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atlabeth · 1 day

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pretty boy

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer walks in one day with a new look. you handle it pretty well.

a/n: im in the opposite of a writing slump right now (will prob fall into a writing slump right after i say this) probably because im procrastinating on essays for school and i can only write when im meant to be doing work. but tiny little fluffy spencer one shots are very good for the soul right now. i think it's my way of healing from my hotch fic

wc: 1.8k

warning(s): one slightly sexual joke from emily. all fluff

You usually don’t get to the office this early, but you don’t exactly have a choice. The BAU’s last couple cases have all run one after another, barely leaving you any time in the office, and now you’re paying for it.

You’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through and not nearly enough time to do it all—if you’re lucky, you’ll be writing reports for a few days straight. If you’re not, you’ll be putting in some overtime.

“This is the most focused I’ve ever seen you this early,” Derek comments.

You shake your head with a sigh. “These reports are government mandated torture.”

He chuckles, and he nods at Emily as she walks over to her desk. “Are you this busy?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve still got a report to get through, but nothing that bad.”

“I get it,” you say wryly. “You’re all more organized than me. Just don’t come to me asking to go out tonight—you know I can’t say no.”

“But don’t shots taste better when you’re supposed to be doing work?” Derek asks, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.

“Not when I’ve got this much work I’m supposed to be doing.”

You hear the elevator ding and glance up—Spencer’s walking through and fixing his tie. You look back down at your report as you greet him.

“Hey, Spence,” you call. “Why’re you late?”

“I’m not late,” he says, and you can see him checking his watch out of your peripherals. “I’m two minutes and thirty-three seconds early.”

“Really?” you muse. “I guess I’m just so used to you being here before me.”

“You can’t judge my timeliness on yours when you’ve been here for an hour already,” Spencer says.

You frown, tapping your pen against the paper. “How do you know?”

“You’re settled in already. Your coat’s on your chair, your stack of unfinished files is smaller than it was last time we were in the office, your coffee isn’t steaming, and your mug has a chipped handle—when they were put away last night, that one was set in the front, so you’d have to be here early to get it.”

“Touche,” you murmur. You’re not sure why you ever ask your team of profilers how they know something.

“You also look like you don’t want to be here,” he comments. “That’s pretty typical of agents who have to be here before their regular hours.”

You chuckle and tilt your head in admission. You don’t really want to be here, especially running on so few hours of sleep.

“Why aren’t you as early as usual?” Emily asks.

“My neighbor knocked on my door this morning to ask me for something,” Spencer says. “It threw off my whole routine. I picked the wrong tie, I couldn’t pack my bag properly, and I had to toast my bagel for two minutes instead of three and a half to make it out in time.”

“How terrible,” Derek says with mock austerity.

“It is terrible!” he exclaims. “It’s scientifically proven that a morning routine makes you happier, more energized, and ready to seize the day—carpe diem.” Spencer sets his bag on the floor next to his desk and looks at everyone else with a smile. “Did you know that phrase was actually coined by the Roman poet Horace in his Odes? It comes from the first book out of four in the eleventh poem—the full phrase in Latin is carpe diem, quam mini—”

“How was your bagel?” Emily asks to interrupt him, and he pauses.

“It was good,” he says. “Could’ve been toastier.”

You look up, a teasing remark on the edge of your tongue, but the words die in your throat when you actually see him.

Spencer’s started combing a hand through his hair to fix it—must have been another part of his affected morning routine—his lips set in a pout as he tries to see his reflection in his dark monitor. He always looks good, even without trying, but now—

“You’re wearing glasses,” you say dumbly.

“My contacts dried out,” he grumbles, still focused on his hair. “We got home so late last night I forgot to put them in their solution, and I had no time to fix them because my neighbor messed up my whole morning.”

You nod, still unable to tear your eyes away from him. “Are you gonna keep wearing them?”

