of being tormented by the hurt laced in the memory of that night, you were now comforted by the fact that your truth was now something he knew.

And you weren’t going to deprive yourself of his, no matter how much it may break you. You were in too deep to consider that now.

“Do I still make you sick to your stomach?”

It was his turn to let out an audible sigh. And it seems as though you weren’t the only one reminiscing back to that night; for his response appeared to be nurtured with time and consideration.

“No y/n, you never did. You never will. I didn't mean that. I wish I had ever said those words to you, but I did. I’m sorry.”

It’s one thing to say something. It’s another to mean it. And it felt nice to hear he didn’t. You knew he could never have meant it, but the assurance you experienced upon his confession pulled apart the remaining angst embedded in your memories. You could only hope he felt the same.

It was cold outside. Somehow, your feet carried you out of the stuffy place, the moon illuminating the still street, a complete contradiction to your surroundings a few seconds ago.

The silence seemed to emphasize your acknowledgement of everything that had happened and was happening. The phone pressed to your ear. The quick beating in your chest. The familiarity of the slow breaths he took as you listened. Your boldness. His patience.

“I’m sorry I called. I know we said we weren’t talking—”

“I miss you too.”

You almost didn’t catch it. His voice low and quiet, almost as if the statement was a passing thought that had slipped past his tongue. But you caught it, as did your denial, that after all this time, he too missed what once was.

A part of you wished your ears had been deaf to his words. Because the way your hand fell to your chest, the way it felt as though your heart had paused, the way tears immediately lined your waterline, was the same way you recognized exactly how much you missed him.

One step forward and three steps back is the damage his words did. But you started it first, and it was only fair to finish what you started.

An absent smile lined your lips with tears falling down your face. Your tears were warm against your cold skin and you so badly wanted the warmth to stay.

“Everything we were scared of happening, happened Minho.”

“Nothing happened in the way we wanted Y/n.”

Your absent smile turned bittersweet, fingers gently grazing your cheek in an attempt to catch the warmth from your eyes. You were right. And he was too. They say that nothing that is meant for you will ever get away, so why did he?

“Is this better for us y/n?”

It’s hard to make peace with something you don't entirely agree with. He hurt you more than anyone else has. But he loved you better than anyone ever did.

“I don't know. I’m still confused.”

Your eyes shut, squeezing what was left of your tears out.

“I do know that I was really happy with you, we were happy together. And we were really good to each other.”

You went into this conversation with hope and uncertainty. It was only normal for that hope and uncertainty to cultivate into doubts and hesitation. He didn’t deserve that. And you didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. Not now. Not ever.

“But….”

“But we’ve been here before. And I want to love you because I love you, not because I need you— I missed you Minho…..I miss you. I’m sorry.”

And in an instant, no sound came from his phone. Your voice, gone, as if it were never there.

Gone before he could familiarize himself with the highs and lows of your tone. Gone before he could tell you to not cry, for he recognized the tell tale signs that you were. Gone before he could say everything he wanted to say and more.

And perhaps that's why he continued to hold the phone to his ear, head falling to the back of his couch as he allowed the words he meant to say to you, the second your name appeared on his phone, break free from his lips.

Barely a mumble, but with his whole heart and all his truth.

“I still love you, I promise.”

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commsroom · 6 months

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I'm really glad for all the love you've put into w359 fanworks. every time I see you post about it, my heart glows a little.

I'd originally felt that way while listening to the show, and your interpretation & vision feels so tightly knit to the source material. you even go farther in your explicit discussions about hera, her autonomy, her emotional depth, her treatment by other characters, and her arc as a trans allegory

totally understand why you might feel embarrassed, but I wanted you to know: thank you 💜

oh, that's so sweet of you to say!! i'm honored you think so.

i genuinely think there's a case to be made that eiffel/hera is as canon as the parameters for romance in wolf 359 allow it to be. like: gabriel urbina's policy was always "never confirm or deny 'on-screen' romance unless absolutely necessary" and from the AMAs we know they at least discussed it with regard to eiffel and hera, though we'll never know how that conversation went. it's not really a secret that sarah shachat and zach valenti, at least, viewed it that way. i still think about zach saying (paraphrased) that he thinks his non-answer is an answer, because if he didn't ship them, he could just say so.

and that's kind of how i feel about eiffel/hera within canon. like. anybody at all familiar with shows the wolf 359 writers like (especially things like btvs and farscape) can tell you there are plenty of scenes that mirror and meta-textually reference scenes from other shows. both gabriel urbina and sarah shachat were huge fans of the new doctor who, and whatever you believe the intent was, i find it hard to believe they didn't at least know they were evoking "if it's my last chance to say it, rose tyler, i-" with "and hera. hera, i-" it's what isn't said, the fact it has to be left unsaid, that speaks the loudest.

and anyway, talking about hera and romance / sexuality is especially interesting to me because it's not a given for her. it's not assumed to be something she should want or can have, and the way that intersects with her canon disability and with readings of her as a trans woman re: autonomy and desirability is very interesting (and very personal) to me, especially in the broader context of stories about AI women. but that's a topic for another post.

it's not a new observation by any means, but i think there can be a tendency to treat romance as separate from character analysis, and that's always sat poorly with me. romance isn't unique in either a good or a bad way, it's just... one type of relationship people can have. i think a lot about the unique approach wolf 359 has to romance because, while i understand why a lot of people would find the lack of romantic subplots refreshing, the characters aren't written to be intentionally disinterested in sex or romance (in some cases, textually... the opposite, even), so much as the writing carefully skirts around it. and... i don't know! there's something fascinating there.

obviously, i think you can recognize what's important about eiffel and hera's relationship (that it's the most equal one hera has ever had, that he has no real hierarchy over her or expectations for her other than companionship, how they share values and mutually support each other, etc.) without needing that to be romantic. and i think you can even acknowledge there's some degree of romantic intent without being invested like i am or "shipping" them. but i do think there's some intent there, and i think the the themes of the show can be expanded in some interesting ways to explore that beyond the intentional ambiguity of it. if you want to.

i would also never deny having an emotional bias here!! complete objectivity is never possible because we always bring parts of ourselves to our interpretations of art, and that's only amplified by how close to my heart wolf 359 is as a story. but i do really want to communicate, to the best of my ability, how much love i have for the show and how much thought i put into it. and i definitely don't mind being known for my love of eiffel/hera; they're my favorite characters from anything ever, both individually and together. but i do get kinda embarrassed when i talk about them too much, because it's not that i don't have plenty of thoughts about every other character and aspect of the show, it's just... that they are close to my heart in a particular way. anyway. i really appreciate it, thank you!!

#this still isn't worded as well as i'd like but i can't rework it any shorter without losing something. i hope it's clear enough what i mean #like in my mind eiffel/hera is functionally a canon romance but an unresolved one and i find that very compelling #fwiw i do not think gabriel urbina perceives it that way (nor would he ever say even if he did) but like. in the context wolf 359 created #i am sure he was aware of how that would come across.#anyway. remember how that one track on the ost used to be named 'eiffel and hera' and gabriel described it as the show's tenderness theme #and said their relationship became what that song guided his understanding of it to be. beats my head against the wall.#... you just got a bunch of thoughts that were on my mind and i apologize but i do appreciate it very very much #this was such a kind thing for you to say #asks

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barb-l · 5 months

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A, R, U?

(🫶🏽 thank you for your support)

Oh man. I dont wanna sound like I'm tooting my own horn, but I genuinely find it hard to choose because I love my fics dearly. I enjoy writing so much, almost as much as I do drawing.

In no particular order, one of them is my Power Rangers 2017 fic Code Yellow. Idk if I've told her this(probably not cuz i dont much like to talk about my feelings) but the premise of Kimberly and the rest of the OG's being much older than the next rangers, with Kimberly serving as the next Yellow Ranger's mentor was inspired by my friendship with another PR fic writer(if you know unicorn affair then you know she's a legend). We became friends when I was like 17 and still relatively new to accepting my queerness, so getting to be friends with an older sapphic woman who was very kind, into the same things I was, and was in a loving relationship with another woman? It was very comforting and filled me with hope. Kimberly and Aisha's dynamic aren't the same as my dynamic with that person, but I can say that I projected a lot of my feelings over the warm comfort of having a friend that was like an older sister to Aisha.

I haven't made myself finish it yet, but I have hope I will even now years later. This is a snippet from my drafts

Another one is "Courtship Woes", the second part of a fic series for probably the craziest ship I've ever shipped, Wednesday Addams and Lydia Deetz from the musical version of Beetlejuice. It's a very different Wednesday from what a lot of you are probably used to in my Wenclair fics tho, as it's characterized as a mixture of Ms Ricci's version in the 90's movie and the animated version voiced by Chloe Grace Moretz. While I like to think of Jenna's Wednesday to be more like Morticia, I wrote this Wednesday to be a lot more like Gomez. So I guess I already have written a Gomezified Wednesday. Huh.

And, predictably, the other one is "raven in the den, wolf in the nest". I'm still really proud of what I've accomplished for this fic. The final chapter was especially very healing to write with Wednesday's confession affecting Enid's confrontation with Esther in the climax of the fic. The whole point of the Addams Family isn't the gothicness necessarily, but that they were supposed to be the topsy-turvy of what is conventional. It was one of the main points of that fic, with Morticia fainting over the thought of her wonderful spawn dating an adorable rainbow being the topsy-turvy version of the disapproving parent trope. That confession was supposed to go along with that theme too. In typical stories that involve monsters, the crux of that romance is the person's love of the other person despite them being a beast. But Wednesday isn't a typical girl. Loving a murderous beast would be what's expected of a grim girl like Wednesday, but the best thing about Wenclair is how they still keep the topsy-turvy theme for Addamses. Enid is insecure about not being the ferocious monster she's supposed to be, yet despite all odds Wednesday loves her regardless. She grew so dang attached to her even before Enid got the chance to shift and that's both so unexpected but makes so much sense of Wednesday Addams.

Fredrik Backman is my absolute favorite writer. The way he writes grief and loneliness alongside humor and love in his works is just phenomenal. It just saddens me that I do not understand a lick of Swedish and can only rely on the english translated copies, so I can't say that I fully know how he writes his prose as translations can only go so far. But I can say that the emotions he evokes in his writings is what I always try to strive for. To make my readers tear up as much as I could make them laugh. Or maybe more of the latter. Like a warm hug.

(also wow that's very wenclai--)

I apologize for cheating and choosing my OC's, but I think I'd want to actually write a fic with Vega and Sora someday.

#asks #this became a monster sorry

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findingnemosworld · 8 months

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - 𝐤𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐬.

• 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬 ( 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐤𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬 )

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐬 𝐱𝐨𝐱𝐨

( when they said angst, my wind traveled to this song)

Ryan was everything she could ask for – the kind of man that carried himself with a unique aura that captured everyone around him, she met him at her friend’s engagement party, it was odd to be drawn to someone so quickly and yet Ryan was just that good at drawing people to him, a chat here and phone calls there paved way for several dates that assured her exactly why he was the one she’d been seeking, the missing puzzle in her story.

Her friends that were yet to find someone special were envious of her, how could have stumbled upon someone so sensible and quite incredible – not only that but he was a lawyer, and an overall the kind of man that might as well be akin to a fictional character written by a woman, he shows up at her door step with a bouquet of flowers, opens the car door for her, tells her everything she needs to hear and is attentive to any and all of her needs.

And yet, late at night – she lies in bed, wide awake and thinks of him.

You see, before Ryan — there was a man that she loved so dearly and wholeheartedly, the kind of man that like Ryan, was capable of charming his way into her heart; a man so enigmatic that to this day, he still left a mark on her so deep that every night before she sleeps, she thinks of him.

That man in question being none other than, Kostas Tsimikas.

Her relationship with the aforementioned male had lasted for nearly three years, stemming from the time she attended a Liverpool match with a friend and had for some odd reason according to her friend, captured the attention of the self proclaimed ‘Greek Scouser’ — She obviously didn’t think much of it and yet, true to her friend's words.

By some form of twisted fate, Kostas shows up at her work place one day, asking to purchase a piece of clothing — and to this day, she vividly recalls how relieved he was when he saw her.

Their dates were a few and far in between due to his hectic schedule yet she still appreciated any time she managed to spend with him, the phone calls and text messages while they had helped – had definitely been one of the roots that lead to the demise of their relationship.

