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glorified-red · 1 year

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how do you make your writing do poetic? Cause I see my writing and I’m like what is this hot garbage compared to your brilliance?

Here's literally all the top writing advice I've learned in the past two-ish years because I assure you, my writing was also hot garbage, but hot garbage is still smokin hot bbbyy so dont give up

(brief mentions of smut in passing):

Honestly a lot of it comes down to Quantity > Quality and its not something I talk about very often on here. When I first started writing, I posted almost everyday, if not multiple times a week, consistently. I was writing headcanons of anything I could think of and stupid stories I saw on TikTok, I was answering requests the second they got in my inbox.

How I did it? I just wrote. I didn't think about it.

I was writing because it was fun, not because I wanted the writing itself to be good, I just wanted it to be (insert encanto song here). Some of my older fics are terrible, I reread some of the content and I cant make it past the first few paragraphs without cringing, Ive even considered deleting some or completely revising them because of it.

But that'd defeat the point.

I keep those fics (as terrible as they are) so you guys can see that I too, used to suck at writing. I didn't know what a hyphen was or an em dash, let alone an en dash. I didn't know how to properly punctuate AT ALL (future me, an english major, literally dies inside).

I focused a lot on dialogue when I started out, was it OOC? Probably. Did I care? Fuck no. I wrote anything because the more I wrote the better I got.

Unfortunetly overtime I became obssesed with the Quality of my work and since then I've written very little in comparison (rip my inbox being open to requests lmao). Has the quality gone up? Hell yea. But has my motivation and insecurities suffered? Oh fuck yea.

I focused so much on making my narration more poetic that my dialogue talent suffered tremendously. Which is why I'm trying to get back into more random, silly one shots because goddamit quantity > quality.

And you can see this in Nightmare because that was the series where I started getting creative with prose, pacing, and narration. That series was written and is still being written for me and me only (yall get to see it as a little treat). Its my experiment baby where I throw words at the wall and pray they stick, I talk in metaphors and pray to god it makes sense.

Nightmare is my writing exercise journal basically, everything I learn from Nightmare goes into other fics.

You can easily see how much I've grown as a writer and how because Its just one big experiment. Have you read the beginning of that? It fucking sucks, but the last six chapters? Arguably some of my most poetic work.

Big Brother Intuition was the start of me taping into the emotional side of stories and telling a story through internal dialogue and letting everything else slip in between the lines. Again, it was an exercise. The sole purpose of that fic was to challenge myself to write from Tim's POV for the first time and to write something I myself, experienced and to translate feeling and emotions into legible words.

This is when I started to learn the best writing advice I've ever learned to date that I will scream at anyone who lets me proofread their work:

Show. Don't Tell.

This is huge in writing, especially if you want to write something poetic.

"He walked across the carpeted room."

"Static clung to his socks as they dragged across the carpeted room."

In the first line, you're telling the reader whats going on like youre reading from a powerpoint. In the second, you never actually specify that he is walking, but the reader can tell because you show it visually. They can picture it in their head clearly that not only is he walking, but his shoulders are probably slouched because hes dragging his feet.

Did I ever mention the posture of the character? Nope. Did I mention he's tired? Nope. But can you picture it in the subtext without any more information but that line? Yes (assuming you read into things like me but for the sake of argument just say yes).

(this is also where word connotation comes into play but thats a whole other rant)

The reader can vividly picture your story without you having to spell it out for them.

Now bear in mind, you also have to treat your readers like idiots (sorry not sorry guys).

I like to picture the brain as an empty room, a completely blank canvas. Your story should be vivid enough that by the end of it, the reader has the entire room filled with detail.

When you start writing, you plop your character into that empty room. But how is that character interacting with the environment if its just an empty room? Things only get added into the room if the character interacts with it. If the character doesnt, then you're just telling the reader what to imagine.

What's poetic about that?

If you don't describe the setting, your readers will be confused and won't be able to immerse themselves into the story because they'll be too busy trying to figure out where the door is instead of paying attention to anything else. But reading a long paragrpah describing the room in detail is so much more boring than if the character interacts with it themselves.

(Telling the reader theres a dresser by the bed instead of making the character plop their keys on the dresser before climbing into bed)

You have to specify everything your character is doing to the environment around them so the walls turn from white to red, the room suddenly has a bed in it, theres a dresser next to the bed that needs to be sanded down because the character felt a prick on their skin.

Little things like that make your story more entertaining.

Which starts with the five senses.

I did two Five Senses writing challenges ages ago as a way to get used to writing the senses solo, I highly recommend doing the same (in my masterlist :P). Whenever I write smut, pain, comfort, you name it, the only thing going through my head is "What are they feeling, what are they hearing, what are they smelling, etc"

If you can work with the senses, showing will be so much easier to do because senses is how you show things.

"She felt like she was going to cry."

"The rims of her eyes started to burn."

In the first one, youre telling the audience what shes feeling. In the second, youre showing it. The main difference is that I imagined what it feels like to start to cry (that burn) so I could use a more "poetic" approach but really, I'm just showing instead of telling. That's the difference between hot garbage and poetic writing.

I often like to overexplain things to my audience, I pretend that my readers know nothing before starting my fic, whether its a series or a simple oneshot. This way anyone can read any of my work regardless of if they know Damian has a fucking metal spine or not beause who knows niche stuff like that yk? Its a story, make it enjoyable to anyone because they dont need pre-existing knowledge.

Which brings me to THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ABOUT WRITING EVER.

Come here, this is your bread and butter okay?? This shit is what makes your writing glorious:

Whatever you do, do not make the reader hesitate.

If the person reading your work has to pause what theyre doing to reread a sentence because it doesnt make sense?

You've failed as a writer.

If the reader has to pause what theyre doing to look up a word because it doesnt make sense?

You've failed as a writer.

If the reader keeps losing their place in your story because its dragging?

You've failed as a writer.

Harsh? I know.

The entire point of writing is to tell a story well enough that the readers can fully immerse themselves into your story. If they hesitate for any reason, it breaks the immersion and suddenly that arent ✨reading✨ anymore, theyre R E A D I N G

It's boring.

Now this manifests in soooo many ways and I see it in every fic I've proofread. Assume your readers know nothing!!! I mean it!!! If youre detailed enough in your imagery, your reader will be able to imagine the story without having to readjust their visual (I'm looking at you smut writers, I have no clue what position they're in right now and I'm more confused than I am turned on).

I get bored if the paragraph is more than 4 sentences long because its intimidating to look at, its clunky and boring and it doesnt flow AT ALL. This is when readers skim your work to get to dialogue because dialogue is more easily digestible. (but please, make it obvious who's speaking because If I have to reread an entire convo just to figure out who's talking, you're done and Im moving onto the next fic)

Why? Because the punctuation is easy to digest.

Why do you think my paragraphs are so small? Why do you think my narration is sprinkled in between dialogue? Why do you think I switch between dialogue tags and actions?

So I dont lose reader interest (will I still lose some? oh duh, but not nearly as much as I would if I didn't do these things)

You cannot assume your readers know your story the same way you do, you have a specific picture in your head. Do they? Do they even know what they're supposed to be imagining right now?

And thats where the senses come in!!!

See? It all connects.

Do writing exercises, I promise, they actually work. I treat every fic as a writing exercise.

Self Care Day? Dialogue Training.

Exhaust and Exhaustion? Juggling Characters Training.

Petnames? Tense training.

The list goes on and I could explain it all in so much detail but I'll spare you the boredom.

TLDR:

Write anything and write a lot, even if its shitty, because the more you write the more experience you'll get.

Practice with sensory imagery.

Do writing exercises.

Be creative and visual instead of strict and bulletproof esque --- show, dont tell.

Treat your readers like they know nothing and treat them and their attention span like thats the holy grail.

Be creative and literally just have fun and I promise you will see so much growth in your writing.

Please let me know if yall want me to expand on this or to explain anything, my english major brain is literally hardwired for these types of discussions.