“I don’t know. Contacts are better for cases because I’m not worried about them falling off or fogging up, but I usually sleep on the jet on the way back, and sleeping with contacts in isn’t good.” He smiles a bit as he fully turns to you, seemingly satisfied with his hair. “It reduces the amount of oxygen that gets to your cornea, which damages the cornea’s surface and makes it harder to regenerate new cells. Sleeping with contacts actually makes you six to eight times more likely to get an eye infection.”

You nod again, your brain still not quite working at full power. You always love listening to Spencer’s fact dumps—it gives you a lot of material to impress your non-BAU friends with on the side, and you’re eternally thankful for that—but right now, you seriously cannot focus.

You’d never really thought about him in glasses, but that’s probably a good thing if this is how it makes you feel.

You were valedictorian as an undergrad, and you received stellar feedback from your professors during your masters program. You’re an excellent profiler, a valued member of the BAU, and you’re a goddamn FBI agent.

And yet you can’t find a single thought in your head because your coworker showed up to work wearing glasses.

He’s still rambling about other common causes of eye infection and how nobody seems to take them as seriously as they should, when Derek, not even trying to hide his grin at your turmoil, speaks up.

“Reid. Wanna cool it a bit?”

Spencer’s eyes dart over to him for a moment before he stops. “Uh— sorry.” He frowns as he looks back at you. “Why do you ask? Do you not like them?”

“No,” you blurt out, and you shake your head a multitude of times. “No. They look great. You look great. They’re—” You dig your nails hard into your palm as you try your hardest to smile like normal, and this time you nod. “They’re good, Spence.”

“Thanks.” Spencer does that little smile-nod combo of his, and he pushes his glasses back into place with his thumb by the bottom of the frames. “That’s nice to know I’ve got another option.”

You thank whatever god may be out there that Hotch and Penelope are busy in their offices and JJ is busy with some other case, because you think you would die if anyone else saw you like this.

“Hey, Reid,” Emily says, also not doing a very good job of hiding her amusement. You hate your team sometimes. “They’re almost out of sugar in the breakroom. If you want coffee the way you like it this morning, you should probably get in there.”

“What?” Spencer shoots up, his brows already furrowing into a frown. “That— that’s ridiculous. I can’t mess up my morning any more.”

“You’d better get in there, then,” she remarks.

“We’re an entire office of agents running on coffee,” Spencer complains as he starts walking. “How are we almost out of sugar?”

“Because half of ‘em drink it black,” Derek says, and Spencer shakes his head with a sigh as he leaves.

“That’s ridiculous.”

You bury your head in your hands the moment he’s gone and Derek laughs. “I wish I could’ve gotten that on video.”

“Don’t talk to me,” you groan. “It is not fair of him to walk in like that.”

“And that is why I call him pretty boy.”

“He needs them to see,” Emily says with amusement as she leans against the side of your desk. “You just can’t control yourself.”

“I need to transfer offices,” you say, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.”

“You should ask him out!” Derek encourages. “He’d probably say yes.”

“Absolutely not,” you insist. “I doubt he likes me like that. A— and even if he does, that’s the last thing either of us need right now.”

“I don’t know,” Emily muses. “It looks like you clearly need something.”

You let out a frustrated noise as you screw your eyes shut. “I’m doomed.”

You hear Spencer say your name, and when you look over at him, one hand still pressed against your head, you see he’s got two cups of coffee in his hands. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you say weakly. “I’m great. Why?”

“I got you one too,” he says, holding one of the mugs out to you. “The one you have is probably cold by now, and it looks like you need an extra kick to get through all those reports.”

“Thanks, Spence. That’s sweet.” He nods as you take the proffered mug, and you swear your cheeks are as warm as the coffee. He is really testing your strength today.

“You— you have a lot,” he says, and you huff a dry laugh and nod. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic. I could take half of them if you want?”

Your grip tightens on the mug and you can feel Derek’s eyes on you. “I couldn’t make you do that, Spence.”