You see, she was practical and lived her life by the book – she’d gotten everything she wanted and was only in search of a man to settle down with, a man she truly believed she could find in Kostas, only to be rather baffled and taken back by how little Kostas cared about commitment.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, her friend had told her that there were rare examples of committed footballers that have families – and the rest were … very much the opposite, yet she refused to believe that Kostas didn’t love her enough to want a future with her, as three years were sufficiently enough for them to see whether or not they were compatible.

Only it was the case of two souls that loved each other so dearly that it became deadly.

Like any relationship, there were arguments, fights and screams that would lead to Kostas storming out of the house at 𝟐𝐚𝐦 on a rainy night, she’d spend those few minutes cursing him into the void as well as cursing her heart for becoming so dependent on him that by the time he returns, it’s rollercoaster of talking to screaming to being in each other’s arms; lips harmoniously conversing in the language of passion and sincere raw emotions.

Kostas was insane, and for some reason that’s why she loved him, because he evokes the part of her she had worked so hard to bury.

Ryan was respectful of her space and never makes her wait for so long, whenever she was upset - he'd give her a chance to be wit her own thoughts, then work his way through the issues with a sense of serenity and calmness that often made her wonder if he possessed with any kind of bad bone in his body; her parents adored Ryan, her mother heaps praises of him, and her father was glad that she had found someone he can form a familial bond with him, every now and then she'd look at him feeling a sense of comfort.

And yet in the back of her mind, she yearns for him.

Kostas lived every day as if it was his last, you'd never know what runs through his mind unless you're up close - she yearns for every day they spent together, from arguing over what to eat, to finding herself entangled in his embrace, she yearns for the days where they would escape from the city during the weekends, arguing over which playlist they would use, to laughing over ludicrous arguments to fighting back again.

Kostas was frustrating, intoxicating and complicated in the most tragic and beautiful way possible, while she would mostly complain about that and attempt to advise him not to behave so reckless at times - she couldn't help but adore that part of him, the part that chooses to vicariously live life without thinking of the consequences that might follow.

Her parents did not hate Kostas, but they adored Ryan because he was conventional, he was the all around man that women desired, he made sense .. Kostas didn't, yet his love moved her more than Ryan ever did and no amount of fake smiles and sickeningly sweet words can convince her that Ryan is the one, he's merely a compromise she chose to make in order to appease her family, in order to silence the people that still wonder when she'll have her own kids and of course silence the voices inside of her mind, achingly demanding her to call Kostas.

Her heart, while it pumped blood - was barely working despite her attempts to get it to see Ryan for who he is, within the silence of her solitude, it beats for one and one man only, Kostas Tsimikas.

All of the yearning and nostalgia wouldn't matter anymore as tomorrow, she'd surrender herself entirely to Ryan.

______________________

Her reflection in the mirror was a well rounded façade, locks of hair cascading in neatly pinned waves splayed on her back - a soft and thin layer of make up that masked the stained cheeks from crying rivers upon rivers, a stunning dress that fit her like a glove and had the most gorgeous tail in the back, and a veil which will conceal her face as she is set to walk down the aisle in a matter of two hours, there was no going back, she couldn't run away from this despite wanting to - despite wanting to run back to him, she knew that he'd never want the same things as her.

And somehow, similar to how she first met him, by some form of twisted fate - her thoughts were broken by the creaking of the door, and enter, the subject of her thoughts over the past few weeks, the man she couldn't rid herself of despite not seeing him for three years, there stood Kostas dressed in a three piece suit with his hair slicked back, with an unreadable look in his eyes.

" Kostas " His name comes out as an audible whisper, she turns to face him. " What are you doing here? " she asks, even thought the answer is quite obvious, out of the kindness of her heart laced with an unexplainable sense of recklessness, she decided to invite him to her wedding, surely believing that he'd be too busy to even attend.

He twists the key to lock the door, then takes two steps until he stood in front of her.

For what felt like hours, he allows himself to take her in; the sight of her in a wedding dress nonetheless had tugged on his heartstrings, igniting the emotions he believed he had successfully rid himself of, watering the dead flower that was once blooming with her smile, he selfishly allowed himself to believe that in this moment, she was going to marry him. " You look heavenly " he whispers, his lips curve upwards in the faintest of smiles.

" Kos, you can't be here! " She whispers, attempting to remain as composed as she can; ignoring the sound of her own heartbeat that was thudding in her ears. " I'm getting married in less than two hours and if someone sees you here, they'll get the wrong message "

Kostas chuckles then shakes his head, " Always so rational, that's the way I loved you, you knew exactly what to do and say to get me to think straight "

She inhales then exhales a deep breath before she is able to look him in the eye, " Why did you come? you could have ignored the invite "

Kostas looks away, not wanting her to see the tears threatening to escape from his eyes, he gives her a playful albeit fake smile. " I could have ignored it, but I never found the desire to do that, not when the only woman I have ever loved is going to be someone else's wife "

" Kostas you can't do this to me " She pleads with him, her voice finally betraying him. " I spent three years expecting you to see things from my perspective but you were too caught up in your own world to want those things, you knew deep down that our story would end "

Kostas nods, walking up to the window that overlooked the outdoor venue of her wedding; several guests roamed about conversing with one another. " Is it too selfish of me to ask you to reconsider now? "

She places a hand on her chest, trying her best to remain as calm and composed as she could. " Yes, because ... " she pauses for a brief moment, " I tried to escape this relationship, but Ryan is good, he's the man for me, he's ... " she heaves out a sigh, " he's the puzzle piece that I need to complete my story but - "

" But? " Kostas said, finally turning to face her with glossy eyes.

" He's not you " She states, " He won't ever be you, he won't argue with me over food, or want to take spontaneous and unplanned trips, he won't want to dance with me whenever life becomes overwhelming, and he certainly won't make me feel as if life is unpredictable, I love him " she choked back a sob, " I really do, but I don't think I could be in love with him, the way I loved you "

Kostas absorbs every single word she said, before he walks up to her to press a tender kiss to her forehead then whisper, " Σε μια άλλη ζωή, θα τα βρούμε, απλά να ξέρεις ότι θα σε αγαπώ πάντα ( In another life, we will find one another, just know that I will always love you ) " he looks at her with a sad smile, " Promise me, that you'll be happy "

" I promise " She nods, mirroring her smile.

" I'll go now " Kostas murmurs, nodding one last time before he walks out of the room, and eventually out of her life.

#kostas tsimikas #kostas tsimikas imagine #kostas tsimikas x reader #kostas tsimikas fanfiction #tsimi #liverpool fc #Spotify

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againstme · 3 months

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THANK YOU CHASE so so so much for sharing all these songs, I thoroughly enjoyed every single one and feel very emotional after listening to all of them. Also I’m so sorry for how long my breakdowns of each song are, please don’t feel like you have to read all of them! Also I apologise as the further down it goes the longer the reviews get, I was getting really fuckin into it and by the final song I was really just in the zone.

I’m going to give your Spotify a follow now too and a lot of these songs are being added to my regular playlist so thank you <3

spring break 1899

- amazing vocals, love the tune and lyrics. It’s so full of emotion and I feel like I’m watching everything happen in slow motion like in a fight scene from a movie? If that makes sense? It’s so haunting and beautiful. I’m currently reading no country for old men and a lot of the lyrics feel so applicable to the book. Really amazing song I feel changed after listening to it, thank you so much for sharing this one

Cheer up Charlie

- I really enjoyed this song!! The lyrics were so emotional and there was so much hurt in the words and in their voice, like they’re carrying a lot of sadness and grief for the person being written about about. I also loved the guitar in this song, amazing riffs <3

Hungry ghost

- Off the bat the vocals are beautiful, I knew I’d enjoy this song which I did! Very relatable lyrics and such a beautiful way of expressing things I struggled with voicing in the past. A song that makes me feel less alone and brings comfort to a younger self

Voice

- That fact about the pre-recorded lyric he can no longer sing made me appreciate this song so much more, it feels really special to be able to listen to something that feels so personal. Both of little stars songs have been a beautiful experience so thank you for sharing it with me

Like green Jheri curl

- Fuck this song was so sad to listen to. “Did I do something wrong?” Is such a gut punch. Knowing there’s so many kids out there who were so alienated and made to feel like they weren’t being themselves the right way is so upsetting and conveyed so well in this song. ALSO the drumming in the last few seconds was just really enjoyable and a solid ending to an amazing track

WTF is sleep

- The lyrics “it’s too easy to be hard on yourself” and “finding comfort in feeling like hell” just really hit deep down, and I absolutely understand why those are some of the lines you also mentioned as they are something very relatable. Also the lyric “set no alarm cause I am totally guaranteed to wake to my chest beating miles ahead of me” is something I deal with on the regular with my anxiety and I’ve never had someone describe it in such an accurate way before. Fantastic song I really loved this one

When

- dodie has always been such an amazing artist and shaped so much of my teenage years. This song has always been such an emotional one and filled with relevant lyrics. I’ve always loved “I’ll take what I can get, cause I’m too damp for a spark”, because a lot of my first relationships definitely felt like I was just happy to be liked by someone despite how uninteresting I am. That’s changed a lot now but it still is something my 16 year old self can connect to

Institutionalized

- LOVED this song holy fuck. Another song that I really get. The entire verse about his mum and the drug accusations were really something I connect with and something I’m still coming to terms with and still hold resentment over as I had a lot of instances while living at home where conversations similar to this happened frequently. Really good song and the anger in his voice and the buildup before the chorus each time just really scratched an itch in my brain. Also from reading your comment under the song, I hope you’re doing okay in the residential and getting the support you need <3

People li: the reckoning

- The feeling this song evoked in me bro. like someone singing about these experiences is so amazing and the way it’s sung is just. so incredibly good. the lyrics “everything is real but it’s also just as fake. From your daughters birthday party to your grandmothers wake” is something that I deal with every single day with depersonalisation, and even experiencing my own grandmas funeral while suffering from depersonalisation just made it feel very personal and just the whole song was just a really good one to listen to and so well written

I spent the winter writing songs about getting better

- God man this one was a lot. “Making me in your image with the parts that people hate” was a big fucking YEA you get it. And “who the fuck am I to tell you it gets better” was a really emotional one. After years and years of being told by people that it will get better and feeling like I couldn’t be sad around them after that because they had pretty much told me to not be depressed anymore because one day I won’t be depressed, and resenting people for it, it’s really comforting to hear someone say the opposite. The final lyrics “Even if there’s a grand scheme and these moments don’t mean anything I want to collect them to remind myself that life still can still grab me I want to remember that there are moments where I’m capable of being so fucking happy” made me tear up a lil I can’t lie lmao. This song was really something and I enjoyed every minute of it

im SOOOOOOOOO glad you enjoyed the songs holy shit!! thank u for your review, i loved reading all of your thoughts on these songs. it is such a fun thing for me when i share music with people and get to be able to hear their thoughts about it, especially when i make a playlist for someone or just one for me or that season or that year that i end up sharing with my friends that we end up talking about.

i'm working on my 2024 chasecore playlist now, a liiiitle late into the year but better now than never, right? i think i'll add most if not all of these songs to the beginning of the playlist and branch off from there.

thank you for sharing so much !!! to me, this is what music is about. music to me is about connection and sharing and community. i love sharing music, i love playing music with people, regardless of what level they're at at guitar, i'll just mess around with them, because what's fun about it is just that connection. and having that creative energy shared between people.

i'm glad that i've been able to share that creative energy with you.

as a little treat, :3, here's some songs that've just been swirling in my brain to listen to today. i haven't done it yet but i will tonight.

love this song and the metaphor it's tellng. also it's suuuuuch a winter album to me. gonna do another song from this album too

love this one a lot too. i love listening to la dispute lyrics and just pulling up genius while listening to them to get the whole perspective on the storyline of the song, album, and the callbacks that it has to the previous album.

they're not everyone's vibe, but i like their kind of sing/scream/spoken word vocals a lot. it's unique, and the combo with the instrumentals (specifically the guitars) doing elaborate things in the background is so nice to be able to focus on.

i was gonna keep digging thru my spotify but i'd be here typing for an eternity. i hope u enjoy these little songy songs! and thank u for sharing your thoughts.

we could make a little chain of this if you want, where i send u stuff for you to review and you do vice versa, i think that'd be fun if you're interested in that :3 if not it's ok tho!

ok i done now byeeee

#c.txt #answered #tunes #figwhine

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the-foolish-scholar · 2 months

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Three of Swords

The Three of Swords shows a heart pierced by three swords, representing the pain inflicted by words, actions and intent on the emotional and physical self. The dark clouds gathering in the background mirror this pain but offer the hope that, just as the storm clouds will disappear, so too will the pain and hurt you are experiencing.