#ah yes #word vomit #i was not expecting this to be so long #sorry not sorry #asks #writing advice #writing tips #writing help

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bloodorangesoup · 3 years

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Oh, Don't Mind Me | B.B.

Summary: Reader is having a very good day, including a damn good sandwich and an adorable dance session in the kitchen. Bucky observes with heart eyes. Slow dancing ensues.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: None, complete fluff

My Masterlist

Notes: This is my first writing on here, let me know what yall think! Hopefully, as I continue writing I’ll get better, but for now, I liked this. Also, I do not and will not respect the rules of grammar surrounding punctuation and quotation marks because they do not, as Marie Kondo says, spark joy. Happy reading!

Spring had finally settled in Upstate New York leaving the air fresh and the flowers bright. It was one of those days that just flowed. Gliding by breakfast, you had already turned in a mission report that was supposed to be completed a few days prior, took a shower, tidied up your room, and started lunch. There was a steady buzz of contentment in your head, a result of the day’s effortless productivity and quiet atmosphere.

Putting together the last pieces of the sandwich you made for yourself, you chose to ride the high of your productive buzz and wash the dishes you used before eating. Never had you felt so happy washing dishes. The water was just a little hotter than warm and felt relaxing. Even after the knife and cutting mat were clean you let the water run over your hands, taking in the steam rising to your face causing goosebumps to appear on the area of your arms that the water didn’t cover. Everything just felt like it was in place, it just felt good. When you finished, you dried off your hands and poured yourself some water, admiring how pretty the droplets of condensation looked on the glass.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., play my favorite playlist, please,” you chimed into the empty kitchen.

“Playing your most played playlist on Spotify,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice echoed through the room. You silently thanked Tony for his genius idea of connecting all the team’s Spotify accounts to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s system. With that silent thank you, When A Man Loves a Woman by Percy Sledge began softly drifting through the speakers in the kitchen and adjacent living room.

You felt like you were floating. The floor to ceiling windows in the hall let in the sunlight and you closed your eyes as it touched your face and spread warmth all over you. Leaning against the counter, you opened your eyes and turned for a moment to pick up the first half of your sandwich. Closing them again, you took a slow bite and slowly chewed, letting your shoulders drop and letting out a hum of pleasure. Maybe it was the perfection of the moment, but it was a damn good sandwich.

With a small smile lifting up the corners of your lips, you began softly rocking your head side to side with the slow rhythm of the song. The smile on your face grew as you felt the music course through your ears, down your neck, into your chest, and through the rest of your body down to the tips of your toes. Taking another bite of your sandwich, you pushed off from your spot leaning against the counter and stood in the space between the counter and kitchen island for a few seconds before letting your whole body rock side to side just like your head had before. With the combination of the lack of duties to worry about, the satisfaction of such an excellent sandwich, the sun glowing across your skin, and the music coursing through your veins, you felt completely and utterly at peace.

About fifteen minutes prior, Bucky had just finished a workout session. Once his hair was literally dripping with sweat he decided it was about time to get cleaned up and see what you were up to. He happily got to his room, showered, and changed into fresh clothes with nothing but you on his mind. He checked your room to find it empty and assumed that, without a text telling him otherwise, you were probably in one of the living rooms or the kitchen.

Not wanting to disrupt the quiet that settled over the compound on this day, he didn’t call out for you and figured he would see you eventually. He padded through the hall and heard the distant drone of music playing from the kitchen area. Smiling to himself, he remembered how excited you were when Tony had sent out the text telling the team he added Spotify to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s system.

He recognized the song as one you had put on a playlist you had made for him at the beginning of your relationship. He had worked up the courage to ask you out, after a few months of intense pining and a lot of pep talks from Steve, and later that night received a goodnight text from you including a link to a playlist titled “For Bucky”. The song was about two decades after “his time”, but after seeing how much you melted at it, it quickly became one of his favorites to listen to.

Once he finally reached the source of the sound, he halted to a stop at the doorway of the kitchen. To his delight, you were exactly where he thought you would be. However instead of simply making something to eat, you were dancing in the middle of the kitchen. Eyes closed, grooving to the sounds of the speakers, the light hit you in a way that made his breath hitch and a lump form in his throat. You looked adorable, gorgeous, absolutely beautiful. The song playing also brought right to his attention that, in addition to adorable, gorgeous, and absolutely beautiful, you were also all his. All of that, your soft humming to the music, your unabashed smile, your hips swaying back and forth, was all his. The sight of it alone made his mouth gape open a little and the back of his eyes sting with tears that hadn’t yet formed.

But before he could get completely swept away with his overwhelming adoration for you, you turned around and opened your eyes for a second to take another bite of your, once again, amazing sandwich and came face to face with Bucky. It startled you enough to make you jump and look away in exasperation of the small scare. Bucky chuckled to himself at how cute you could be and leaned against the doorway. You looked up at him with a face that clearly said “how long have you been standing there and how much did you see?” Ignoring the silent question, Bucky decided the opportunity was just too good to pass up teasing you a little.

“Oh, don’t mind me, doll, keep going.” He couldn’t help the little grin that crept up his face.

At this point the song had faded out and transitioned into another song. Bucky identified it as one that was also on the playlist you made for him and it made his grin a little wider realizing that it was in fact “For Bucky” that you were playing.

You rolled your eyes, leaned your hip on the side of the island, and decided to verbally repeat your question.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Oh hey, Bucky! It’s nice to see you, I missed you, how was your day?” Bucky mocked, pretending to be you. “Oh hey, y/n! I missed you too, my day’s been good,’” Bucky replied back to himself, making you groan and roll your eyes again.

“Hey Buck, how was your day?” You asked him in the most monotone voice you could use, making sure to exaggerate the annoyed expression you wore.

His grin turned into a smirk as he opted to answer your initial question rather than answer the one he mocked you into.

“I’ve been standing here long enough to see you dancing to our song, angel. Very cute, really.” He teased.

“Oh, shut up and come here” You pouted while lifting your arms, inviting him to take up the open space. He smiled at your change in tone and pushed off the doorframe to meet you with arms wide open. You slipped your arms around his neck, resting them on his shoulders, while he snaked his around your waist. He turned you both so that your back was to the island and he caged you against it. You let your head fall against his chest while he leaned down and buried his head in your hair. You could smell him on his clothes, the subtle musk of his skin that lingered anytime you slept in his bed or cuddled him.

Inhaling and exhaling with a sigh, you ran a hand through the hair at the back of his head, returning to that state of absolute peace, now having with you another reason to feel it.

From inside your hair, a grumbled voice came through, “You know that song you were playing when I first came in, I listen to it all the time, always makes me think of you.”

You couldn’t control the giddy feeling that hearing that left you with. You looked up at him, prompting him to lift his head and peer down back at you. Your eyes met and you smiled wide at him, loving the feeling of being wrapped up in him. He grinned back at you and you couldn’t avoid seeing the look of bliss that graced his face, if you could have it your way you would keep him in this moment forever.

“You said that song was our song?” You asked.

“It’s the song I think of when I think of you, and it’s the first one on the playlist you made for me,” he blushed but then quickly followed up, “it doesn’t have to be our song if you don’t want it to or if you want a different one or someth-”

You moved forward away from the island, pushing him backwards with your hips until you were both standing, still embraced, in the middle of the kitchen.

Shaking your head you hummed, “I love it. Dance with me?” Bucky simply nodded his head, staring at you like you put the stars in the sky.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., play the first song on this playlist again, please.” The sound of the old 60s love song started tuning into the room. You didn’t think your smile could get any wider than when Bucky started rocking the both of you side to side, his eyes never leaving your own other than the occasional glance at your lips.

“You’re so amazing, angel, you know that?”

“You’re one to talk, you’re absolutely perfect yourself, Mr. Barnes.”

This made Bucky completely smile down at you. In that moment neither of you needed words to express the loved and adoration you two shared for each other.