“You’re not!” Spencer exclaims. “I can get through mine really quickly—we worked together for almost the whole last case so I can do all of that anyways.”

“...You’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?”

“I’m sure,” he nods. “Besides, I offered. I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to.”

And god damn him, because he nudges his glasses back into place again, pushes a strand of loose hair back into place. You’re dying over here.

You set the mug of coffee on your desk and pick up the top half of your pile. “All yours, Spence.”

He takes the bottom half and smiles at you, and you smile back before he walks back to his desk. You are dying over here.

“Let me know how I can pay you back,” you say, and he shakes his head.

“You don’t need to pay me back.”

“Really?”

Spencer nods. “I mean, Morgan invited us all out on the jet last night, and I don’t think I can do it alone. If you can get out of the office in time, I don’t have to. I think that's enough of a payback.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll be there.”

He smiles again and nods, then he picks up a pen and focuses in. You turn back to your desk, your face burning.

“What was that about him not liking you like that?” Derek says.

“Quiet!” you whisper-yell, swatting him with the pile of files in your hand. “He might hear you!”

“He’s not hearing anything while he’s focused on that,” he says. “That just means you can ogle him more.”

You groan again, letting your forehead fall into your palm. “I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re right.” Emily chuckles as she stands up. “You are doomed.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff #x reader #sadie writes

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dykenav · 2 years

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THE THING IN THE FOREST: DRAMATIC MEDIATIONS ON GREYWAREN CHARACTERS

I am Declan Lynch. I am the boy erased by purposeful blandness, the boy who crafted a mask so thoroughly it became him. I am the boy who hides his soul in the attic full of paintings and the fancy shoes he can’t seem to convince himself not to wear, despite how hard he tries. I am the brother who committed to staying safe by becoming nothing, unnoticeable, unremarkable, afraid that if too much space is taken up by something like a personality there will be knives at my throat and nightmares I can’t even imagine. I am the brother who had to be responsible, because no one else would, the one who continued to play the part even when my insides were breaking again and again and again and again and again.

I am Adam Parrish. I am the boy with insatiable ambition, desperate to rewrite his past. I am the boy that feels unknowable. I am the boy playing life like a strategy game, unconcerned about who I have to lie to or what rules I have to break. I am the boy who believes helplessly that if I can just get somewhere, if I can just make something of my life, if I can become some picture of success then maybe all that pain could be worth it. I am the boy who can’t allow the reality of myself to be held by more than one person. I am the boy who tries to convince himself not to love and fails miserably. I am the boy who collects crying friends, the boy with the quiet otherworldly power only few seem to understand. I am the uncanny stranger next to you. I am the outsider in every room. I am desperate to belong to a world not made for me.

I am Ronan Lynch. I am the car crash you can’t stop happening. I am everyone’s problem they don’t know how to solve. I am the disaster in your dorm room. I am the thing that wakes with my rage in my hands. I am the brooding misunderstood teenager, I am the young boy who is lonely. I am the soft and fragile thing hidden in glares and snarls. I am the thing in the shape of a human longing desperately to be real. I am the thing with too many feelings. I don’t know how to survive in this world. I don’t know how to be complete in the other. I am the thing that loves fiercely, I am the thing terrified of my hugeness and my smallness both, because neither have given me a place to belong. I am the god dreaming of being a baby dreaming of being a god.

I am Jordan Hennessy. I am the girl who runs from her own mirror, and yet finds herself surrounded by it everywhere she turns. I am the girl who cannot help but re-create herself, again and again and again, hoping that at least one version will turn out better than the original, or at least stay alive long enough to find out. I am the girl with the void inside of her big enough to destroy the world. I am the girl who’s first experience of love came from the act of painting over her mother’s horrible portrait of a daughter she did not bother to know. I am the girl who hates herself, but I am also the girl brave enough to love herself even when she is terrified of what loving herself might mean, and not knowing if it will ever be possible for her to love or be loved by anyone else. I am the explosion of words in the room, I am the car crash that happened on purpose. I am the artist who dreams while awake.