In this little booklet that I have that goes one of my tarot card decks, it describes the Three of Swords as follows: The most violent assault upon the ego. The final thrust. Cardiorespiratory disease. The attack upon the stronghold of feeling and energy. Division. Rupture. Complete severance from the past, attachments, and relationships.

I resonate with this minor arcana card a lot right now. Everything is so terrible and yet we all shove those feelings down and we pretend that everything is fine. Which, I guess to a degree, we must do. If we spent all our time feeling, we’d never have time to take action to evoke other emotions.

For the past year or so, I had been feeling a lot of fear. Some people that I had encountered had tried to make me feel fear on purpose. Others just happened to provoke fear in me, not on purpose, but just because I had learned to become fearful.

On the eve of the full moon in Virgo (which illuminated my 6th house, which rules health, wellness, daily routine, and odd jobs) I was having dinner with my mentors, Brooke and Tom. I have found a great deal of comfort in my relationships with each of them. I first met Brooke when I was 18 and just a fawn in this world. She defended me and she protected me. Tom, her husband, and I had not met until this year; but I have found a stupendous sense of serenity in the wisdom that he has shared with me in our conversations. As we drank wine, ate Indian food, and discussed the state of affairs, Tom said to me, “your fear and your anxiety are your credentials in this world.”

I went home and I ruminated on those words for the longest time.

My fears seem paranoid and unconventional to most; but most haven’t lived my life. Most women my age, from back home at least, listen to true crime podcasts, and fear getting kidnapped by some sick psychopath who rapes and then kills them. But me, I’m most afraid of retaliation. And you can all imagine the multiple ways retaliation can manifest.

Which is quite hilarious, when you consider how loud of a mouth I have. I have always been opinionated and I have always freely shared my opinions. My opinions—as well as my ability to express them—have evolved and changed. I’ve grown in this way because of personal experiences and secondhand knowledge that I’ve encountered.

Nevertheless, I’ve decided to let go of this fear I have held on to for so long. While it is foolish to be brave, it’s also necessary to achieve anything of impact in this world.

Folks, this situation is dire. Democracy is flatlining and very soon, it will be dead.

There was so much irony in a democratically elected official joking that they were a dictator; yet after these most recent elections, satire that statement is no more.

The history books will not be written kindly if they are to be written truthfully.

Here, and across the globe, the innocent are targeted, per petty arguments between neighbors or per their strength in speaking out against the situation.

I fear not for my life, but for the lives of my friends. I revere in their presence, for I cannot comprehend how they are able to be so brave. They embody a Christ-like compassion for the collective in their courage; they are our truth tellers, our visionaries, our resisters, our nurturers, our barrier breakers, our organizers, and our advocates. Oftentimes, they embody all those roles as one person. They are intersectionally intrepid.

And I’ve decided that I need to be more valiant like them. Even though it terrifies me.

One does not feel courage, but rather one may act courageously as they feel fearful.

Plus I figure that those who have intimidated me don’t really have the power or the wherewithal to do anything that they’ve suggested they’d do to me if I began to speak out and stand up. So fuck it. I am not a dog who can be chained and muzzled!

I’m getting more involved in human rights work with the CIS. I will assist them academically, collecting and analyzing data, which I am compiling for my thesis and eventually my dissertation.

What’s the worst that could happen after all? I deal with more red tape than I already am with the ministry of education? I get denied residency for being a so-called rabble rouser?

The tension that I feel as I type this is testimony to what is really happening right here in front of me. My digital footprint may lead to my damnation but I want to be dutiful and document everything.

Data collection, analysis, and the production of papers seem frivolous considering everything happening now, but one day, there will be a researcher that will have this period of history as their focus, and they will dig through my seemingly useless documents just as I have done with documents others have written on the civil war.

I’m not doing this for myself; I’m doing it for whoever comes next.

In the future, maybe all this digging around will catch up to me in ways that I cannot even begin to imagine. It is petrifying to think about the domino effect that our lives may have, but do we not set dominos up for the thrill of watching them when they fall?

Anyway, here are two very poetic images of me taken with the CIS Election Observation Delegation:

The activist, in a sparkly blue shirt which shines just as bright as her spirit, Indira Escobar—from Socorro Juridico, a group which provides legal representation to the poorest of the poor—spoke with us about the torture and death of social activists in the prisons, the births and deaths of babies in the jails, as well as the gerrymandering taking place which consolidates power, perpetuating this plutocracy. May God, the stars, and the spirits protect Indira from facing the same fate as those she is seeking to save. Light a candle and say a prayer, or better yet, donate money to Socorro Juridico!

ANYWAY, aside from that, everything else is pretty chill.

I’ve been applying to lots of jobs, grants, and scholarships. I intend to reach out to look for more opportunities at other bilingual schools too. And I’m looking for more places to teach English.

I’ve also been trying to make more art. There’s this one poem I wrote but I keep going back and editing the final stanzas. It’s actually quite ironic how I keep doing it now that I think about it. Art imitates life, life imitates art...

Because the poem hasn’t been going the way I wanted it to, I made a graphic about the same subject of the poem. I like how the graphic turned out. I intend to save some money and eventually I’ll turn the digital graphic into physical pieces of art that I’ll spread around in a guerilla art campaign one day. But I'm not ready to show either of those pieces to anyone yet...

Here is one that I am:

What else...? I finished Girls. What a show… Talk about art! I’ve also been watching more movies which has been cool. Slowly but surely, I am understanding the origins of so many memes and TikTok sounds, becoming one with popular culture. I haven’t been reading for pleasure because I’ve been reading so much for school but I’ve got my eyes set on a few books that I want to read.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be going to the beach to bask in the sand and the sun. And after that I'll go to the mountains! I'm going to help Tom run a self-defense class for women in the community and I’ll also receive training to teach sex ed from the feminist collective out there. I’m really looking forward to both of my stays outside of the city.

I love this life and I feel so lucky to be alive. I am thankful for everything I have encountered in my time on this earth. And I wouldn’t change anything if I had to do it all over again. Well, I would have preferred to be kinder… But my point is that my fate has made me who I am, and I no longer fear my fate.

I feel about my fate, like the imagery of the Three of Swords implies. My heart has been pierced by so many things outside of my control, but the pain, fear, and anxiety that those events have brought me broke me open, helping me to become the best and bravest version of myself.

Amor fati, oh how will the gods write my destiny?

youtube

#Youtube

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ruiniel · 7 months

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Prickly thorns, tender roses

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Rating: Mature🔞

Relationship: Alucard/Original Female Character

Characters: Alucard, Original Character(s)

Chapter tags & warnings: injury, assault, POV original character, post-Castlevania Season III, inspired by Castlevania, canon-typical violence, personal interpretation of post-season III Alucard, written before season IV, POV Alucard

XIV. The only way

She did not sleep a wink the remainder of the night. Ravenna tossed and turned until daybreak, when she hastily dressed and crossed the many flights of stairs through the castle down to reach the kitchen. She hoped to find water and use it to rinse her throbbing wrist, where the creature had sunk its teeth into flesh.

But she found Adrian. A damnable blush of both guilt and unease spread across her nose and cheekbones at the sight of his turned back, and Ravenna thanked the high heavens she had time enough to regain her composure before he turned to her. The happening—sensations included—of the previous night was yet fresh in her mind, and meeting his eyes was now an onerous chore.

“Well met,” the woman greeted, her gaze flitting to the place where she thought the water containers were.

“What do you seek?”

Ravenna noticed the bottle her host held in one hand. She placed her arms behind her back. “Water,” she murmured. “And I would also need use of your supplies...” She lifted her gaze to his. It was yet blank, void of emotion. Not like last night, unguarded and aflame. It was not him. That was nothing but your own troubled mind under dark enchantment. Not him. And there is work to do here.

She nearly jostled out of her skin when Adrian spoke again, finding him much closer than before. “How so?”

“The incubus. It bit me,” she managed.

“May I?”

Ravenna froze. Slowly, she dared meet his eyes, appearing blissfully ignorant of the fresh memory those words evoked. Then they were narrowing, eyebrows lifting in question, and Ravenna gathered she’d been wordlessly gaping at him for too long. She retrieved enough of herself and gingerly produced her wrist, showing it to him.

Adrian made no movement, but his gaze lingered on the sight of her pierced skin. “It is not as grave as you’d think. Water is over there,” he pointed to the buckets.

Ravenna wasted no time heading to grab a smaller container to fill. Something irked her, ever at the back of her mind. “How did you find me last night?” she asked with her back to him. “...how did you know?”

Adrian was retrieving a dark satchel from a cabinet. “Both I and the castle sensed a foreign presence.”

“The castle sensed?…” Ravenna faced him, her curiosity ignited.

“This is not just any castle, Ravenna,” Adrian lifted his gaze to hers. “It has my father’s magic rooted deep within. I had grown wary and went on a swift inspection of the grounds. I spotted the creature… as it was carrying you away,” he added in a darker tone.

“It was my fault—”

“Yes, it was,” Alucard chimed.

“—and I will ask before I act in the future. But you could have mentioned this was a problem,” Ravenna could not help but add, irritation rising at his statement.

“Forgive me, Ravenna,” his voice gained that scornful edge she loathed, “I am not quite so accustomed to housing maidens here, to remember all and anything that wants to either defile, eat or kill you.”

Her face went beet red, but the sudden pain in her wrist was distraction enough, and she had to make haste in its tending.

“Do you wish to eat today?” the question came.

“...” Ravenna blinked, now holding an ewer full of water. “Yes?...” she added with reluctance.

“Then you may want to join me later,” Adrian said. “I assume you do want to know how to forage and find your own food?”

Her belly tightened, feeling hollow. A muted, dizzying spell of hunger gave her the answer. “Of... course, yes...” Ravenna was already walking away. Why would the image of him standing on his knees before her not fade from her mind? His lips, against her skin—

That was not him you fool.

Ravenna shuddered. “What did you see?” she asked suddenly, turning around.

“Pardon?” Adrian leaned against the table.

“When you spotted the incubus, what did you see? I know nothing of how they operate,” she swiftly masked her true intent.

“I saw what you saw, a deathly horror,” came the words, and she could read nothing on his face.

Ravenna released a brief sigh of relief which he missed, and turned to the entrance with fast steps. For once, the vastness of the castle appealed to her.

“Then meet me before the gates at midday?” Alucard suggested in her wake, puzzled by her manner. Of course, an incubus attack left its mark on the victim well into the day from what he knew, as would any encounter with a demon of the void, for that matter. He heard a mumble which may have been a ‘Yes’ as Ravenna sped away.

Odd, Alucard concluded, if he were to compare this to the previous evening, when she surprised him with the impertinent overstepping of her bounds. But he was honest enough with himself to admit his reaction had been more for shock than anything else. The touch of another had become a forgotten concept, and he felt disinclined to change that.

So why even dwell on such drivel?

Why had he seen the image of himself about to devour her last night in the woods? Why hadn’t he told her? There was little sense to it, that was why. Perhaps my eyes deceived me. He had been on his fifth bottle of wine at the time, after all, which was known to cause some distortion of vision. Despite this, he’d rushed to reach his foe in time, keeping at a distance as to not be easily discovered and risk it killing her in wrath. It was only when he neared close enough that Alucard commanded his sword to slay the demonspawn. What he remembered was his own blood pumping up his throat, boiling with unease.

He shook his head, took a deep breath, and rolled his shoulders.

Drivel.

He would not even attempt to understand.

Her swift steps took her to the library dome. Ravenna found the corner with healing supplies and began disinfecting the wound, then applied a a hastily concocted regenerative paste. She wrapped her wrist over the best she could. The flutter of a bird distracted her, and she remarked how one pane of the towering arched window was broken, allowing the presence of such windborne visitors. With this, the previous night came to mind yet again, and the woman at once felt intensely uncomfortable. Her hand went to her middle, fingers digging in.