Steve walked through the compound looking for Bucky, on a mission to give him back his watch that he’d left in the gym. Hearing your and Bucky’s voices in the living area, he smiled to himself and made his way there. Arguably one of the things in the world that made Steve the happiest was Bucky’s relationship with you. He knew as soon as he had introduced you to the team and could see the way Bucky blushed and got nervous around you that he was a goner. After months of waiting for Bucky to feel okay with dating and feelings and the whole shabang that came with those, he made it his main goal to set you two up. He knew how much you genuinely cared for Bucky and knew how undoubtedly happy you made him, when he saw you two together it served to him a reminder that the world could be good, that things could be bat shit crazy but there was always a silver lining.

Making his way to the kitchen, he ironically stopped at the door frame just as Bucky had, hearing you two together.

“You’re so amazing, angel, you know that?”

“You’re one to talk, you’re absolutely perfect yourself, Mr. Barnes.”

He saw his friend smile down at you and felt the pang of happiness that hit him whenever he listened to Bucky talk about you. He could feel the love from where he stood, rooted in place.

Bucky looked down at your lips once more, you copied him. He leaned in while tightening his hold around your waist, bringing your whole body closer to him, and kissed you softly. The kiss sucked the breath from your lungs. No longer swaying to the music, you let yourself lean into him and kissed him back with passion, making him feel how much you loved him. When your body couldn’t supply you with any more air, you were forced to pull back and look up at him. He looked totally smitten. He peered down at you with red cheeks and a relaxed grin, taking you in.

“God, I love you so much, y/n.”

“I love you more, Buck”

“Impossible.”

You gave him a soft peck in response and dropped your head back on his chest as you continued swaying to your song. Finally tearing his eyes away from you, he noticed Steve standing where he had minutes before, with a satisfied smile, nodding his head in approval.

Bucky just smiled and nodded back, closing his eyes and resting his chin on your head. You were his reminder that the world could be good. Things could be bat shit crazy, but you were always his silver lining.

#bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #tfatws #the winter solider #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x avenger!reader

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redemptionofthefallen · 2 years

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Hi hi! 11 and 17 for the ask game! 💖💖

OMG I GET AN ASK FROM THE QUEEN HERSELF!!!???!?!??

i'm going to eat my own foot, this is amazing!! XD -please don't ask why i said that but that's literally what came out of my mouth when i saw it was you that asked it XD-

but yes! ask and you shall receive my lady!

11. What punctuation do you love too much?

ooooo that's a toughy....i guess if i were to pick one....with would be " . " considering i tend to use them for dramatic effect like what i just did XD i TRY not to do that too much because it aggravated people and i can see if using it too much makes things gimmicky so i try to stay out of using "...." unless it's in dialogue. dialogue is the only exception for this as in my head, how else am i supposed to show the character paused mid sentence? or hesitance? or choking on air? to me in dialogue -depending on how you use it- gives personality or describes it better than writing out how they feel. it's how the character talks? let them! let the character express themselves the way they want! LOL your just writing everything down for them.

17. What is your best piece of advice for writing hurt/comfort scenes?

OOOOooOOoo~

this is a good question....

let's if i can put this into words right...

umm...so when i write hurt/comfort scenes...well first off! getting in the mood is crucial to me. for that i use my one writing tool i could NOT live with out!

Music.

i will search my playlists or even find a new song that will match and describe the scene perfectly that i am trying to write. like a good example, the Little Kiri morning kisses blurb i wrote for you the other day. i was listening to the song "7 years old" by Lukas Graham on loop because the song makes me feel reminiscent, makes me feel warm and fuzzy, also makes me feel thankful for what i have in my life. which when i decided to write that blurb was the feelings i wanted to convey.

after finding the music and getting in the mood i will then ask myself "who am i trying to comfort?" is it me? is it whoever reads it? is it a cannon character? is an OC? or whoever it is. in this case it was Min Min i was trying to comfort. so keeping that in mind i would think up of ways that would make that person feel comforted by the character who is giving the comforting. like i know Min Min loves it when Kiri calls her Darling, how he's so snuggly and cuddly. so i decided to use that as a basis to jump off of.

then after that i start to try to picture how the whole thing plays out in my head like a movie. -i tell yall if i had the talent to draw i would draw out everything i see and it is so cool looking yall i just DX- sometimes i'll even act it out myself to get my Barings or if im stuck figuring out where to go. once i can see the scene clearly in my head.

i write.

this is the hard part for me when it comes to writing ANYTHING is finding the right words, descriptors, and shit. to me, i need to show people what is in my brain and put it on paper. since i cant draw it i need to show in my words how i see it, but i also know part of writing is also leaving room for the reader to do that themselves. so how i usually do it is i will listen to the song i picked -on loop- and then just write what comes to mind first. -usually how i see it in my head- after that i read it over aloud to see if i need to change anything to make it to where others can interpreted how they want. then i reread it a third time for grammar shit. then i read it one last time to see how it goes and if im happy with it i will share at that point.

i hope any and all of that made any sense XD LOL but these were great questions! please feel free to send more! and thank you Min Min for sending this in i hope you enjoyed my answer *blows you a kiss*

@kweenkatsuki

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magniloquent-raven · 4 years

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for fluff: "one more chapter" or "there's enough room for both of us"

it’s been 84 years............ but here u go lmao tysm for the prompts!!!!!! i used both!

CW for some brief suicidal ideation, just in case. it’s v mild but pls be careful yall (i know, this fic was supposed to be fluffy 😅)

posted on ao3

------

Billy’s life had changed a lot in the past two years.

So much that some days he barely recognizes himself in the mirror. The scars, the state of his hair—which he hasn’t cut since last summer and generally just throws back for convenience’ sake—the stubble he doesn’t bother with most days. Small things, in the grander scheme of what’s different about his life, but it adds up.

And it’s Friday night, he’s curled up at home, and perfectly content to be there.

There’s a steaming mug of cider on the coffee table (a scratched-up old thing that Hop left him when he officially handed off ownership of his trailer to Billy), and wind rattling the windows, and Max is asleep in the next room. It’s...cozy.

El stopped by earlier that afternoon, Max in tow, demanding Billy let them stay because Mike was being a dick or a DnD campaign was going on too long and El’s character died a while back so she was bored, or...something. Possibly Mike was being a dick about her character being dead. Max kept chiming in with her own two cents worth but it really just made the whole thing harder to follow.

But it didn’t really matter why they stopped by, they’re always coming up with reasons to invade his living room and eat all his food and nag him about teaching them how to do fancy braids. And Max usually wanders off to nap in his room when El starts asking Billy to read to her.

Which is what he’s doing now.

Last month he read her Jane Eyre (her idea). A week ago they started The Hobbit.

It’s been slow going, considering how often El interrupts to ask questions, and every time there’s a song they have the same argument about him not actually singing, but they’re making progress.

He’s reading through the weird goblin song as monotone as possible just so he can laugh at El’s disgruntled scrunchy face, and putting up with her poking his thigh with her toes when he rolls his eyes at her, and honestly having the time of his fucking life, because, yeah, saying things have changed in the past two years is the understatement of the decade.

When he gets to the end of Over Hill and Under Hill and closes the book she gasps dramatically, sitting up and pulling the ugly orange throw blanket (gift from Mrs. Byers) she’d been snuggled up in tighter around her shoulders.

“Billy, no!”

He drops the book in his lap and raises his eyebrows at her. “It’s the end of the chapter.”

“No.”

“Yeah, it definitely is.”

El frowns at him, her whole face going pinched. “But you can’t stop there.”

It’s moments like this that almost make Billy forget she can kill people with her brain. Moments when she just looks like a kid, all wrapped up in her favourite blanket and pouting.

And it’s like she knows that’s his goddamn kryptonite. Because those moments also remind him that she deserves this. More than anyone he knows, she deserves all the childish crap she wants, and more. It won’t ever replace the childhood that was taken from her, but it’s a start.