I am the other Jordan Hennessy. I am the girl who’s never had her own life. I am a girl made of dreams with dreams of her own she’s not allowed to have. I am the girl that stays awake only by the ceaseless and restless pursuit of art that is bigger than reality. I am the girl with lost memories. I am the girl with no option but to create her future, because her past was never truly hers.

I am Carmen Farooq-Lane. I am the woman who gave her life to a cause that betrayed her. I am the woman with blood on her hands. I am the woman who learned to control herself because she couldn’t control her volatile brother, and someone had to be controlled. I am the woman who must keep herself together, no matter what it takes, no matter what she loses, I am the woman who can’t seem to stop what she is desperately trying to stop, what we all know is coming. I am the woman with the apocalypse inside her.

I am Matthew Lynch. I am the golden child, the easy one, the one that everyone loves simply because I am good, because there is nothing about me to suggest any wrongness. I am the brother who isn’t real. I am the boy who does not know himself, because all he has been is what was dreamt into him, what he has allowed others to shape him into. I am the boy who tries to fight his brightness in rebellion. I am the boy who can’t help but make others smile anyway.

I am the being known as Bryde. I am the ancient voice in the forest that just appeared yesterday. I am the disdainful hawkish man who believes the world is killing him and killing itself. I am the guy who is mostly right, but is wrong in the ways that matter. I am the one who does not know if he can trust what he knows. I am the angst of a teenage boy and the wisdom of a god and the longing of a revolution. I am the one who does not know if there is anything left worth saving.

I am Liliana the Visionary. I am the maiden, the mother and the crone. I am the human volcano; I am the woman who must erupt to stay alive. I am the woman who chooses her own life, no matter the destruction it causes. I am the woman who believes despite everything that it will all work out. I am the woman with the sound of all her years within her. I am the woman who refuses to keep it all in.

I am Mór Ó Corra. I am the woman who can’t help but dream pain into everything she touches. I too am afraid of the thing in the forest. I too wonder if it was a mistake to bring it to life.

I am Niall Lynch. I am the father with a heart bigger than his brain. I too want to love the thing I’m afraid of. I too want desperately to make it human.

I am the Lace. I am the dark mirror you do not want to face. I am the dream where you can’t wake up. I am the dream where it was all your fault. I am the dream of the world without magic. I am the thing that shows you what you already feared. I am the shadow of the world that will not stop until the world faces itself. I am the voice you already know.

I am the Greywaren. I am the thing in the forest, the thing beyond worlds, choosing life, again and again and again. I am the thing that belongs nowhere and everywhere. I am the thing that talks to you in your dreams. I am the power of possibility. I am the bravery of deciding what to make real, what to love, what to become. I am the thread of magic that connects us all. I am the end in the beginning in the end.

#I don’t know what this is but I started it and couldn’t stop so #not really an essay not really a fic not really a poem but something in between that #greywaren #the dreamer trilogy #greywaren analysis #tdt analysis #trc analysis #declan lynch #ronan lynch #jordan hennessy #matthew lynch #mor o corra #adam parrish #carmen farooq lane #liliana #bryde #niall lynch #tdt #my writing

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thesillyexpresser · 2 months

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After reading a fic with (the best most thought provoking depiction of) AI Turo, it reminded me of a certain poem from Evangelion, so I drew this ✨💜

No text version, a way to philosophical rambling based off of mentioned fic and Evangelion that’s about an essay long, and a doodle under the cut v

Features Spoilers for Pokemon SV and references to Evangelion anyways let’s start the ramble