Why him? Of all she may have wanted or wished for, why did it have to be him? Granted, she had been too fearful of him at first to see or feel what she did now. Calm yourself, Ravenna, she reasoned. All it takes is keeping one’s proper distance. And he was quite amenable to such, if his behavior in the engine room bore any indication. Yes, she would carry on as before and forget about it all. It was unspeakable, not to mention it concerned one whose mind and heart were completely unknown and hidden to her.

When done, Ravenna pursued the direction of the gates. There was a slight hitch in her step when she beheld Adrian outside, waiting for her. He wore his usual attire, and his sword rested in a scabbard at his hip. A dark satchel hung on his shoulder. It was another rich summer day outside, and she thought its light lent his features an ethereal sort of beauty. He shone with the sun, but he rarely ever smiled. Ravenna found it a pity.

“What are we searching for?” the woman asked as they fell in step together.

“Eggs.”

“Eggs?” she asked with a breath of laughter. Was that what he said?

“Yes, Ravenna, eggs. Mallard eggs, to be more precise. The water places here abound in wild duck.”

“Do they now?” she looked ahead, feeling her step lighten with the surge of summer air around them. “The son of Dracula, embarking on the grand quest for duck eggs!” Ravenna chirped, then covered her mouth though it was too late, and her head shot to the side to look at him. His profile was strained. “Adrian, I’m—“

“Then you wish not to partake,” he said, a devilish innocence in his tone.

“I did not say that!” Ravenna rebutted his sudden wit, then caught herself. Most perilous, this road, as her master would say. “Speaking of feeding,” she tried another thought, “You said before that you had no compulsion to drink blood. May I ask how so? You are half vampire, after all.”

“Is this still a fear of yours?” Alucard asked, absently brushing a fallen leaf from his shoulder.

“More a curiosity of my occupation,” Ravenna offered. “Would consuming blood make you stronger than you are?”

“I told you before I dislike the taste,” Alucard sighed, frowning. “Blood would aid in swifter healing, I reckon. But I do not require it to keep my strength as a full-fledged vampire would.”

“I see.”

“Besides,” he continued as they walked amidst the leafy trees together, “Believe it or not, I was taught not to cause suffering where unnecessary. Does that satisfy your morbid curiosity, scholar?”

Ravenna lowered her eyes in half a smile. She’d begun to like his inflection when he called her that. Since when? “For the time being.” It was warmer than she expected, and removing her outer robe was a significant improvement as her skin became heated from the thick, summer scented air.

Alucard walked leisurely through the grass, allowing the song of the forest to overwhelm him. The sun was ever strong at its highest this early in the season, but they walked in the shade. There was chirping, mewling and growling, reaching him from afar. There was the sway of waters not far ahead, and the forest leaned its brilliance over it all in varying shades of green. And then there was the rushing and grazing of her robe against the tall thistle bushes, and the fresh scent of the blood he did not need; its flavor still eluded him.

After crossing a strip of woods, they reached a large, clear lake, its green banks decked with weeping willow trees. On the waters lingered wild duck with their brightly tinted coats of green, brown, and blue.

Adrian showed her how long to wait, where to go and how many eggs to take to keep things even. One needed not prey on everything, he said. By the end, the satchel was half-full with a hefty number of their quarry.

“We are thieves, you know,” Ravenna grumbled as she gingerly picked two eggs from one nest.

“We do what we can to survive,” he shrugged.

“Well, I suppose—Adrian?” Ravenna looked up.

He was completely still, and despite all she knew of him, faster than she could blink, his hands alighted on her shoulders.

And then she could hear them as well. There was cackling and the desperate sounds of animals being harmed. “Someone approaches. Best you head into the trees, I think. I’ll cover us,” he told her, ushering her away.

“But—” Ravenna whispered, “you don’t even know who they are, or their numbers—“

Adrian’s hand rested on his sword pommel. “There cannot be more than the ones that were pursuing you,” he said meaningfully, bothered by her hesitation. There was no time for such now, and he led her forward. “Wait here, do not reveal yourself and if things go rotten, run to the castle. There are weapons in the study, and potions in the laboratory beneath the library,” he supplied.

The noises made by the intruders grew louder, and he could discern their steps. Alucard smelled it, clearly now: the scent of poisoned blood. “Go,” he urged an uneasy Ravenna, whose hand was unconsciously clutching his arm. Alucard unclasped her fingers and drew away.

Her eyes saying more than her lacking words could, Ravenna turned on her heel, and swiftly ran to take shelter.

No sooner did he see her figure disappear amid the trees than Alucard caught sight of the approaching strangers. Three of them. He shifted into wolf form, commanding his sword to intervene at his cue just as they spotted him.

“By mother’s damned soul, Zsuzsa, another wolf!” the first, a man of considerable brawn with a scruffy beard, spoke when his eyes fell on the animal. He wore dark leathers, and a sword hung at his hip.

“That is no wolf, you idiot, get it!” the other stranger, a tall woman, hailed even as Alucard leapt out of their way beyond the foliage.

The wolf ran, leading them farther and farther away from the castle, the two men ever on his tracks. The pursuit lasted little before he finally decided they were far enough to order his weapon to strike, when something dashed by him. Soon enough he heard it again, a lightning-fast target none could strike.

Alucard evaded another projectile hissing past him, which came embedded into a tree trunk, but uneven terrain caught him unawares and he skidded to the left. He felt a sharp pain spearing through his back, and then everything shattered and changed, including himself. He shapeshifted back to his two-legged form even as he fell to his knees.

What on earth... he was convulsing. His limbs quaked and ached as he desperately tried to rise, to shift, to run, anything. But all he felt was burning pain shooting from his back, and a crushing, unseen wall caging his powers. He was furious and seething red, gritting his teeth as two shadows loomed above him.

The bearded man and the other stranger had approached, and were regarding their prey. One of them spit to the side.

“So Zsuzsa has yet the unbeatable sense for these critters, Arpad,” the stranger said, watching the other who bore the crossbow, which had struck Alucard.

“Suppose she does. We may get a good sum out of this one yet,” the one called Arpad grumbled, looking at a furious Alucard with narrowed eyes. “Well met, treasure trove,” he drawled, drawing an arrow from a quiver on his back and pointing towards its light grey tip. “Silver,” he grinned as he knelt beside their capture, “and I know few fell things in this world that are as weakened by silver as you seem to be.” He exposed rotten teeth in a mirthless rictus.

Alucard struggled though the pain was excruciating, black drowning the whites of his eyes completely, fangs and claws spearing sharper, deadlier. “What do you want?” he demanded.

The bearded one whistled in mock appraisal, turning to the woman who’d approached them in the meantime. “Well Zsuzsa, I say we got ourselves at least half a vampire, what you reckon? It may just be the one they said roams about these parts, killing people,” and he made a suggestive gesture with his fingers, as though feeling coin. “A better fare for us if it day-walks, methinks.”

The woman smiled, a cold, dour thing. Alucard noticed her eyes were deep and her jaw was grinding strangely. This one was in her prime years it seemed, dark of hair and brow, and her voice was grit and steel. “Take him to camp,” she ordered.

The last Alucard saw was the pommel of a dagger rushing to strike him in the face, before all turned black. When he regained his senses, he felt the deep harrowing burning anew, spiking under his right shoulder blade. He attempted movement, but was restrained on his side. They tied his hands behind his back, bound his legs together. He felt weak and his head was spinning, the pain flaring, as though thousands of needles were being endlessly plunged deeper and deeper into his self. As Alucard struggled, a pair of hard leather boots was planted before his eyes.

“He’s awake,” a male voice muttered.

Looking up, Alucard saw the man with the crossbow. He hissed when heavy hands were digging into his shoulder; he was unceremoniously dragged into a seated position, harshly flung against a tree trunk. He growled in agony as the arrow, still embedded into his back, went through completely.

“Oh, it wails, Zsuzsa,” the one named Arpad grinned.

“Once I am free...” Alucard said, though his words were slurred, his head bobbing forward.

A bout of laughter reached him. “I should like to see you try, blood sucker. Silver rope,” he pointed to the bonds holding the prisoner fast.

Alucard made one last attempt to free himself, coiling and striking forward so suddenly the hunter nearly fell on his behind.

He rose and struck Alucard across the face with his crossbow, leaving behind bloodied gashes which did not heal. Then he reached, taking Alucard by the hair. “There are many people, much more unpleasant than I, who would pay much for a pretty, rotten boy such as yourself—”

“Arpad, quit taunting it and get your carcass over here,” the hard voice of the woman reached his ears.

The other man had approached in the meantime, watching Alucard with interest. “Are there more of you?” he asked.

Alucard bared his teeth in a snarl.

“Bertalan,” the other bellowed a laugh, “You and your unbeatable negotiation skills,” he mocked. “Guard him,” he threw to his companion as he left to heed the woman’s call by the campfire.

“‘Tis you and I now, dark one,” Bertalan scorned ominously, clenching his gloved hand into a fist. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Alucard grunted as a well-placed strike caused his weakened vision to sway, and his head fell back against the tree trunk.

“When our buyers are done with you, you’ll be begging for that crossbow,” he offered. His jaw twitched, and Alucard heard the gnashing of teeth even from his lowered position.

Alucard tried to regain his sight. Enhanced bounty hunters, he concluded. That was the reason he sensed poison in their blood. The elixirs and decoctions they used were fatal to one untrained and unused to their destructive side effects.

Well, this is most unexpected, he thought, with a worrying amount of detached apathy. He cared little for his own life nowadays. Perhaps this was how it should be, for his death to come at the hands of his mother’s people, lowly and abhorrent though they were.

The Vault. The Castle.

What did it all matter in the end, anyway? He’d tried to put it to use, to teach others, to mold it into a new purpose. It all fell to ruin.

You are a cynic, Adrian of Wallachia.

Why those words of all came to mind, and why they had to be hers, he knew not.

Can you truly blame me, Ravenna? Alucard thought deliriously, hoping that by now she was far, far away.

Ravenna ran to the castle, thoughts whirling, stumbling, with her feet melting beneath her. Three of them. There are three of them. Despite his urging to the contrary, she had stood and watched, unable to turn and flee. And before her widening eyes Adrian had shifted into the form of a great wolf, his light amber eyes the only sign as to who it was.

Ravenna had then seen him flee and followed when the stern woman hunter set on the trails of her men, helplessly watching as Adrian was struck by a crossbow arrow. And then he fell, and she witnessed him changing back to his first form, unable to rise. The woman followed from afar when they dragged him away, seeing the direction they were heading into, and how they fastened him with silvered rope which burned through his skin. She had turned, and ran.

How would she do this? Weapons, Ravenna recalled his words. And potions, he said there were potions.

She rushed and searched the study, finding nothing she knew how to wield. Then another thought struck her. She crossed two stairs at a time, fleeing to her chamber and retrieved her dagger, following swiftly through the corridors to reach the library. Once there, Ravenna searched the place. There were a few items left to choose from, but one in particular caught her eye.

She took the flask containing a blue liquid and rushed back towards the gates. There was no time to waste, though she had no notion of how to do this, especially since Adrian had been completely subdued. The only way, Ravenna emboldened herself while feeling miserably inadequate at the same time. She realized in passing irony how she’d said the very same once before, when running blindly into his home.

The cover of darkness was a meager aid, but it would have to do. And she hoped, prayed, his captors would spend the night and were still in the area.

Ravenna rushed through the wood with a hooded cloak shielding her face, shivering, swift and careful as a shadow. She crossed through the pathless forest, her movements shrouded by a moonless night. The faraway howling of a wolf reached her; her skin prickled. He had done the same for her. This is the only way.

#alucard x oc #ruiniel:fanfiction #not rewritten has my 2020 style rip #prickly thorns tender roses

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chocomd · 2 years

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For the fanfic writer ask game: 2, 34, and 73!

2. Where do you get your fic ideas?

Good question...from everywhere and everything? My first two ATLA fics, Midnight Meditations and The Waterbender's Heart, were missing scene fics inspired by the amazing fanart by PottyosPanna and my burning need for more Book 3 Kataang content. The idea for Lullaby for the Departed came out of a conversation with @itsmoonpeaches. Scars was written in response to an incredibly bad fandom take that Katara should have had scars from the episode where Aang accidentally burned her. This was also the fic where I hc that Aang's scar is also a dead nerve area, so I wrote Numb as a result. I've had the idea for Drag You Down since my early fandom days, when I tried to imagine what could break up a relationship like Kataang. The first few chapters were especially hard for me to write as a Kataang softie, so I wrote several fluffy Book 3 missing scenes during that time to get me through.