So, needless to say, Billy has a hard time saying no to her.

He drops his head back against the cushion behind him, staring at the ceiling for a moment—pretending to contemplate, while she glowers at him—and sighs loudly.

“One more chapter.”

She beams.

They’re only a few pages into Riddles in the Dark when a car pulls up, and Billy doesn’t even have time to put the book down before the front door bursts open.

“El! Will thought he—is that The Hobbit?” Dustin comes to an abrupt halt two paces into the room, blinking at the book in Billy’s hands. All his little friends nearly collide with his back, and there’s suddenly a gaggle of obnoxious teenagers huddled in Billy’s doorway.

“Who cares,” Lucas scoffs, pushing him out of the way so he, Wheeler, and Will, can shuffle the rest of the way inside. “Get out of the way!”

Billy is still trying to figure out what the fuck’s even happening when Steve goddamn Harrington walks in behind his pack of brats. Because of course he was the one who drove them here. Him being a fine upstanding citizen and all that. With nothing better to do, apparently. (Not that Billy has room to judge anymore.)

Suddenly the bickering kids are mostly background noise. Billy always did have a hard time concentrating on anything else when Steve’s in the room. Especially when he’s looking like that, warm brown eyes lit up with interest, and the corner of his mouth pulling upwards in a half-smile. His cheeks are pink from the chill outside, his hair a mess from the wind, and locking eyes with him makes Billy’s heart pound.

They’ve been on good terms these past few months and it’s a special kind of torture that Billy wouldn’t give up for the fucking world.

But he doesn’t get to enjoy the view for long because—

“—the Mind Flayer might be back!”

Billy stiffens. “What?” He glances at El. She’s sitting up straight now, her eyes dark, expression closed off.

Mike sighs irritably. “Weren’t you listening? Will thinks he might have sensed the Mind Flayer, so we needed to make sure El’s okay.” He crosses his arms, glaring at Billy. “Because the stupid thing wants her dead, remember?”

“Wheeler,” Steve hisses, and smacks the kid’s shoulder.

“Yeah.” Billy grits his teeth, cold fingers trailing down his spine. “I remember.”

The room is silent for several agonizing seconds, the kids all exchanging glances. Until Billy’s bedroom door opens and Max shuffles out, rubbing her eyes.

“What’s everyone doing here?”

They’d all been hanging out at Steve’s when Will had a bad feeling. The same kind of prickling bone-deep chill he’d gotten two summers ago. Needless to say, ignoring it until people started dying didn’t seem like the way to go this time, hence the home invasion.

Which had been Steve’s idea, apparently. Or. His initial reaction had been to blurt out does this mean Billy’s possessed again, and it had spiraled from there. To Mike freaking out about El not being safe because she was here, to Lucas reminding him that Billy had only gotten the better of her when she didn’t have powers, to Dustin yelling about checking in with her either way because she might have The Facts.

And so they’d broken a couple traffic laws to get here.

Billy suspects Steve feels guilty about suggesting he might be possessed, because he got very awkward when it was brought up. And he stepped in several times when Wheeler and Sinclair’s interrogation got a little too intense (there were threats of hot pokers involved).

It should have felt condescending—Billy’s a grown-ass adult, he doesn’t need someone defending him from lanky teenagers—but he can’t help feeling a little warm when it’s Steve coming to his defense.

The discussion overall is a mess. El doesn’t have any answers, Billy hasn’t felt anything odd lately, and the lack of anything to go on beyond Will having a momentary freakout is putting everyone on edge.

Max, who squished herself onto the couch between Billy and El, cuts through the cyclical arguing after the third dramatic eye-roll from Mike. “Guys, can you cool it for a second. We’re getting nowhere.” Her protest is punctuated by a yawn, which makes El giggle.

“She’s right,” Steve sighs, mussing with his hair absentmindedly. “Billy and El are fine, everyone’s fine, we should all get some sleep.”

“Dude, are you sure you’re good to drive?” Dustin asks, squinting appraisingly at Steve. It’s a fair question, it’s late and Steve looks like he’s about to keel over, but Billy’s not sure he likes where this is going.

“Who said anything about driving?” Max snorts, glancing at Billy.

Damnit Max.

“Is there even space for everyone here? This place is tiny.”

“Fuck you, Wheeler, not all of us can live in goddamn mansions.”

The kid opens his mouth to retort, bristling with indignation, but Will interjects, stuttering a little in his haste, “I, um, I’d feel a little safer if everyone, you know, stayed in one place? At least for tonight?”

And that pretty much settles it.

Once everyone mumbles their (in some cases reluctant) agreement, El crows “Sleepover!” and drags Max off to find spare blankets, leaving Billy sitting on the couch alone and wondering where the hell Steve is gonna sleep. For...no particular reason...other than…

Well.

It’s not like Mike was wrong, the trailer wasn’t built to house six teenagers and two twenty-somethings. Most of them are going to end up squished on the living room floor, and Max and El already called dibs on the couch, and...well, unless Steve wants to crash in the fucking kitchen there really isn’t anywhere else for him to go other than Billy’s room. He doesn’t even have a goddamn tub the guy could curl up in.

And just because he’s wanted Steve Harrington in his bed since minute one, doesn’t mean he wants it right now. Not like this.

Because like this he has to deal with Max’s side-eye, and El’s knowing look (the girl has been in his head, she literally knows everything about him), and Will’s weird wide-eyed interest, and worst of all, Steve not doing this because he wants to.

In fact, judging by the way he blanches when Max suggests it, Billy’s room is the last place he’d like to be. Which is not really something Billy ever really wanted hard proof of, thanks.

He’s dealt with enough in his life, he didn’t need to know exactly how repulsive Steve finds the idea of sleeping in the same room as him.

“You’re welcome to sleep in your goddamn car if my floor isn’t good enough for you, Harrington,” he bites out, probably harsher than was warranted.

Steve blinks at him, mouth falling open, eyebrows raised.

“Oh my god, it’s too cold to sleep outside, Billy,” Max says, rolling her eyes. “Stop being such a dick.”

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Figure your shit out, I’m going to bed.”

The silence he leaves behind is tense and awkward.

He’s been laying in bed staring at the ceiling, moping and berating himself, for about ten minutes when the door creaks open.

“Hey, uh,” Steve’s voice is soft, uncertain, and Billy feels like even more of an asshole for snapping at him. “I’m just...gonna...crash on the floor. Um. Good night.”

This is punishment isn’t it. For being such a douche for so long. Now he gets to try and fall asleep knowing Steve fucking Harrington is laying nearby, sleepy and warm and out of reach. He listens to Steve shuffle around, getting situated, laying out blankets and trying to find a soft bit of carpet to lay on. Has to bite his tongue to keep from saying something stupid. Like offering up his bed. Or poking fun at how much Steve sighs when he’s getting comfortable (Because it’s dumb, not cute. Definitely not cute.).

It’s unclear how long they lay there in the dark, Billy watching moonlight cast the outlines of skeletal trees across the wall, listening to Steve’s quiet breathing to remind himself he’s not alone. That the shadows are just shadows and there’s no reason to be tense and sweating and—

Billy’s pretty sure it’s been long enough that Steve should be asleep, considering how tired he looked, so he tosses his blanket off and swipes the pack of cigarettes off his bedside table, hoping to god the floor doesn’t creak when he pads across the room. There’s no noise coming from the other room, so either the kids are asleep too or a miracle has occurred and they’re all just being really quiet.

He slips out the side door, and takes a breath. The lake is too still, despite the wind. No self-respecting body of water doesn’t have waves. But it’s pretty enough, he supposes. Enough to make for a decent view while he smokes a cigarette.

Takes a couple tries to light up. His hands aren’t what they used to be, especially in the cold. Holding off a thirty-foot meat puppet bare-handed does that to a person, tears shit up that doesn’t heal right afterwards.