SOOOoooo this fic (📒 Turn Back the Clock by MahinaPea11) has what I believe hands down one of the bestest thought provoking depictions of AI Turo (FYI: it is a yn romance fic in the 2nd pov and it is tagged as smut BUT the work is relatively 98% SFW and the smut tag was for a smut chapter that never really came as of now) (and that two percent NSFW is the yn getting attacked with a description of every bone they broke in the first chapter and a weird bath scene in chapter 4 so if you like robots questioning their existence and having crises but not smoochy smooching and awkward moments [aka me] you can skip some of that) (I’m not the biggest fan of yn romance as of the second pov category and get really uncomfortable around smut and 18+ crap but I actually really really enjoyed it and if you like man-made objects having epiphanies about their own human identity, I highly suggest this) (and before you ask what I was doing reading a yn romance fic, I was feeling really sick n’ crappy so much so that I gave up my pride and actually read it).

Anyways, enough with explaining myself. The main reason (of course there’s more reasons but here’s the most thought provoking one) I really like this fic (specifically in the 6th chapter) is because it deals with something that I found interesting about the Prof AI as a character, how they feel about being the original Professor and not. In a sense they are the og. They have all the memories of the og. They look like the og. The sound like the og. They are meant to represent wholly the og. But at the same time, they’ve explained they’re different. They don’t see eye to eye on the beliefs and dreams of the original. Yet, it’s not like they have to drastically physically change themself to assert that. I don’t think that’s something they’d want to do anyways. They’re just them. A being of wires that has the memories and experiences of a real person but never actually lived through them. They an exact copy of another person but different all the same. They are a vessel for a soul that isn’t really theirs. They’ve lived through a life though not really having one anyways. Do they have a life?

The reason why I chose lines from Rei’s I am Me poem from episode 14 as text for the art is because I think her situation is similar. She is (theorized to be) a copy of Yui. Although she isn’t seemingly aware of this, I think she is partially aware that she’s man made. She questions if this factor means she’s qualified to be called a life form of if she simply is an object. To be called her own person separate from what she was made to do.

Not to negate Rei as a character, but I like to think that somehow the AI profs have dealt with this contemplation, too, and I think it’s made worse with how they actually know for certain that they were made just as a mechanical copy as their creator. They themself are a paradox of Area Zero, and I believe they simply accept this. They accept the fact that they’re a tin can representative of a dead person rotting away in the ground. They accept the fact that they are different from each other and that they am their own being. I’m pretty sure that from their realization of the og professor’s flaws and them leaving at the end of the story, that they were still dealing with the “people” they are. In the fic, AI Turo even has the balls to consider himself to be considered a living being (and good for him).

Holy crap I went too philosophical and deep and whatever here’s a doodle I made.

#art #artwork #doodle #character art #pokemon #artists on tumblr #professor turo #pokemon violet #illustration #fanfic rambles #rambles #ai turo #going way too philosophical #evangelion reference #ポケモンsv #pokemon scarlet and violet #TheSillyRambler9000

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sword-dad-fukuzawa · 4 months

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here’s to a year of trigun :] just a cute little (1k. oops.) essay reflecting back on how it’s changed my life.

(twitter crosspost LOL)

You know that strange, dissatisfying limbo between hyperfixations? That was me in January. A 2-year long obsession with Genshin Impact was dragging itself to its grave and I was struggling with life. I got diagnosed with a rare chronic pain disorder at around the same time I caught mono and strep simultaneously (that week SUCKED), classes were kicking my ass, and I was experiencing the existential loneliness of adulthood for the first time.

University student things!

And to make it all extra unbearable, my writing was empty. Soulless. I’d write something for a zine and go damn—this shit is awful. Not because it was technically flawed or anything, but there was just…nothing there. I would stare at my stats page on Ao3 waiting for comments and then bitterly complain at my friends when no one wanted to read my work. Hell, I don’t think I wanted to read my work. I’m sure you know the feeling.

And because my writing is how I cope with Everything, being unable to write made the Everything so, so much worse.