34. How much of your personal life/experience do you include in your fics?

Quite a bit, actually! I always aim to write in a way that is realistic and compelling, so I draw heavily on my life experiences and the experiences of others - like romantic entanglements, miscarriage, and injury. More recently, I’ve been incorporating personal life experience that is more specific to who I am - mainly, the way war has shaped the lives of people directly affected by the conflict, or in less direct ways such as through displacement, the necessity of assimilation, cultural disconnect, and the effects of war that echo down through generations. War has defined my own family history, which is something I took for granted because that history has always been there, but exploring that history through writing has helped me connect to that part my heritage.

My Song-centric fic, To Owe an Ostrich Horse, is the best example of this - it is essentially a Chinese wartime story based on my own family and friends, their experiences, and my own exposure to Chinese wartime stories and movies. Drag You Down will also incorporate war-related themes, which I hope to weave into the narrative seamlessly so that it makes sense for Aang and Katara’s characters and the rest of the cast. I won’t get into it too much right now since I’ve only posted a few chapters so far, but I’d like to explore it with more depth than we saw in ATLA or the comics. Even with all that, the main focus of DYD will still be full of the break up/pining/angst etc that you love, so don’t worry about that part HAHAHA!

73. What do you tend to get complimented on the most about your writing?

The compliment I hear most is that my writing evokes strong emotions, and compliments like that evoke strong emotions in me 😭 The other one I hear a lot is “well-written”....which I’m not exactly sure how to take LOL. I guess it’s good that the person thinks I write well, but I don’t know if there’s anything else in there that they like 🤣 I don’t usually get attention for my writing style itself, probably because my style is kind of “invisible,” which is intentional. I focus on using just enough words (and no more words than necessary) and to use them in a way so that the reader experiences what the character is experiencing. This isn’t better or worse than other writing styles - it just happens to be my style.

Thanks for the ask (and putting up with my long answers)!

Fanfic writing asks

#ask game #fanfic writing asks #northerngoshawk #chocomd answers

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unpaintedbody · 3 months

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I saw your comment where you mentioned being pretentious when it comes to literature. Now I am dying for some recommendations from you. Favorite book? Author? Genre? Please and thank you.

omg i’m so excited to answer this!!

Right now, I’m on a Raymond Caver BINGE. He writes short stories and poems. My absolute favorites are What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Cathedral, and Vandals. I’m still reading more every day.

I just finished a lesbian novel published back in 1929 called The Well of Lonliness by Radclyffe Hall. This book tore me to absolute shreds. If you are queer, it is SO real. From growing up feeling “different,” to being exiled from one’s home, to losing friends, to creating your own chosen family. The writing is phenomenal, also.

Sylvia Plath is also one of my favorite authors. She only has one novel, The Bell Jar, which is an absolute masterpiece in my opinion. I read it once a year. She also has a few published poetry collections. Some of my favorite poems include: Death & Co., The Moon and the Yew Tree, The Munich Mannequins, and Three Voices: A Poem for Three Women. Her journal, as well as letters she’s written, were published after her death.

One of my favorite novels is called Letters In Love by Alain de Botton. It’s a philosophical book detailing the stages of romantic relationships. There are essentially 2 narrators: one describing the philosophy behind each stage, and the other narrating the chronological love story between two people.

Shifting genres here, but I HAVE to recommend Audre Lord. I read Sister Outsider last year and oh my god. Incredibly eye opening. At times it was difficult to digest. Not just the content, but the way she writes is in such a way that evokes the most powerful emotional response in her reader. Highly recommend to everyone.

While I don’t have a favorite genre, there are definitely correlations between the genres I choose to read and end up enjoying. Most of these end up either being classics, poetry, fiction, or non-fiction.

To keep this answer as short as possible, I won’t go into detail of all my favorite authors but I do want to mention them:

Toni Morrison, Zora Neale Hurston, William Faulkner, Mary Shelley Wollstonecraft, Jane Austen, Charlotte & Emily Brönte, Ada Limón, Mary Oliver, George Orwell and Thich Nhat Hahn to name a few.

I also have a side-blog dedicated to literature if you’d like to check it out!! @odetoplath

Thank you very much for this ask 🫶🏻

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lettersfromandie · 2 years

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Guns, Glory, Sad Endings: My Thoughts on "Mr. Sunshine"

So I just finished watching Mr. Sunshine and I cannot emphasize enough how overwhelmingly great and gripping it is. To say that I love it so much and it's my new favorite just isn't even enough. It is by far the best I have watched. I AM BLOWN AWAY. I don't think there's any so far that can measure up to how freakin' outstanding this drama is. It's a masterpiece!

For the interest of all (if you are), the story follows on the life of a boy from Joseon who was born into slavery. After a tragic event that happened between his parents and the noble family they served, he ends up in America to survive. Years later, he returns to Joseon to station as a United States Marine Corps officer, and meets a noblewoman in an unexpected encounter. As she tries to figure out if they are allies or foes, their growing relationship places an obstacle to their separate goals for Joseon.

Hearing a satisfactory review from my kdrama-addicted mother + reading that some people on the internet have this on their recommendations + it being one of the highest-rated kdramas in history, I can already tell that this drama is so worth the watch. Truth be told, it hugely exceeded my already high expectations! Grabe ang ganda talaga that I'm sure it will take some time for me to move on and find another drama with the same calibre as this.

Excellent storytelling and absolutely well-written. Watching it was so compelling that I wanted to click next episode immediately. But at the same time, I wanted to watch it slowly since I hate to finish it so soon 😢 I loved how I think it's not just plot-driven, but also character-driven. It shows not only the tremors of the rapidly changing Joseon, but also the struggles of the characters. With its v beautiful cinematography, it captures elements that make the story more evoking.

It never failed to stir so much emotions from me. As a feeling > thinking person, I easily do get emotional but the feels were more intense especially when a song is placed on a scene perfect for it. Its soundtrack is so well-crafted that it made the scenes more beautiful, more enthralling, more soul crushing... I've been listening to its OST on repeat for days now. And I enjoy playing the music videos because the song accompanied with the scenes from the drama pierces me more 💔

But of course, it wouldn't pierce my heart as much if it wasn't for the phenomenal acting. The casting in this one is so superb 💯. Lee Byung-hun, Kim Tae-Ri, Yoo Yeon-Seok, Byun Yo-Han, Kim Min-jung, and many other renowned actors in their supporting roles. They definitely did justice to their characters. I was so convinced and drawn to their acting that when I was watching videos and interviews of them, I was surprised yet fond of their real personality. Also checking their filmography and the various characters they have played throughout their career, I guess it's telling how versatile they are as artists.

If you're a history buff, loved Scarlet Heart, fans of those actors, or simply enjoys watching kdramas, this is a must watch!! I highly HIGHLY recommend Mr. Sunshine. If you've yet to watch it, here's what you can expect:

1. Guns

"Shaking hands implies that one isn't holding a weapon in them." "I like its meaning. When do we let go though?" "When you wish to wield a weapon." "At least for now, I don't wish to."

2. Glory

"Those were glorious days. Each of us was a flame, all of us bloomed, burnt & wilted vehemently. We wish to ignite the embers left by our comrades."

3. Sad Endings

"Sad endings always leave a lasting impression, a sorrowful conclusion."

But aside from those seemingly vehement words, there are also:

4. Romance (even bromance included)

"What is 'love'?" "Why are you asking?" "Because I want to do it. I heard it's better than earning a title." "I suppose it is, in a way."

5. Sarcasm and Humor

"Can you slice a flower petal exactly in half?" "I could cut you in half." "Horizontally or vertically?"

6. Beautifully written thought-provoking lines

"His choices were always quiet and heavy. They seemed selfish and sometimes cold. However, he was always walking in the right direction."

There's also this line that really lingered in my head:

"This country you're trying to protect. Who is it for? Is there a life for butchers? Is there a life for slaves?"

Somehow, that line is something that makes us think for whom are the things we do and the causes we fight for. That, I believe, is what Mr. Sunshine wanted to convey.

It's the kind of kdrama that makes me want to forget the details about it, just so that I can watch it again for the first time. It's so good that there's still so much I want to say. But I guess that's it, for now.

Love, Andie

#kdrama

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girlkisseranalysis · 6 months

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Analysis 1: “Tim McGraw” by Taylor Swift

The renowned songwriter Liz Rose, known for her Grammy-winning compositions, co-wrote this song. As Taylor was coming of age in the early 2000s, Tim McGraw’s music held a significant place in the cultural zeitgeist, influencing Swift’s musical journey and the emotional resonance of the song.

I started and made it a few lines before I realized I’d gotten caught up in the lore. Skip to “Starting Over.”

Verse 1

He said the way my blue eyes shined

Put those Georgia stars to shame that night

I said, ‘That’s a lie’

Analysis

From the jump, she’s painting a romantic scene. Her partner compliments her FAMOUSLY BEAUTIFUL eyes. She espouses humbleness, shrugging off the compliment. She also wants the listener to know she’s in the South(ern US). (This was part of her persona back then, all the way to faking a southern accent. Taylor is from Pennsylvania.) Shrugging off the compliment that her eyes could ever be more beautiful than Georgia stars seems patriotic. This rejection of a compliment also plays into feminine gender roles, the expectation that women should not know and speak their own strengths. Both of these would have appealed to her target audience at the time in the country music world.

Verse 2

Just a boy in a Chevy truck

That had a tendency of gettin’ stuck

On backroads at night

Analysis

We learn that her partner (a “boy”) is old enough to drive (a “Chevy truck”), which gives us a better idea (hopefully) of how old Miss Swift is at the time of songwriting. She coyly alludes to some PG-13 activities happening in said truck. Along the same vein as being a meek and humble woman who loves her country, she mentions a truck to evoke a sense of small town rural life. (This is not in line with Taylor’s story; The Swifts were financially comfortable before Taylor became famous.) Is she playing a character? Was this part of the song written by Liz Rose, possibly for a young woman versus a girl.

The facts of the song aren’t fitting Taylor’s life so far, and we’re only two verses in.

BUT my intention is to steer away from lore. Ahhh.

Okay. This is harder than I thought. To just suspend disbelief and not call her on her bullshit.

But let’s do it.

STARTING OVER

Verse 1

He said the way my blue eyes shined

Put those Georgia stars to shame that night

I said, ‘That’s a lie’

Analysis

Literal: It starts with a sweet compliment. The main character shrugs off the compliment.

Rhyme: Lots of internal rhyming with a hard “i” (as in “iron”).

Imagery: We are given imagery: her famously beautiful blue eyes; a night sky aglow with stars; and perhaps some young lovers enjoying each others’ company beneath the expanse.

Emotional Implication: In witnessing the rejected compliment, the reader is left to wonder why she would reject it. Does she have low self-esteem? Is she feigning humbleness because that is “ladylike”? Some other reason? And why does the muse compliment her in the first place? Are intentions pure? Who is this counterpart?

Tone: As mentioned above, it’s a little jarring. All of this happens in three small lines. What’s going on for her? What’s going on in her counterpart?

Cultural significance: WITHOUT GETTING INTO LORE, I will say that the mention of Georgia stars feels patriotic. It evokes a sense of rural American pride that is common in country music. Aligning one’s music with the values of a specific audience, particularly within the context of country music’s cultural landscape, is not without ethical considerations.

Narrative direction: We don’t have much to go on yet. I intuitively (and based on the fact that I’ve heard this song one million times) sense that something is amiss in their relationship based on her rejecting the compliment.

Verse 2

Just a boy in a Chevy truck

That had a tendency of gettin' stuck

On backroads at night

analysis

Literal: Like any good country song, we’ve got a truck. We’ve got unpaved roads. This is not literal per se, but my interpretation of what she’s literally saying, which is that the truck isn’t actually getting stuck; they’re just telling their parents that so that they can spend more time together.

Rhyme: Loose rhyme scheme here, it relies on the short u (as in “cup”) on internal rhyming (truck / stuck). Not a rhyme but we start to get the g-dropping. Common in Southern American English, we see it here as “gettin’” instead of “getting.” (This is interesting since Miss Swift is not from the South, but from Pennsylvania. She did spend time in Nashville, but in any case, the southern accent was faked. However, it is a common part of country music to have a “country accent.”)