He’s about halfway through his cig when Steve joins him. Billy’s shoulders stiffen at the sound of footsteps, and he doesn’t relax at all when he realizes who it is.

“Hey.”

Out of the corner of his eye Billy watches Steve lean against the porch railing beside him. He takes another drag before he looks over properly, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Billy raises his eyebrows. Gestures with his cigarette and turns away again. “No shit.”

He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, and he resolutely ignores it. Stares out at the water and flicks cigarette ash over the railing. The wind picks up again and cuts through his thin shirt. Should’ve grabbed a fucking sweater. Not because the cold bothers him at all, but...well, because it doesn’t anymore.

He shivers when a completely-unrelated-to-the-weather chill runs down his spine.

“Soo…” Steve fidgets, and trails off awkwardly, his nonchalance painfully fake.

The corner of Billy’s mouth twitches, and he raises his cigarette to his lips, a flimsy excuse to hide his smile.

“Did, uh. Did El choose the book, or…?”

He chokes on a mouthful of smoke. Doc Owens did tell him he shouldn’t have taken up smoking again. Though he was probably more concerned about Billy’s scarred lungs and than Steve Harrington-related hazards.

Coughing definitely does hurt a lot more than it used to though.

He flinches when Steve touches his shoulder, pats it, rubs a little—trying to help with the coughing, presumably—making Billy’s heart trip over itself.

Once he’s no longer wheezing he wipes his eyes, and waves off Steve’s apologies, hoping the embarrassed flush on his cheeks isn’t too visible in the dim light.

Steve’s hand stays where it is.

For several quiet moments Billy waits for him to withdraw but he doesn’t, and Billy finally meets his eyes. Which was probably a mistake. His heart skips again. He’s still not used to Steve looking at him like that. Soft and wide-eyed and concerned and…

God, he’s so fucking beautiful. Billy used to dream about getting this close without needing pretense, without having to pretend, getting to bask in the warmth coming off him and feel his breath on his skin and see something other than indifference—or worse, the hatred that came later—looking back at him. What he has now is...not quite what he wants. It lights him up but leaves him wanting.

Another gust of wind makes a mess of Steve’s hair, locks falling into his eyes and sticking up in all directions, and Billy itches. Clenches his fist to stop himself from fixing it.

“Her dweeby little friends kept talking about it, and she couldn’t get through it herself. So...” Billy trails off, scratching his cheek and glancing away. “I may have had a copy laying around.”

Steve’s hand finally leaves its perch on his shoulder—both a disappointment and a relief—to brush the stray locks of hair out of his face. He grins at Billy, whole face lit up and stupidly pretty even as his fingers get stuck in tangles. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Billy bites the inside of his cheek. “My mom used to read it to me.”

It’s easier to talk about her now. Mostly with El, who’s still the only person who knows the full story, but, well, he’s pretty sure at least Max and Steve have guessed the bits they weren’t told. Or, hell, maybe El told everyone everything during those months he was out of commission and everyone thought he was dead, and no one’s brought it up to his face because it would be awkward as hell.

In any case, Steve’s expression softens.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “So, you and her were pretty close, huh?”

If asked Billy would have blamed the sudden sting of tears in his eyes on the wind. “I guess.” A pause. “Not enough for her to take me when she left,” he mumbles, chewing his thumbnail and frowning out at the lake.

His cigarette hangs between two fingers in his other hand.

“Billy…”

“Don’t. I’ve heard every condolence in the book, okay. It’s...it’s fine.”

For several long moments the only sounds are the dry rustle of leaves in the wind and Billy’s nail-biting.

Then Steve slips his fingers around Billy’s wrist and tugs gently. Too surprised to resist, Billy lets him. Lets his hand be pulled away from his face, thumb pressed to his pulsepoint, lets him hold on for a beat longer than necessary before letting go. And Billy stares at him the whole time, lips parted, shoulders tense, waiting to see what Steve will do next.

What he does next is smile a little sad, and tilt his head. “It’s a bad habit, you know. Biting your nails.”

“I don’t have any other kind of habit.”

“Hm,” Steve hums, “I don’t think that’s true.”

Which is a weird thing to say, and a weird thing to get emotional over, and yet Billy kind of feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

He rubs at the knotted scar tissue that spiderwebs across his whole torso, and can’t help but wonder—not for the first time—if Steve’s perception of him might be a little blinded by the one good thing he’s ever done. He’s tried to be better since then, atone a little, but Steve’s confidence in him still feels unearned.

And all the work he’s put into getting his shit together might all be for nothing anyways, if some fucking slime monster decides to crawl down his throat again. If Will’s right and that thing is back...for all he knows the thing has it out for him too, after the shit he pulled at Starcourt. He thought he’d end up dead, he wasn’t exactly worried about making himself a target in the long run.

But now...

Billy exhales slowly through his nose, eyes falling shut for a moment before he grits out, “I can’t do it again.” Steve blinks at him, nonplussed. “This,” he taps his scars, “The fucking. Mind Flayer bullshit. I can’t.”

“You…” Steve folds his arms across his stomach, hands clutching his elbows. It’s a nervous tic that makes Billy ache. Always makes his heart clench, but tonight that gets lost in the black hole of anxiety already twisting up his insides “You won’t have to, I—we’ll protect you. If we stick together—”

“It’s not a guarantee.”

“No, but—”

“We don’t know anything about this alien shit, for all we know I was never really free of it, and—I just—promise you won’t let it use me again,” Billy’s voice breaks, and he clenches his jaw to try and hold it all back, the taste of bile in the back of his throat, the crushing weight of existential panic pressing in.

Steve’s eyes widen, “What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean. Crash another car into me. Let your ex shoot me in the fucking head. I don’t care how, I need you to stop me.” He needs to understand, Billy’s eyes bore into him, willing him to understand.

But he shakes his head, face twisted up with horror, “I don��t think I can do that.”

Billy takes a step towards him, desperation bleeding into his voice, “Steve.” He blinks back tears. “Please.”

“Don’t—” Steve looks away, curling in on himself, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, ask you to perform a public fucking service?” Billy spits, eyes stinging, face burning. He regrets the words once they’re spoken, but there’s no taking them back now. He’s talked with Owens about this sort of shit and he thought he was past it.

Apparently not.

He deflates. Like a slap in the face, it stops him dead, turns his agonizing back inward where it fucking belongs. Wiping his eyes, he sighs.

It’s too late to stop the puppy-dog eyes Steve’s giving him now though. The unreserved sadness in the way he’s looking at Billy is so overwhelming it’s almost palpable. “Is that really how you feel?”

Is it? He’s not sure anymore. It was for a long time. Long enough that he couldn’t remember feeling any other kind of way until El reminded him. But now…

He shrugs. “It’s...complicated. I—ah, shit!” His hand jerks, and the cigarette he’d been holding falls to the ground. That never used to hurt so fucking much. “Damn thing burnt me.”

He sucks on the stinging knuckle, waiting for the pain to subside, tasting salt and ash, and looks back up at Steve.

They lock eyes.

Steve’s expression has closed off, his gaze still heavy, but with something else, sliding down Billy’s face with an intensity Billy’s not quite sure what to make of. He’s struck dumb by the attention (not something he usually has a problem handling), lips still wrapped around his finger but his mouth has gone slack.

It feels like a static shock, one crackling jolt of a moment, something sharp lancing through him, and then it’s over. Steve’s blinking, glancing away. Billy’s hand falls to his side. It would be like it never happened except he still feels charged, pent up, heart full to bursting and stomach in knots.

Billy sighs, and rubs his eyes. “Let’s just...go back to bed.”

Wording, Billy. Wording. His cheeks warm a little, but he manages to keep his expression neutral as he turns and heads back inside.

He practically throws himself into his bed, curling up on his side and pulling the blankets around him, back turned to Steve. Sleep seems like a pipe dream at this point, but doing anything other than pretending to get some rest would involve talking to and/or looking at Steve, so. Not an option.