Then—and I forget exactly how I heard about it—I learned that Trigun Stampede had just released its fourth episode. I knew of Trigun from a buddy of mine who had been excitement-posting about the reboot months before, but all I knew about the reboot was that Yoshitsugu Matsuoka was voicing the main character. I had a free afternoon—why not give it a try?

I still have my liveblogging from January. Here was my initial reaction:

I was having a great fuckin’ time.

February rolls around and I am immediately, irreversibly, hit with Plantcest brainrot so bad that I discard any pretense of being icked out by brocest ship and I write a 9k long KV thesis called “we’ve got to get back to that stinking garden,” named after a Natalie Diaz poem called “my brother named gethsemane,” which is, truly and genuinely, The Poem on Brothers (Complicated) of all time. That fic is where the visions and prophesies came back, where I started feeling like my writing was impactful again. Like it meant something. It was my first ever foray into in-narrative smut and the first of many, many attempts to capture a future where Vash and Knives love each other even after the end of everything.

This is really where I found my footing on Twitter and as a short story writer, I think. Where I started really caring about making every word of a narrative pay rent, about conveying and evoking specific, tangible feelings, and exploring genres of media I’d never really been interested in before. Before February, I wrote mostly genfic and T-rated romance. Every so often, I’d dabble in some graphic violence.

And hey! Now I write hardcore kink and graphic erotica. The gore I used to dabble in is now something I dive into feetfirst and with a rabid desire to make it as sexy as possible. I fetishize the crease of an elbow and the bristly sections of an undercut and I write about brothers having nasty, angry, dubiously consensual sex. I could not possibly tell you how I got here, but shit, man, I don’t regret a damn thing.

It’s through Trigun that I met some of the most talented, sweetest, most encouraging folk. Plantcest creators, Vashwood creators, people who saw me writing ZazieVash and went hello motherfucker please feed me some more, Romeryl enthusiasts, Kniveswood and Plantwood enjoyers…shit, guys. You’re all so fucking cool.

I got invited to a zine for the first time, I started taking commissions (and holy shit, what the fuck, I still can’t wrap my head around that at all. The fuck you mean, you’ll pay me Real Actual Money for personalized fic? Insane to me. I’m so goddamn grateful.) for the first time, and hell, I published a poetry collection for the first time. Which people downloaded? And tipped me for? What the fuck? I’m still reeling from that. Thank you, by the way. Genuinely.

What else this year…well. I commissioned art for the first time, I participated in more big bangs and exchanges than ever, I read voraciously and wrote with just as much fervor. I watched ‘98 and I cried and I read half of TriMax and cried some more. I wrote more erotica than I ever have, and I wrote more fic that I’m genuinely, painfully proud of this year than any other year.

A lot of my writing is about grief and rage, and a lot of it is about trying to be funny in the face of that. A lot of is about learning to live, because that’s what I’m doing right now, despite everything. A lot of it is about trying to be kind.

But in summary, because this is getting ridiculously long, here’s what I got out of Trigun:

Vash the Stampede refuses to die. I’m trying to emulate that.

Meryl Stryfe cares about doing the right thing, even if it means she’ll get in the middle of a fight between aliens armed with two bullets in a tiny pistol.

Wolfwood is carefully, disastrously kind. I want to be like that.

And Knives is nuttier than a Victorian lady in a room painted in arsenic green, but still. I love him anyway.