Imagery: Not much to work with here. I see the truck. I see what it would look like if the truck were actually stuck on a backroad at night. (Were they still on said backroad, just not stuck? Or were they somewhere else entirely?) It’s indirect, but I’m also picturing them lying to their respective parents on why they got home so late. Particularly because I know what Taylor’s parents look like.

Emotional Implication: They’re being teenagers. Perhaps the reader feels wistful at their own young experiences of love. Perhaps they feel anxious at the idea of two horny kids left unsupervised. For myself, its definitely the former, having grown up in the south and been courted by many a boy in a truck. (I wouldn’t call them fond memories, but no one died or got pregnant. 🤷‍♀️) They want to be together so bad they’ll lie about it. Who doesn’t remember that kind of agonizing love? The kind where it feels like you’ll die if you’re separated.

Nobody? Just me? Okay, yeah, cool cool cool.

Tone: With the music, it’s kind of bittersweet. She’s talking about some of the best stuff of teenagerdom - spending alone time with your sweetie - but the song is very twangy. Altogether there’s still a sadness.

Cultural significance: Like I mentioned in the section about rhyme, intentionally pandering to a particular group has ethical consequences. By adopting the culture of middle America by way of music, is she implicitly co-signing other aspects of this culture? For example, rural and southern areas tend to be more homophobic and xenophobic in general. By making music for these groups, is she (unintentionally or otherwise) co-signing their hatred?

Narrative direction: Based on all of the above I think we are heading for heartbreak. She’s talking about all of the sweetest parts but it all sounds musically quite sad. Something’s amiss.

Bridge 1

And I was right there beside him all summer long

And then the time we woke up to find that summer gone

Analysis

Literal: She’s describing this in past tense. They were attached at the hip all summer, but eventually the summer ended.

Rhyme: The Southern American accent does something known as diphthongization, where certain vowels in the middle of words are elongated, exaggerated, and over-enunciated. It’s no surprise, then, that this song is relying on middle rhymes so far. “Right”, “beside”, “time”, “find”; “long”, “gone”.

Imagery: Implied imagery more so than directly painted. Imagining two kids in love, glued together at the hip, going everywhere together, doing everything together. Brains swimming with oxytocin for maybe the first time of their lives. Cartoon heart googly eyes popping out at each other. The works. And then - a cold autumn. Despair. It’s over.

Emotional Implication: I’m assuming that the summer being over means that the relationship is over. I know there were hints that something was amiss, but I wasn’t expecting it to be like this! She dropped it like a ton of bricks. Oh, that love you’ve been consumed with mind body spirit? It’s already over, and you didn’t even realize it until it was gone!

Tone: The disconnect I’ve been picking up on between the words and the music is starting to make sense. It’s over. She’s telling this story in the past tense. The hints were there and I’m kicking myself for not being guarded against this emotional drop, this disappointment. She verges on sounding uncaring. “I loved him, and then it was over. Oh well.”

Cultural significance: Heartbreak is a common shared experience. The fact that love can be fragile or it can be the stuff of fantasies, made real by hard work and therapy, is an agonizing frailty. As social beings who evolved for belonging, love is not a want; it’s a need. That something we depend on so intensely can be so cruelly fallible is excruciating.

Narrative Direction: We’ve stopped moving. We were together, together, together. That was our plot. Now the summer is over. Time is of course literally continuing, but we have no frame of reference for what happens next. She’s in a nostalgic mood, reflecting on this all in what I can now see is the past tense. What happens now that the summer is gone?

Chorus

But when you think Tim McGraw

I hope you think my favorite song

The one we danced to all night long

The moon like a spotlight on the lake

When you think happiness

I hope you think that little black dress

Think of my head on your chest

And my old faded blue jeans

When you think Tim McGraw

I hope you think of me

Analysis

Literal: In the lines, “when you think Tim McGraw,” or, “when you think happiness,” the verbiage is colloquial. The first quote is saying, “When this artist crosses your mind (e.g., because you hear them on the radio).” Similarly, “when you think happiness,” probably means something more literally like, “When you think about what makes you happy.” She goes on to allude to one unnamed Tim McGraw song to which she has attached fond memories with the muse, dancing late into the night next to the lake. She says this is her favorite song. She wants the muse to imagine her little black dress and blue jeans (at the same time? 🤨) when the muse thinks of happiness or Tim McGraw. Ultimately, she wants to muse to remember their time together fondly.

Rhyme: Again with the middle rhyming, occasionally dependent on her… ahem… curated southern accent. McGraw / song / long; night / spotlight; happiness / dress / chest; jeans / me.

Imagery: Unintentionally this chorus always leaves me with an image of her wearing the black dress with the blue jeans. Generally though, she gives us a young couple holding each other close and slow dancing in the moonlight by a lake. It’s quaint.

Emotional Implication: She paints the picture of a young woman longing for her love to have mattered. For it to have been so special that her muse thinks about it for years to come, so much so that the muse associates her with mundane things like blue jeans.

Tone: There’s a tone of longing, perhaps to return to the memories she’s describing or perhaps to create new ones with this muse. There’s a sense of uncertainty (“I hope”) to suggest that she doesn’t know how much she really means to this person, whether their feelings match her own.

Cultural Significance: Tim McGraw was a huge deal for the target demographic of this album. He is considered one of the best country musicians of all time. Including his name in a song on a country album was yet another way for Taylor to nod to the Country music culture and say, “I’m one of you.”

And what warm-blooded human person doesn’t want their love to matter? She speaks to a universal bargain that lovers make: if we have to part, I find comfort in knowing I will live on in you. Tim McGraw alludes to this quite directly in his song, Please Remember Me.

Narrative Direction: We are given confirmation that there is a separation from the muse. Whether it has already happened or it is impending is unknown. The nature of it is also unknown - is it permanent or temporary?

September saw a month of tears

And thanking God that you weren't here

To see me like that

But in a box beneath my bed

Is a letter that you never read

From three summers back

It's hard not to find it all a little bittersweet

And lookin' back on all of that, it's nice to believe…

Literal: September came which caused a lot of grief. The muse wasn’t around to see it. She was glad not to be seen by the muse in such a state. The writer puts us in the present and contextualizes the previous events as happening 3 years ago, when she wrote a letter that sits under her bed in a box to this day. When she looks back on her time with the muse she feels bittersweet feelings.

Rhyme: Straightforward rhymes if unconventional rhyme scheme. Tears / here. That / back. Bed / read. Three / bittersweet / believe (middle rhymes).

Imagery: When you’re so inconsolable that your eyes and nose leak in unison. When you do manage to stop crying, they’re swollen and puffy. Your nose is red from wiping it so much. Ugly crying Elle Woods throwing the chocolates at the TV and screaming “Liar!” This is the energy I get from this verse. I can also see the dusty little box under her bed. Almost forgotten, and then you see it in the corner of your eye at your full length mirror, and the rest of your week is off because of it. And her only comfort: “I’ll bet you think about me.”

Emotional Implication: I have so many questions but I’ll save those for below. Regardless of the context, this girl is heartbroken. Maybe for the first time in her life. She is dealing with loss and it’s crushing her. A nearly universal experience and certainly amongst teenagers when everything seems to be felt louder and longer while simultaneously being minimized and trivialized. But she finds comfort in their memories and in hoping the muse does too (as per the coming chorus).

Tone: embarrassed by her own display of vulnerability, even though the muse wasn’t around to see it; bittersweet as she reflects on the love and the loss

Cultural Significance: She is reaching teenagers where they live on this one, feeling big, big things, sometimes with only a piece of paper to tell it to.

Narrative Direction: We’re not going anywhere really. We’re just feeling our feelings. But I have so many context questions. What is happening here? Did he go off to college? If so, are they doing long distance? Or is he an ex? Is it just a coincidence that it was September? Where did this muse go? These are all my curiosities.

And I'm back for the first time since then

I'm standing on your street

And there's a letter left on your doorstep

And the first thing that you'll read

Literal: She’s back in their hometown, and she delivers the letter to his front porch.

Rhyme: then / step; street / read

Imagery: I first heard this song before I could drive, so I imagined her doing this on foot. ☠️ But really, how does she quietly get it on the doorstep without anyone noticing her? In the dead of night? Creep…. 😏 How does she know one of the parents won’t pick it up? Or does she know where the muse lives (still in their hometown? Then why did they leave?)? DID THE MUSE ALWAYS HAVE THEIR OWN PLACE? WAS SHE DATING A GROWN ASS HOMEOWNER ‼️

Emotional Implication: She is looking to get something out of sharing her true feelings from three years ago with this muse. I am calling To Catch a Predator.

Tone: With the change in music here, the tone becomes more… powerful? Which seems corny because of what she’s doing: placing an envelope on a porch.

Cultural significance: NA - I’m over it.

Narrative Direction: WHO THE FUCK IS THIS MUSE (not like what real life person) but like what is the relationship.

OVERALL

She was really trying to sell it to the country music scene. Truck. Chevy. Georgia. Allusions to rural America. Faded blue jeans. Fuckin’ Tim McGraw. And the goofy ass country accent.

I am not wowed by anything in this song.

Favorite part(s): I loved the natural (read: nature) atmosphere she created a few times (e.g., “the moon like a spotlight on the lake”, “those Georgia stars”, etc.). They weren’t detailed, but as someone who grew up in the south, I can vividly picture each of them and it made the little vignettes sweeter and more romantic.

Least favorite: Honestly all of it. This song was a slog.

#lyric analysis #taylor swift #debut album #Tim McGraw #friend of dorothea #lgtbetty #analysis 1

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carleylyonwrites · 9 months

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Elektra by Jennifer Saint

Jennifer Saint follows in Sophocles' footsteps by painting the titular character as merely vengeful, but crafts beautiful and emotional narratives around her secondary characters.

⭐⭐⭐/5

Elektra is a simply written yet well-written novel that offers readers intriguing insight into three iconic female figures in Greek mythology: Elektra, Clytemnestra, and Cassandra. It is an especially satisfying read for those looking to dive deeper into the stories of the female characters on the periphery in Madeline Miller's Song of Achilles.

Where Elektra suffers, unfortunately, is in its depiction of the titular character. While the explorations of Cassandra and Clytemnestra are dramatic, nuanced, and frustrating in all the ways a reader craves to be frustrated while reading a good drama, the exploration of Elektra is frustrating in its one-dimensionality. This is not necessarily the fault of Jennifer Saint, however. Anyone who's read Sophocles' Elektra knows that Elektra kinda... sucks. She only wants one thing: revenge. A revenge-obsessed protagonist is not inherently lacking, but they need sufficient justification for their vengeful spirit and other complex personality traits to make readers care about their fate. Unfortunately, Elektra lacks both.

Elektra’s desire for revenge stems from the fact that she loves her father, Agamemnon, more than anything in the world, and she hates the people who took him from her. However, Saint never shows her readers why Elektra loves him so much. The two lack a compelling relationship in this book. Furthermore, her desire to avenge her father is her only personality trait. If Saint had found a creative way to better develop Elektra and Agamemnon’s relationship and make Elektra more complex, she could have broken Sophocles’ curse and enabled readers to empathize with this character.

The creative freedom to enhance famous myths is what makes these retellings fun to read, and Saint does not capitalize on the opportunity she has to flesh out this character. In contrast, the reason I ached for Achilles so much in Madeline Miller's Song of Achilles is because of how many other aspects of his personality were spotlighted, beyond his pride: his sense of humor, adventure, ability to love, compassion, etc. Seeing these things in broad daylight makes readers all the more furious at him for becoming so blinded by his pride. I do not ache for Elektra because she is only shown to be a hateful, vengeful person.

Conversely, Saint succeeds in giving dimension and color to Clytemnestra and Cassandra. Readers see Clytemnestra transformed into a cold-hearted tyrant in the wake of a truly devastating event, and seeing that transformation play out in-narrative is gripping. Likewise, Cassandra is burdened with a horrific curse of being able to prophesy, but always written off as insane by those with whom she shares her visions. With both of these characters, Saint evokes emotional investment from readers that is on par with Madeline Miller’s works. If you are a lover of mythology, Elektra is worth the read for the great storytelling around Cassandra and Clytemnestra. Just be prepared to think, "Ugh, girl, shut up," every time Elektra opens her mouth.