But after he listens to Steve settle back into his little pile of blankets, the minutes crawl by, and Billy gets twitchy. Wants so badly to move, toss and turn and fidget, and say something, but doesn’t know where to start and doesn’t want to draw Steve’s attention, and—

God, this is so fucking stupid.

Billy rolls over. “Steve.”

“Yeah?”

The room is silent for a beat. He shuffles around a little and the sheets rustle loudly in the quiet.

“Would you get up here,” he says suddenly, all at once, demanding, scarcely believing what the fuck is coming out of his mouth.

“...What?” Steve sounds a little breathless and it makes Billy’s stomach clench.

“Just...there’s enough room for both of us, alright.” Jesus christ.

The lump of Steve and blankets on the floor doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak, for what seems like an eternity, and Billy’s about to brush it off, turn it into a joke, take it back, something, when—

“Okay.”

Oh.

What?

Oh god, he’s getting up. This is happening. Billy stares at his silhouette, the tense line of his shoulders, his awkward gait, and wonders why he’s agreeing to this if he’s so goddamn uncomfortable.

Guess the floor is officially less comfortable than being in bed with Billy. Joy.

But then he’s sliding under the covers and Billy forgets to be bitter because his brain is mostly static at this point. White noise and his heartbeat thundering in his ears and the deafening creak of boxspring groaning under unexpected weight.

And Steve’s doing that thing again, sighing, little hums as he wiggles around getting himself situated, and Billy is dying. He thought he was being punished before, but now he’s sure, because this is ridiculous. No grown man should be that adorable.

By the time he’s gotten himself comfy Billy is about ready to combust.

It doesn’t help that he’s decided to lay down extremely close and facing Billy. It’s so intimate it hurts.

“Do you think you’ll actually sleep?”

Billy shrugs noncommittally. “Maybe.” He tries to make it sound more casual than it is. Like it’s a choice and not the sad fact that he’s too fucking anxious to relax.

Seems he’s not the only one though, Steve keeps fidgeting, his face doing something weird Billy can’t quite see in the gloom. But he doesn’t have to see to recognize Steve’s tics.

“Spit it out,” Billy sighs.

“What did you mean. When you said it’s complicated?” Steve asks softly.

Ah.

“You really wanna get into this?” He sure doesn’t, but Steve nods and Billy’s fucking weak when it comes to giving Steve what he wants. “I meant that...I...used to feel like that. All the time. It was fucking relentless.” He thinks about rolling onto his back so he won’t have to look at Steve for this, but finds himself stuck, drawn in by the faint starlight reflected in Steve’s eyes. “But nowadays I’ve got...shit to hang on for, I guess. Doesn’t make it all go away, but it makes it easier.”

“Oh.” Steve wriggles a little closer, his hand landing in the space between their pillows. Right next to Billy’s hand. Close enough that he can feel him there, but not quite touching.

He doesn’t say anything else, which Billy’s grateful for. He’s got Doc Owens for the big speeches about how life is worth living, and it’s grating enough getting them from someone who’s literal job is to say that kind of shit.

It helps. It does. But he can only handle so much.

Speaking of which.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says quietly. He’s keeping his hand too still for it to come across as casual, trembling with the effort. If he moved his pinky just a little they’d be touching, and he’s painfully aware of this fact.

“What for?”

“Earlier, when I...I was asking for a lot.”

“Oh.” Steve shifts, the blankets rustling as he shuffles around, but as much as he fidgets, his hand stays where it is. “Billy...I don’t want you to have to go through that again, but…”

Billy, on an impulse—with a feeling somewhat akin to stepping off a ledge without a parachute—hooks his pinky over Steve’s. In the dark he hears a soft intake of breath, can just barely make out the way Steve’s mouth falls open, moonlight casting shadows when his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

“I know. It wasn’t fair to—”

“No, no,” Steve flips his palm upward and laces their fingers together, squeezing Billy’s hand. “It’s not that. You have every right to be scared, and...look, this whole thing is batshit crazy, none of us know how to deal with it.”

Billy runs his thumb along the length of Steve’s index finger, marvelling at the contact, and the way his pulse flutters when the gesture is returned. It takes him a second to find his voice, “True, but you’ve never asked me to mercy kill you.”

Steve exhales, the ghost of a laugh, and it warms the back of Billy’s hand. He shivers, his whole arm tingling. “Billy, I haven’t gone through half the shit you have.” A pause. “I want to help. Anything you need, just...not that.”

Anything. It catches in Billy’s throat, stops his heart for just a second, reminds him that they’re inches apart, in bed together. For the second time tonight he feels like he’s been punched in the sternum, and he goes rigid, relaxing only minutely when Steve squeezes his hand again.

“Careful, pretty boy. Saying shit like that might give a guy ideas,” he murmurs, gaze searching, wandering Steve’s face, the shadows cast by the soft fall of hair across his forehead.

“Oh yeah?” Steve pulls their clasped hands to his chest. His heart is racing, but his voice is steady, “Well, have enough ideas with no follow-through and a guy might think you’re all talk.”

Billy’s breath catches. The world stops. “You...you don’t want me to follow through.”

The reality of the situation hits him like a train. Flirting is one thing, he’s always had a hard time keeping his mouth shut around Steve, but this is something he’d only ever regretted letting himself imagine because he knew he’d never have it. And now that it’s within reach...

“See, the thing is…” Steve slides a little closer. His knee brushes Billy’s thigh. “I really, really do.”

“I—” his voice breaks, mouth dry, throat closing up as he tries to swallow past the lump making it hard to breathe.

“Billy,” Steve whispers, a hot puff of air against Billy’s lips. “Please.”

Fuck.

He surges forward—hard enough that their teeth click together—and his mouth muffles Steve’s gasp. The hand not cradled against Steve’s chest comes up to touch his cheek, fingertips caressing his jaw, coaxing him closer, sliding back to thread into his hair.

Steve’s lips are plush and warm against his, curved into a smile that leaves Billy tingling, dizzy and drunk on sensations. The way his mouth tastes, the softness of his skin under Billy’s scarred palm, the way his heart twists when Steve reaches out to touch his chest.

He pulls back, and rests his forehead against Steve’s. His eyes stay shut and he just breathes. Soaks up the moment.

“God,” Steve sighs, nuzzling their noses together. “Always knew you’d be good at that.”

“Yeah?” Billy asks quietly, fiddling with the stray locks of hair behind Steve’s ear. He’s feeling...raw. Vulnerable. It’s a fragile state of being, one wrong word away from breaking. Or a few right words away from fucking bliss, but that never seems to be how it goes for him.

“Yeah, even when we didn’t like each other I wondered. Annoyed the hell outta me.”

“Steve…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “I always liked you.” If his heart wasn’t already racing, it sure would be now. He braces himself for the worst.

But it doesn’t come. There’s a pause. Steve’s fingers curl into the front of his shirt. “Oh.” He presses a chaste kiss to Billy’s lips, lingering, before chuckling lightly. “That explains a lot actually.”

Billy’s cheeks burn. Yeah, he supposes it would. “You’re not...freaked out?” he ventures, hesitant.

“Mm, nope.” He reaches up, brushes a stray curl out of Billy’s face. “Definitely okay with this.”

I love you.

The thought doesn’t shock him but the desire to say it out loud does. The way it lodges itself in his throat and sticks. He hasn’t said it to anyone—hasn’t wanted to say it to anyone—since his mother left. The precedent is intimidating, but…

Steve smells like honey and clean air, laying in bed with Billy, warm and pliant next to him tracing patterns in Billy’s scars, his gaze is fond, his smile is soft, and...and Billy’s in love.

He swallows. Pushes it down for now.

He kisses Steve again. Slower. A gentle press of mouths, and another. Takes his time deepening it, teasing with his tongue. He waits for Steve to pull away, to decide that this thing is one thing too far, but it never happens. Steve lets him escalate, and gives as good as he gets.