And Milly :] no thoughts about Milly. I love Milly because she is also incredibly kind :]

Trigun has changed my entire goddamn life this year. I think it’s made me a better person. It’s certainly made me a better writer, and it’s connected me to so many lovely and beautiful people. Thank you all for sticking around, and here’s to another year of love, peace, and unhinged porn. I love you all :]

#trigun

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fractalkiss · 6 months

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fic commentary/notes for the year you thought you were dying.

trying this thing where i do fic commentaries here instead of on dreamwidth since most of my recent dw posts will be private now.

influences:

there was this BL titled "my 40-year-old prostitute" in english or something like that that a mutual from twt recommended. look, it was good. im so fucking serious. the yaoi art was beautiful and sexy and it started out so well with compelling characters. but the translators ceased uploading translations by just chapter 2 in 2020 on [redacted] site. which effectively meant the premise never left me for months and i was so sad.

joke's on me tho all of this really became serious after i wrote tumblr ficlets of 1418 hooker au in response to some fun ask prompts in the summer, which are in my fic tag somewhere.

some quotes from more influences:

"It’s obvious that the range of people who sought out sex for money would change dramatically in a kinder, gentler world. [...] Sex work would also attract stone butches of all genders and sexual orientations—people who want to run the fuck but are not interested in experiencing their own sexual vulnerability and pleasure. Often these people are the most adept at manipulating other people’s experiences. They are more objective about their partners’ fantasies and do not become distracted by their own desires, since their needs to remain remote and in control are already being fulfilled. - pat califa, 1994, 2000

"You. What will you let yourself become for me?" - dorothy allison, her thighs, 1992.

the essay "her thighs" is about lesbian power play and so influential to me. i think dorothy allison is a very powerful writer and i love her poetry.

this is an allison excerpt from jane ward's the tragedy of heterosexuality:

i kept this in mind too while i was writing manuela's short backstory.

the process:

i wanted crazy thangs with the structure. i wanted most of the sexual intimacy to be revealed much later to the reader, after we go through mostly the companionship aspect of the service -- which i realise now is not crazy but a boring approach and would really change the story so i didnt do it.

sex pollen fic done this way is my fave tho. helenish wrote this sga fic called This Gun for Hire with sex amnesia in it where everyone is in denial in the aftermath about the kind of sex that was repeatedly happening. there are other fic examples (can't quite remember or have bookmarked) where the denial and delusion is so completely off the charts with a character in trying to get through the aftermath of the event without a freaky sex trope involved.

so i wondered if i could pull off that kind of blurriness and denial in the structure for a character who KNOWS what is happening but thinks they're still straight and will die straight lmao. but fernando in this story is just jaded, retiring and isn't cripplingly repressive.

the notes from my word tracker doc that i had to do to be able to write long fic. i laugh at this every time:

my projected word count for this was 20k, which was so off lmfao.

i put off getting them to have sexy fun in italy at one point because i didn't know yet what emotional point they needed to get to and what grounds they'd be on then. i wrote a bit of a very different scene to lead up to it, but then scrapped it. and then i wrote the auction night and the morning-after scene. tension and conflict (without having to use miscommunication as the necessary crutch) is always one of my most favorite things to write about so i was so glad i got to this point LOL. the payoff of reaching a compromise and then an emotional release later is so rewarding to me! i love that shit

emotionally i just knew i needed it to be like the mindy nettifee poem i grabbed the fic title from.

figuring out how to write lance in this fic was really hard ngl since i went into the story almost blind. cofi made me realise this blind spot when i showed her an early wip and i was like hold awn.... if i wasn't sending @strulovic broken drafts and doing lanceology consultations with her, i wouldn't have gotten anywhere in the story.

alonso being a divorcee irl is so important to each and every one of my agendas thank god for the gay uncle. i did a lot of google searching to be able to write fernando's approach to sex and relationships outside of the job. i knew what i wanted to take away, like the difficulties with intimacy that former workers have had, and still have after the industry sometimes. fernando scrubbing his hands clean at lance's place after the auction despite not having sex with the auction client, his views on wanting the sex with his ex-wife and other exes to be "acceptable and proper" in contrast to whatever he's done for work, and how the internalised homophobia warps this for him while he tries to play the gentleman with lance in italy (and lance being able to read through him and understand that fernando DOES want to fuck him nasty ‼️ though lance doesn't understand the extent of fernando's issue with it). there are also accounts where sex work gave a worker the experience, space and autonomy they needed to slowly heal from prior traumatic and/or abusive experiences. the research was very interesting.

relied on music A LOT. an honorary ldr song [hears collective groaning] that didn't get included in the fic playlist was Love song. lance was in that passenger seat beside fernando in their sleek '67 restored fiat on the way to umbria wishing and wishing to get railed.