#elektra #jennifer saint

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boundbybrackets · 10 months

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The Travel of Trainsong as told by Desiree

Since moving here, I don’t remember a day as dark and gray–a fusion of late June thunderstorms and smoke from the Canadian wildfires. I cherished it. The situation and storm was comparable to the summer spectacle of the hot and humid air and build-up of billowing rain clouds Florida knows so well during this time of year.

Distant rumbles of thunder carried on outside the office window as I shared a conversation with a coworker. Somewhere in the middle of the exchange, my ear caught the sound of a distant train horn. It’s a sound that’s come to turn me tender.

I used to hear that horn through a screen on a nearly nightly basis (around 10 p.m. to be exact) when Garrett and I shared phone conversations in our respective states of Indiana and Florida.

Naturally, I commented to my colleague about the delight the sound brings me. She responded with recognition of how I respond to the simple things.

As an individual who writes, and has written for as long as I can remember, it’s natural to hone in on modest wonders. I began to elevate my practice of this with intention in my real life, and not just writing life, as a means to elevate the mundane during spring of 2020, when the world was retreating into its own bubble and my days were spent alone in my beloved 1 bedroom apartment.

I fell into the simple joys of habits emerging in the form of daily walks, moments of meditation and music, home-cooked meals, and time spent with books, art making, and in stillness. These subtle moments were a reminder that when we reflect on the seemingly simple things, we shift our perspective and open ourselves up to the richness of the present moment—moments of intimacy, gratitude, vulnerability, and tenderness.

And so, like a diary, I took to Twitter to document and savor each experience and interaction that would otherwise go unnoticed. (You may begin to connect the dots here).

For me, life is all about connection. It is through connection we discover a deeper understanding of our existence, purpose, and the entanglement of all things—consequently creating the foundation in which everything else is built upon.

In the years following 2020, my world was marked by transformative decisions, changes, and challenges: I closed the chapter on several relationships. Along the way, I left behind a career that I loved and took a leap of faith and started my own business, facing exhilarating highs and humbling setbacks. I bore witness to the desolation inflicted upon the community I had called home for the past decade by a devastating hurricane. Somewhere in all this, I was guided to a love story that seemed beyond coincidence and unexpectedly unfolded in the virtual realm. This serendipitous encounter challenged my preconceived notions of how relationships are formed and proved that genuine connections can arise in the most accidental ways.

My move to Indiana presented its own set of obstacles. Not only did I find myself without personal transportation, as my car had been washed away in the aforementioned hurricane, but I also faced a period of confinement indoors during the initial winter months. On top of that, navigating the intricacies of blending Garrett and I’s lives and attempting to build a solid foundation for our shared future.

Through these breakthroughs, I rediscovered how the quality of life is determined by how much we embrace the process of uncertainty and change, as well as connection, for these play a significant role in personal growth, resilience, love, and how we respond to our own encounters with adversity. Paired with relishing in the seemingly small joys, I found an elixir for gratitude. And from gratitude comes worth and abundance in all its forms.

Living in a bus as a temporary home evokes a range of emotions and perspectives. It is impossible to ignore the evident challenges of limited living space, restricted amenities, and the need to embrace yet another lifestyle adjustment. As if moving a thousand miles from the state I always knew as home and embarking on a relationship with a man I met online, along with his two sons every other weekend, wasn't already an audacious adventure in itself.

Am I uncertain about adapting and existing in just under 250 square feet? Absolutely. A symphony of trepidation and thrill intertwines within my soul, harmonizing in perfect dissonance.

But I’m also ready and determined to discover beauty, meaning, and connection in what this unconventional living opportunity will bring.

I’ve already begun to savor a few thoughts: the sunrise peeking through a bus window, frequently collecting wildflowers for vases as we’ll be parked up against some woodland thicket, the warmth of a shared meal cooked on a humble stove, the dollars saved for stability and travel, the minimal housework as a result of space constraints, reading and writing more—staring at screens less.

This journey, with all its challenges and surprises, will become a tapestry of memories woven with connection–bound by threads of vulnerability and resilience.

Above all, I am grateful for the companionship and love of Garrett, who makes this adventure even more special.

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bao3bei4 · 3 years

Text

fan language: the victorian imaginary and cnovel fandom

there’s this pinterest image i’ve seen circulating a lot in the past year i’ve been on fandom social media. it’s a drawn infographic of a, i guess, asian-looking woman holding a fan in different places relative to her face to show what the graphic helpfully calls “the language of the fan.”

people like sharing it. they like thinking about what nefarious ancient chinese hanky code shenanigans their favorite fan-toting character might get up to⁠—accidentally or on purpose. and what’s the problem with that?

the problem is that fan language isn’t chinese. it’s victorian. and even then, it’s not really quite victorian at all.

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fans served a primarily utilitarian purpose throughout chinese history. of course, most of the surviving fans we see⁠—and the types of fans we tend to care about⁠—are closer to art pieces. but realistically speaking, the majority of fans were made of cheaper material for more mundane purposes. in china, just like all around the world, people fanned themselves. it got hot!

so here’s a big tipoff. it would be very difficult to use a fan if you had an elaborate language centered around fanning yourself.

you might argue that fine, everyday working people didn’t have a fan language. but wealthy people might have had one. the problem we encounter here is that fans weren’t really gendered. (caveat here that certain types of fans were more popular with women. however, those tended to be the round silk fans, ones that bear no resemblance to the folding fans in the graphic). no disrespect to the gnc old man fuckers in the crowd, but this language isn’t quite masc enough for a tool that someone’s dad might regularly use.

folding fans, we know, reached europe in the 17th century and gained immense popularity in the 18th. it was there that fans began to take on a gendered quality. ariel beaujot describes in their 2012 victorian fashion accessories how middle class women, in the midst of a top shortage, found themselves clutching fans in hopes of securing a husband.

she quotes an article from the illustrated london news, suggesting “women ‘not only’ used fans to ‘move the air and cool themselves but also to express their sentiments.’” general wisdom was that the movement of the fan was sufficiently expressive that it augmented a woman’s displays of emotion. and of course, the more english audiences became aware that it might do so, the more they might use their fans purposefully in that way.

notice, however, that this is no more codified than body language in general is. it turns out that “the language of the fan” was actually created by fan manufacturers at the turn of the 20th century⁠—hundreds of years after their arrival⁠ in europe—to sell more fans. i’m not even kidding right now. the story goes that it was louis duvelleroy of the maison duvelleroy who decided to include pamphlets on the language with each fan sold.

interestingly enough, beaujot suggests that it didn’t really matter what each particular fan sign meant. gentlemen could tell when they were being flirted with. as it happens, meaningful eye contact and a light flutter near the face may be a lingua franca.

so it seems then, the language of the fan is merely part of this victorian imaginary we collectively have today, which in turn itself was itself captivated by china.

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victorian references come up perhaps unexpectedly often in cnovel fandom, most often with regards to modesty.

it’s a bit of an awkward reference considering that chinese traditional fashion⁠—and the ambiguous time periods in which these novels are set⁠—far predate victorian england. it is even more awkward considering that victoria and her covered ankles did um. imperialize china.

but nonetheless, it is common. and to make a point about how ubiquitous it is, here is a link to the twitter search for “sqq victorian.” sqq is the fandom abbreviation for shen qingqiu, the main character of the scum villain’s self-saving system, by the way.

this is an awful lot of results for a search involving a chinese man who spends the entire novel in either real modern-day china or fantasy ancient china. that’s all i’m going to say on the matter, without referencing any specific tweet.

i think people are aware of the anachronism. and i think they don’t mind. even the most cursory research reveals that fan language is european and a revisionist fantasy. wikipedia can tell us this⁠—i checked!

but it doesn’t matter to me whether people are trying to make an internally consistent canon compliant claim, or whether they’re just free associating between fan facts they know. it is, instead, more interesting to me that people consistently refer to this particular bit of history. and that’s what i want to talk about today⁠—the relationship of fandom today to this two hundred odd year span of time in england (roughly stuart to victorian times) and england in that time period to its contemporaneous china.

things will slip a little here. victorian has expanded in timeframe, if only because random guys posting online do not care overly much for respect for the intricacies of british history. china has expanded in geographic location, if only because the english of the time themselves conflated china with all of asia.

in addition, note that i am critiquing a certain perspective on the topic. this is why i write about fan as white here⁠—not because all fans are white⁠—but because the tendencies i’m examining have a clear historical antecedent in whiteness that shapes how white fans encounter these novels.

i’m sure some fans of color participate in these practices. however i don’t really care about that. they are not its main perpetrators nor its main beneficiaries. so personally i am minding my own business on that front.

it’s instead important to me to illuminate the linkage between white as subject and chinese as object in history and in the present that i do argue that fannish products today are built upon.

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it’s not radical, or even new at all, for white audiences to consume⁠—or create their own versions of⁠—chinese art en masse. in many ways the white creators who appear to owe their whole style and aesthetic to their asian peers in turn are just the new chinoiserie.

this is not to say that white people can’t create asian-inspired art. but rather, i am asking you to sit with the discomfort that you may not like the artistic company you keep in the broader view of history, and to consider together what is to be done about that.

now, when i say the new chinoiserie, i first want to establish what the original one is. chinoiserie was a european artistic movement that appeared coincident with the rise in popularity of folding fans that i described above. this is not by coincidence; the european demand for asian imports and the eventual production of lookalikes is the movement itself. so: when we talk about fans, when we talk about china (porcelain), when we talk about tea in england⁠—we are talking about the legacy of chinoiserie.

there are a couple things i want to note here. while english people as a whole had a very tenuous knowledge of what china might be, their appetites for chinoiserie were roughly coincident with national relations with china. as the relationship between england and china moved from trade to out-and-out wars, chinoiserie declined in popularity until china had been safely subjugated once more by the end of the 19th century.

the second thing i want to note on the subject that contrary to what one might think at first, the appeal of chinoiserie was not that it was foreign. eugenia zuroski’s 2013 taste for china examines 18th century english literature and its descriptions of the according material culture with the lens that chinese imports might be formative to english identity, rather than antithetical to it.

beyond that bare thesis, i think it’s also worthwhile to extend her insight that material objects become animated by the literary viewpoints on them. this is true, both in a limited general sense as well as in the sense that english thinkers of the time self-consciously articulated this viewpoint. consider the quote from the illustrated london news above⁠—your fan, that object, says something about you. and not only that, but the objects you surround yourself with ought to.

it’s a bit circular, the idea that written material says that you should allow written material to shape your understanding of physical objects. but it’s both 1) what happened, and 2) integral, i think, to integrating a fannish perspective into the topic.

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japanning is the name for the popular imitative lacquering that english craftspeople developed in domestic response to the demand for lacquerware imports. in the eighteenth century, japanning became an artform especially suited for young women. manuals were published on the subject, urging young women to learn how to paint furniture and other surfaces, encouraging them to rework the designs provided in the text.

it was considered a beneficial activity for them; zuroski describes how it was “associated with commerce and connoisseurship, practical skill and aesthetic judgment.” a skillful japanner, rather than simply obscuring what lay underneath the lacquer, displayed their superior judgment in how they chose to arrange these new canonical figures and effects in a tasteful way to bring out the best qualities of them.

zuroski quotes the first english-language manual on the subject, written in 1688, which explains how japanning allows one to:

alter and correct, take out a piece from one, add a fragment to the next, and make an entire garment compleat in all its parts, though tis wrought out of never so many disagreeing patterns.

this language evokes a very different, very modern practice. it is this english reworking of an asian artform that i think the parallels are most obvious.

white people, through their artistic investment in chinese material objects and aesthetics, integrated them into their own subjectivity. these practices came to say something about the people who participated in them, in a way that had little to do with the country itself. their relationship changed from being a “consumer” of chinese objects to becoming the proprietor of these new aesthetic signifiers.