They’re both breathless and flushed and Billy’s riding high on the bubbling warmth in his chest, lightheaded from it. He slides his leg over Steve’s, straddling his thigh, pressing down, seeking friction.

He shifts, rocking forward a little, and Steve moans, low and deep right in Billy’s ear.

They both freeze. Steve’s breath coming in ragged little bursts against the side of Billy’s face.

“Pretty boy, as much as I’d love to hear more of that, no one else in the house does.”

“Jesus christ.”

“No need to bring him into it.”

“Shut up,” Steve laughs and buries his face in Billy’s shoulder. “Just give me a minute.”

“Aw, I get you all riled up, baby?”

Steve slides a hand down, down, and palms Billy’s cock, drawing a short gasp from him. “Yes.”

They stay entangled the rest of the night, dozing in and out of consciousness, Steve pressing the occasional sleepy kiss to Billy’s collarbone. And...Billy’s not sure what will happen after tonight, but he knows it’ll be easier to deal with if he gets to keep this. Whatever this is. He doesn’t have the heart to ask, not yet, but for the first time in a while, he has hope.

#steve harrington #harringrove #billy hargrove #stranger things #harringrove ficlet #harringrove fic #a raven's writing desk

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rushingheadlong · 4 years

Text

A review of Queen: The Early Years

Well I have finally finished reading Queen: The Early Years, and now that I have read all 198 pages of this book I feel very confident in saying:

Yall I don’t think this is a good book. Like I really, really do not think this is a good book.

I’ve talked about some of this once or twice before, but I wanted to get all my thoughts about this in one place so, here we go. Brace yourselves, this is going to get wordy (as all my posts invariably do).

The Sources (or lack thereof)

The author wrote this book based on interviews with “over 60 friends and colleagues” of the band. Contrary to an earlier post of mine, he does provide a full list of the people he spoke with, however a lot of these connections are... dubious at best.

He does interview former band members of the groups they were each with before Queen, which might be the only good bits of this book. But a lot of the people he talked to fall under “friends of friends” or “casual acquaintances” or “knew them for a few months decades ago” and not really people who had deep insights into Queen as people, which is fine but he’s presenting their information as if they did.

He also doesn’t give any qualifiers for the information presented - and unless it’s a direct quote from someone, he doesn’t even tell you where he’s getting 90% of the “facts” in his book from. There are no in-text citations, apart from those sporadic quotes, and no bibliography list anywhere in this book.

Instead, he just presents everything he’s writing as the absolute truth with next to nothing to back up what he’s saying, apart from cherry-picked quotes from people who have their own biases in these conversations to begin with. He writes about how many of these people fell out of touch with Queen for 30+ years, and there are several moments during reading where I was wondering whether these stories that were being quoted were true or if it’s the sort of thing that these people made up for the purpose of getting their name in print (especially stories about Freddie).

In the interest of fairness, he does admit in the two-page epilogue that he knows the people he talks to will have their own slant to their stories but he claims that all biographies are “a random assembly of thoughts and recollections” as if to absolve himself of the work of verifying anything being told to him, or at least putting in the effort to let the reader know that things cannot be verified rather than simply presenting everything as pure objective fact.

Authorial Bias and Band Portrayal

The author very much comes across as writing about the band to fit his preconceived ideas of who they are. There are definitely points in the book where he presents images of the band that almost seem like caricatures - Freddie made out to be the deeply self-loathing gay who everyone knew wasn’t actually straight, Brian to be the aloof controlling perfectionist - with little to no nuance given to their actions or stories.

But there are also a lot of moments when it seems like the author doesn’t like the band at all and that he’s writing this book in an attempt to tarnish their image?

Like I wrote in one of my earlier posts, he literally says that Freddie and Brian had the power in the band and that Roger and John had “token” roles. He also implies that Queen only started attributing songwriting credit to the band as a whole beginning with The Miracle to prevent singles royalties from going to Freddie’s estate when he died. The author also often feels the need to put the blame for failed friendships solely on the band, and on several occasions implies that they “betrayed” the people who helped them out in their early career.

Because of this, and because he conveniently doesn’t provide sources for anything he says, it makes me call into question basically everything he writes in this book. Are these stories and facts all accurate, or is he spinning the truth to fit the story he wants to tell?

It’s worth noting also that he apparently asked Brian, Roger, and John for their input, and they and all their official representatives declined. It’s always a red flag for me when someone writes about Queen without the band’s involvement, but the author presents this situation as if he had been deeply wronged by this and implies that any bias in the book was because he didn’t have “their” side of the story - and not because he simply failed to do any work to validate what 60+ strangers were telling him.

I also want to give a warning that how he writes about Freddie’s sexuality is painful in a lot of places. It’s a combination of ideas that don’t hold up well in the 25 years since publication (for example, he says in one place that since Freddie went to an all-boys boarding school it was obvious that he would end up being queer) as well as loose anecdotes shared by people who didn’t know him well, but all felt that they had to give input about his sexuality.

It feels like every time this author interviewed someone about Freddie, he felt obligated to include their “opinion” on whether it was obvious that Freddie was gay in the early 70s or not. It’s a heavy and strange focus that gets really uncomfortable to read about after a while, and one that I don’t think is really appropriate to have been included to the degree that it was.

Misinformation

The author flat-out puts wrong information into this book. I will admit that most of what I picked up on during my read is trivial, but it’s the sort of trivial that makes me question his authority to write anything accurately and also (I believe) has led to misinformation being spread in other Queen writings.

He says that Brian’s parents could have afforded to buy him a guitar, and that the building of the Red Special was essentially an act of ego. This is directly contrary to everything that Brian has ever said on the topic, which is that his family was too poor to afford to buy him a guitar and that the Red Special was built out of an act of necessity. (This also ties into the author’s biased writing of Brian as a controlling perfectionist.)

He gives incorrect dates for concerts and tour information, as can be proven by other first-hand sources like ticket stubs and tour posters. (For example, he says that Queen played six shows in New York’s Uris Theatre in 1974, when we know they only played five.) Again, this is a minor thing but if he’s getting details like this wrong why should I trust his broader stories or conclusions that have no other verifying sources to be correct?

I also think his book is the origination for the story about Brian getting gangrene due to a dirty vaccine needle in 1974. I have a problem with this claim in that I don’t think it’s actually true, but this book is now the earliest source of the story that I’ve seen by over a decade. However since the author doesn’t cite anything in this book, I have no idea how he found this information (or whether he made it up himself).

I also suspect that this is the book that Mick Rock copied information from when compiling the timeline in his book Classic Queen, which was published 12 years later in 2007. Mick Rock not only copies the gangrene story (again, with no further information or citations given) but also includes a very specific reference to Brian complaining about not feeling well while on tour on April 21st, 1974 - a date which is also specifically referenced in The Early Years, again without any citation for where this information came from.

No one takes Mick Rock seriously as a good source for Queen information (beyond info about the photo sessions themselves, which is about the only thing within his scope of expertise). Now it seems like he might have copied those “facts” from this book, which means we might very well have a situation of one questionable book being copied by another until misinformation and lies get assumed to be true just because they’re in more than one place now, never mind that none of this is getting backed up by anything concrete.

Tiny details because I’m big mad about this book just in general

Maybe this is just my copy (which is a physical book, not a digital copy) but there are a lot of typos in this book. Mike Grose becomes Mike Crouse from one paragraph to the next. Words are misspelled, punctuation is missing... It’s a little jarring to see in a book that was actually physically printed up, and makes me wonder if this went through any sort of editing process whatsoever.

Conclusions, or something of the sort?

I need to admit here that I am very angry about this book, because particularly in the later chapters I think the author starts speculating about band dynamics and things from later in their career in a way that is entirely wrong and inappropriate.

However, for the most part, I did enjoy the first part of this book. Roger’s and John’s early chapters seemed to be fine (and from what I’ve been told, the information in Roger’s chapters is backed up in other, better researched, sources). The book started falling apart for me around Brian’s and Freddie’s chapters, though, and as it progressed it just kept going off the rails.

I’m actually really frustrated and disappointed by this, because there’s a lot in this book that reads like it could be true. There’s a lot here that sounds very believable, that seems to align with what others have said about the band, and that I didn’t blink twice at until the cracks started showing up and everything got called into question.

There’s nothing exactly wrong with writing a “biography” based solely on loose anecdotes, especially given that this was written in 1995 shortly after Freddie’s death and before a lot of the more contemporary sources had come out (like Brian’s books and the things him and Roger have said in more recent years).

But I do think that the author has a responsibility for doing some vetting of these stories, either by trying to verify what’s been said or making it apparent to the reader that some of the information is hearsay or has to be taken with a grain of salt. The Early Years doesn’t do that, though. This book is presenting itself as a labor of love from a tired, dedicated author who has toiled over tracking down these stories while being rebuffed by the band itself, and at no point does anything come with a caveat about what’s being said.

The author wants you read this book and assume everything in it is true. The author wants you to feel sorry for him that he couldn’t interview Queen directly, and frankly it seems like he wants you to side-eye the official Queen story (or at least question their morals and motives) in favor of agreeing with the narrative that he presents.

And that’s the big issue that I have with this book. Most of the information in here could very well be true - but as a reader, you aren’t given the tools you need to judge that for yourself and instead are encouraged to sympathize with the author and his work, and to take what he says as objective fact and not look at any of it too deeply.

And because of that, the entire book falls apart for me. If I know that the author is printing small details of misinformation, and I don’t have any way of verifying what is being printed here, and the author starts presenting conclusions and narratives that run counter to everything else that has been said about Queen... how can I trust that anything in this book is accurate on it’s own?

#text #long post //#ramblings

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cupofkey · 4 years

Text

@anniekawaii73 ahhhh thank you for your support!! I love every single person who read both sides now so much yall have my WHOLE heart and soul. literally I put my whole self into that fic. anyways I love germano (and other alt ships/rarepairs... @frukmerunning’s art has put me on the germano/itapan train) so here is your drabble about these gfs on a road trip. yes they are gay yes they are horrid drivers. yes I love them

anyways I hope you like this :)

Monika’s life flashes before her eyes again, for what must be the fifth time in the last ten minutes alone, and she can’t help gasping— she doesn’t scare easily, but it’s really getting a bit difficult to have some restraint at this point.

“Come on,” Chiara snaps, jerking the steering wheel to the right and cutting off a white sedan. “Quit being whiny about my driving, or I’ll never drive you again, and you can just drive the rest of the trip.”

The sedan honks furiously. Chiara swerves back into the other lane, having passed a couple of pickup trucks.

“I appreciate you,” Monika says, strained, “but if you take the next roundabout at this speed, we are going to flip over and die.”

“If we die, we die,” Chiara drawls. “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

“I… I hope so?”

Chiara huffs. “Whatever. Look, if you’re so offended, we’ll just switch off before we get back on the highway.”

“Alright,” Monika says. “Thank you.”

“Didn’t know you were so averse to my driving,” Chiara mutters.

“Well— just not, er, in the city,” Monika says, clenching her teeth as the car rocks dangerously to one side. “I mean, we’ve just been on the highway so far, which is less…”

“Full of fucking idiots.” As if to punctuate her statement, Chiara slams on the brakes and honks furiously at the minivan in front of them that’s pulling over.

Monika sighs. “People, yes.”

“Yeah, and we went on this road trip to get the fuck away from those,” Chiara says, flicking at her turn signal for less than a second before revving up between two cars. “Or, at least, I did.”

“Fair enough,” Monika says, her nerves tinged with ease, even fondness. Mostly, she finds herself glancing over at Chiara— focusing on the determined set of her face, the striking line of her profile, the way light plays over her knuckles and fingers on the steering wheel.

We might die, but I can’t complain about the company.

“Quit staring at me,” Chiara huffs. “I can fucking feel it. I’m trying to drive.”

“I can’t help it,” Monika says.

Chiara flushes, white-knuckling the wheel even tighter than she already is, her throat bobbing as she swallows. No response— a flash of buzzy elation squeezes Monika tight.

Ah, she’s so…

“Here, you weirdo,” Chiara grumbles, pulling into a strip mall parking lot and throwing the car in park. “So you can stop staring at me while I’m trying to focus. You better be the best fuckin’ driver on the planet.”

Monika snorts lightly. “I’ll try my hardest.”

So they get out of the car and switch, and Monika spends a solid minute readjusting everything to her height (“It’s not my fault you’re an Amazon,” Chiara says, although she doesn’t sound too angry about it.) Then she gets back onto the main road, following the signs pointing to the interstate— lawfully, because she prioritizes safety, and her focus is completely on the road.

That is, until Chiara squeaks.

“Are you—” Monika stutters, glancing over to see her girlfriend flattening herself against the seat, eyes big and jaw clenched. “Er, is something—”

“Why,” Chiara grits out, “are you driving. So fucking fast.”

Monika frowns. “I’m… is this fast? I’m in the left lane, I’m leaving space for other drivers, I’m signalling…”

“You’re literally driving over a hundred miles per hour.”

“And?” Monika says, a little defensively now. “You were swerving like a getaway driver back there.”

“Because people are slow and stupid,” Chiara hisses. “Nobody is being stupid here. There’s one other person and you’re trying to accelerate off the fucking planet.”

Monika winces— I’m not going that fast, am I? I’m not. This isn’t that fast for the highway, it’s just…

“Well,” she cautiously says. “It’s a little over the speed limit. But I’m careful.”

Chiara just groans, sinking into her seat and pressing her hands into her face. “A little. For Christ’s sake.”

“Do you want to…” Monika bites her lip, torn between feeling worried and amused, checking her mirrors and smoothly passing the car in front of her. “Maybe you can take a nap? You’ve been driving for the last few hours, after all.”

“How the hell can I nap when you’re driving like it’s NASCAR?”

“Alright, alright,” Monika sighs, “I’ll try to slow down. And I’ll pull over at the next rest stop so you can get a break. Is that okay?”

“Fine,” Chiara mumbles, and she curls up against the window, looking very…

Well, she doesn’t look angry. Just small.

Monika finds herself smiling at the road as the minutes tick by, easing her foot off the gas as much as she can handle, luxuriating in the gentle brush of the air conditioning against her face. Maybe we’re both idiots who can’t drive safely, but I can’t bring myself to mind. The fact that I’m taking a trip with her at all…

“Hey, one mile,” Chiara announces, pointing at the sign indicating a rest stop. “Get over there.”

“Alright, alright,” Monika chuckles.

She signals, changes lanes, finally slows down to the speed limit as she takes the exit. It’s a pretty small rest stop, all things considered: there isn’t much beyond a modest restroom and a single park bench, a dented trash can that’s near overflowing with scraps of this and that, a couple beat-up looking cars.

Monika pulls into a parking space, checks her reference points. They get out of the car and stretch.

“I’m never letting you drive on the highway again,” Chiara declares. “We’re taking the scenic route from now on.”

Monika chuckles, twisting left and right. “Didn’t we decide it was a waste of gas?”

“No, you decided,” Chiara says. “And my sanity is a hell of a lot more important than gas money. I don’t want you to crash and die in front of me.”

The words are morbid, flippant, and horribly, horribly endearing. Monika makes her way over to the passenger side.

“Only if I get to drive any time we enter city limits,” she dryly says.

Chiara huffs. “Deal. Now come here, I was seriously fuckin’ worried.”

She tilts up on her tiptoes, something that makes Monika’s heartbeat race uncontrollably— oh, god, she’s so lovely, I think I’m going to die.

Well, maybe not. As long as Chiara sticks to driving on the highway.

#aph #hws #hetalia #writing #fic writing #my writing #drabble #one shot #writing request fill #germano #nyo germano #hws germany #nyo germany #hws romano #nyo romano

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