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i want to talk about this through a few pairs of tensions on the subject that i think characterize common attitudes then and now.

first, consider the relationship between the self and the other: the chinese object as something that is very familiar to you, speaking to something about your own self vs. the chinese object as something that is fundamentally different from you and unknowable to you.

consider: [insert character name] is just like me. he would no doubt like the same things i like, consume the same cultural products. we are the same in some meaningful way vs. the fast standard fic disclaimer that “i tried my best when writing this fic, but i’m a english-speaking westerner, and i’m just writing this for fun so...... [excuses and alterations the person has chosen to make in this light],” going hand-in-hand with a preoccupation with authenticity or even overreliance on the unpaid labor of chinese friends and acquaintances.

consider: hugh honour when he quotes a man from the 1640s claiming “chinoiserie of this even more hybrid kind had become so far removed from genuine Chinese tradition that it was exported from India to China as a novelty to the Chinese themselves”

these tensions coexist, and look how they have been resolved.

second, consider what we vest in objects themselves: beaujot explains how the fan became a sexualized, coquettish object in the hands of a british woman, but was used to great effect in gilbert and sullivan’s 1885 mikado to demonstrate the docility of asian women.

consider: these characters became expressions of your sexual desires and fetishes, even as their 5’10 actors themselves are emasculated.

what is liberating for one necessitates the subjugation and fetishization of the other.

third, consider reactions to the practice: enjoyment of chinese objects as a sign of your cosmopolitan palate vs “so what’s the hype about those ancient chinese gays” pop culture explainers that addressed the unconvinced mainstream.

consider: zuroski describes how both english consumers purchased china in droves, and contemporary publications reported on them. how:

It was in the pages of these papers that the growing popularity of Chinese things in the early eighteenth century acquired the reputation of a “craze”; they portrayed china fanatics as flawed, fragile, and unreliable characters, and frequently cast chinoiserie itself in the same light.

referenda on fannish behavior serve as referenda on the objects of their devotion, and vice versa. as the difference between identity and fetish collapses, they come to be treated as one and the same by not just participants but their observers.

at what point does mxtx fic cease to be chinese?

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finally, it seems readily apparent that attitudes towards chinese objects may in fact have something to do with attitudes about china as a country. i do not want to suggest that these literary concerns are primarily motivated and begot by forces entirely divorced from the real mechanics of power.

here, i want to bring in edward said, and his 1993 culture and imperialism. there, he explains how power and legitimacy go hand in hand. one is direct, and one is purely cultural. he originally wrote this in response to the outsize impact that british novelists have had in the maintenance of empire and throughout decolonization. literature, he argues, gives rise to powerful narratives that constrain our ability to think outside of them.

there’s a little bit of an inversion at play here. these are chinese novels, actually. but they’re being transformed by white narratives and artists. and just as i think the form of the novel is important to said’s critique, i think there’s something to be said about the form that fic takes and how it legitimates itself.

bound up in fandom is the idea that you have a right to create and transform as you please. it is a nice idea, but it is one that is directed towards a certain kind of asymmetry. that is, one where the author has all the power. this is the narrative we hear a lot in the history of fandom⁠—litigious authors and plucky fans, fanspaces always under attack from corporate sanitization.

meanwhile, said builds upon raymond schwab’s narrative of cultural exchange between european writers and cultural products outside the imperial core. said explains that fundamental to these two great borrowings (from greek classics and, in the so-called “oriental renaissance” of the late 18th, early 19th centuries from “india, china, japan, persia, and islam”) is asymmetry.

he had argued prior, in orientalism, that any “cultural exchange” between “partners conscious of inequality” always results in the suffering of the people. and here, he describes how “texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appropriated” without the presence of any actual living people in that tradition.

i will not understate that there is a certain economic dynamic complicating this particular fannish asymmetry. mxtx has profited materially from the success of her works, most fans will not. also secondly, mxtx is um. not dead. LMAO.

but first, the international dynamic of extraction that said described is still present. i do not want to get overly into white attitudes towards china in this post, because i am already thoroughly derailed, but i do believe that they structure how white cnovel fandom encounters this texts.

at any rate, any profit she receives is overwhelmingly due to her domestic popularity, not her international popularity. (i say this because many of her international fans have never given her a cent. in fact, most of them have no real way to.) and moreover, as we talk about the structure of english-language fandom, what does it mean to create chinese cultural products without chinese people?

as white people take ownership over their versions of stories, do we lose something? what narratives about engagement with cnovels might exist outside of the form of classic fandom?

i think a lot of people get the relationship between ideas (the superstructure) and production (the base) confused. oftentimes they will lob in response to criticism, that look! this fic, this fandom, these people are so niche, and so underrepresented in mainstream culture, that their effects are marginal. i am not arguing that anyone’s cql fic causes imperialism. (unless you’re really annoying. then it’s anyone’s game)

i’m instead arguing something a little bit different. i think, given similar inputs, you tend to get similar outputs. i think we live in the world that imperialism built, and we have clear historical predecessors in terms of white appetites for creating, consuming, and transforming chinese objects.

we have already seen, in the case of the fan language meme that began this post, that sometimes we even prefer this white chinoiserie. after all, isn’t it beautiful, too?

i want to bring discomfort to this topic. i want to reject the paradigm of white subject and chinese object; in fact, here in this essay, i have tried to reverse it.

if you are taken aback by the comparisons i make here, how can you make meaningful changes to your fannish practice to address it?

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some concluding thoughts on the matter, because i don’t like being misunderstood!

i am not claiming white fans cannot create fanworks of cnovels or be inspired by asian art or artists. this essay is meant to elaborate on the historical connection between victorian england and cnovel characters and fandom that others have already popularized.

i don’t think people who make victorian jokes are inherently bad or racist. i am encouraging people to think about why we might make them and/or share them

the connections here are meant to be more provocative than strictly literal. (e.g. i don’t literally think writing fanfic is a 1-1 descendant of japanning). these connections are instead meant to 1) make visible the baggage that fans of color often approach fandom with and 2) recontextualize and defamiliarize fannish practice for the purposes of honest critique

please don’t turn this post into being about other different kinds of discourse, or into something that only one “kind” of fan does. please take my words at face value and consider them in good faith. i would really appreciate that.

please feel free to ask me to clarify any statements or supply more in-depth sources :)

#x #-__- another fandom essay sorry

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twopoppies · 3 years

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Hi! I hope it’s not too annoying of a request but I was wondering if you or your followers can think of any fics that are kinda inspiring academically, especially regarding British literature, if that makes sense? I just finished rereading Come As You Are and every time I read it, it motivates me to read more and practice my writing because I want to be more like Harry from that fic hahaha and I’m looking for more fics which evoke this feeling since I’m starting my masters in October and I need all the help I can get. Thank you so much! (I absolutely love your master post and its my go to couple times a week!)

Hi sweetheart. Hmmm... I just reblogged my Dark Academia fic rec, but other than that I think it would be fics where one or the other are writers/poets etc. Not all of these are heavy on the writing/poetry, but they're all great fics.

Make Your Words A Weapon by @helloamhere (E, 36K) I recently read this a second time and it’s even better than I remembered. I love everything this author writes. This one just really hit me hard for whatever reason. Maybe it’s the way they explore Louis’ anxiety and coping mechanisms and pain and the way he pushes people away and protects himself, but also wants someone to push back just a bit and love him despite all of that. And the way Harry is the perfect foil for all of it, while also feeling like a fully developed character himself. Yeah, it’s probably all of that. Plus soul marks! (Musician Harry/Music Journalist Louis)

Our Lives, Non Fiction by @indiaalphawhiskey (E, 114K) this is, quite literally, the best fic I’ve read in years. It’s so well written, clever, funny, emotional, and sexy. Its draw you in immediately and you’ll end up falling in love with these characters before you know it. Don’t miss this one. Harry and Louis are both authors.

An Invincible Summer by Brooklyn_Babylon / @twopoppies (E, 45K) this one is mine, I hope you like it:

Never content to stay in one place for long, a few months down south researching for his novel seemed like an idyllic, slow-paced summer to Louis. He wasn’t ready for the blistering heat, the backbreaking work of watermelon picking, or how stifling the attitudes in rural Georgia would feel. And he definitely hadn’t anticipated falling in love with the farmer’s son.

The summer of 1946 would turn out to be everything worth writing about. Farmer Harry / author Louis

Mine Would Be You by @crinkle-eyed-boo (E, 115K) Beautifully written, flawed characters and an emotionally engaging and ANGSTY plot. Super hot smut that made me cry like a fool. Banter, OT5 friendship, and the gritty realness of New York as a backdrop. Loved this one. Artist Harry / Author Louis

where your lips land by BriaMaria / @briannamarguerite (E, 12K) Ok, I’ve recommended this one a few times and I really do love it. Anyway, I love fics where the two of them are both artists of some sort (Louis is a poet in this one, Harry is a photographer) because it allows for another layer of understanding and connection and support. I particularly love the way Louis’ tattoos are woven into this story with layered meaning. And, as always, just beautiful writing.

you’re writing lines about me by snazzyasalways (T, 4K) This is gorgeously written on that Dreamy, poetic style I happen to love. Louis is a blind poet, Harry is a baker, Harry falls in love with Louis’ words, then with him.

another hazy may by deLILah (M, 41K) Another author who writes great fic after great fic. This one has that dreamy quality I love and there’s also something about it that, at times, reminds me of a little bit of a Raymond Chandler novel. I know that’s weird...but, yeah, it does. Anyway, I love this one. Such a good read.

I would name the stars for you (I would take you there) by orphan_account (M, 91K) This is just beautifully written. Angst. Mutual pining. Dumb boys. Beautiful descriptions of art and creativity and fame and beautiful poetry.

Little Technicolor Things by scary_crow (M, 72K) This is truly one of the most beautiful pieces of writing I have ever read and it is an absolutely travesty that it’s not being talked about every day. This fic is gorgeous and poetic and romantic and heartbreaking and an explosion of metaphoric images and everything I never knew I needed but now that I have it I want to read it over and over and over.

But If This Ends by nonsensedarling / @absoloutenonsense (E, 107K) This author referred to this fic as their “depressed vampire” fic while they were writing, and it is that. But it’s also a unique story with beautifully fleshed out characters, plot twists, and super hot smut. Go check it out! Vampire Harry / Writer Louis

24K Magic by @justalittlelouislove (E, 33K) FINALLY a category in which I can rec this author! I love everything they write, but this was the first one I’d read and it’s just great. Smooth dialogue, sexy smut, great description of character growth…just a really fun fic.

the best part of me (was always you) by @moonshinelouis-archive (E, 6K) Gorgeous writing. The descriptions of heartbreak and missing someone and still loving them were really well done. And I cried. Of course.

'Sup by MediaWhore (GA, 7K) Divorced, awkward Harry pining for silver fox Louis is a trope I never knew I needed, but I love it so much.

I Will Never Rust by stylez (E, 38K) I must have read this at least 5 years ago and I honestly don’t remember details, but my notes say “gorgeous, sad, sexy” so... I’m crossing my fingers that old me knew what she was talking about. It’s frat boy Harry so that could go either way. LOL! Student/Poet Harry.

Loyal Knight and True by rainbowninja167 / (E, 52K) Really original story, mystery and magic, great characterizations. All around a very good read!

Turning Page by purpledaisy (M, 68K) This author does a wonderful job with their characterizations which makes their fics such a pleasure to read. This one really has you rooting for curmudgeonly Louis and skittish/secretive Harry to figure their shit out and fall in love. If you like this one, make time to read this author’s fic, Walk That Mile – it’s one of my all time favorites. Sports journalist Louis.

Black with Autumn Rain by Whimsicule (T, 93K) This author is a favorite. If you like intense, creative stories, with complex characters and tight dialogue, you should read all of their fics. This one has the flavor of a Daphne du Maurier novel – dark, creepy, and moodily romantic. Plus a supernatural edge. It’s so good. Journalist Harry.

That Sounds Fake But Okay by dancingontheceiling (E, 113K) This one has a little bit of everything: Enemies to lovers, fake relationship, famous/not famous... plus, really good writing and some sexy smut scenes. Actor Louis / journalist Harry.

Sing When You're Winning by hazmesentir (NR, 91K) another one I read ages ago, but I always like this author’s writing and the premise of newly out footballer Louis and journalist intern Harry who somehow snags the interview, is such a fun one. And I don’t know why it has an NR rating, there’s plenty of smut.

feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream by togetherwecouldbealright (M, 123K) I read this one so, so long ago that all I remember is that I loved it, that there’s some really romantic and sweet moments, and that my notes from way back when only say, “OMG this one is so good! And I’ve barely gotten to the smut!” HAHAHAHA! Journalist Harry/prince Louis (this fic has been deleted, so the link is to a download).

#writers and poets #my fic rec #larry fic rec

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