ALMOST FORGOT TO INCLUDE: ferrari to mclaren 2.0 fernando was the print here. he keeps the ferrari depression beard ofc.

truly not an overstatement, i think this fic was what made writing smth as long as this quite enjoyable and bearable for me. dare i say fun! haha

#**#q

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 3 months

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Any advice on how I can spot plagiarism as a reader? It’s sad but lately I’m feeling suspicious (not towards you of course!)

The short answer is that you can't.

A longer answer beneath the cut.

First of all, I feel it's important to have a proper understanding of what plagiarism actually is. @em-writes-stuff-sometimes has a very helpful post regarding this, which you can read here.

There is no way to know for certain that a story isn't plagiarised, but for the sake of your enjoyment of fandom, I would not adopt a bad faith take. It's better to assume that most people don't, and just enjoy the stories.

However, if you are reading a fic and think to yourself "this feels familiar", take a few lines and drop them into Google. If it's a story already posted to Tumblr then it will come up within the first few search results. This approach does not work with AO3, unfortunately, so you really have to know the original story to be certain.

I thank you for your lack of suspicion towards me. I have plagiarised before - I was fifteen and my English class was given a substitute for two weeks while our usual teacher was on her honeymoon. I was balls deep in literary analysis of Of Mice and Men and loving it, then became resentful of the fact that a stranger had taken over my favourite subject and was forcing me to write an essay regarding a poem I had absolutely no interest in. So, I took an essay from the internet, switched a few paragraphs around and ran a few words through a thesaurus.

The substitute immediately clocked me and I was given a lunchtime detention to rewrite my essay in my own words. I ended up getting an A for the rewrite, something I could have earned if I'd just sucked it up and written the fucking essay in the first place, instead of being a petulant asshole that ended up losing their lunch break and the respect of the substitute teacher.

I have not plagiarised since. My fan fiction is all my own, though not without riffing heavily from George R.R Martin's source material (sorry, man, but I wouldn't need to do this if ASOIAF didn't have such a woeful lack of pegging)

Sorry for the long as fuck response and tangent. And I am sorry that the state of fandom has made you feel this way. Unfortunately, plagiarists will have us all duped, until their handiwork crosses the path of someone who has read the exact same story before. Keep reading and enjoying. I promise you those that steal are a very, very small minority.

#asked and answered

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myenterpriseisparked · 5 months

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⭐ :)

heheh thanks friend!

Something in my fics I have been wanting to commentate on:

Okay, so my fic, "And Still, The Sea is Salt," kinda orbits around an untitled poem by A.E. Houseman. I have the poem, in full, at the end of my fic, and each other chapter titles (as well as the title of the fic itself) are taken from this poem.

Stars, I have seen them fall, But when they drop and die No star is lost at all From all the star-sown sky. The toil of all that be Helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea, And still the sea is salt.

The poem was originally intended to show the meaninglessness of life. Fresh water rains into the sea and, yet, the sea is no less salty. We are each insignificant and unable to change the nature of what is around us.

I, however, was at a pivotal moment in my life and took an entirely different meaning from these lines.

Every day, we each come face-to-face with a world that thrives on individualism and apathy and, in the face of that, we each can be countercultural. We have the ability to care, to form community, to reach out and touch others. The saltlessness of the world does not have to make you less salty.

The poem also talks about how stars "fall" and, yet, none of the stars are really gone. This reminded me of the lasting nature of humanity and how we each carry pieces of people that we have interacted with and how they all carry pieces of us. I pronounce "J.C. Penny" like "Jaques Pen-yay" because that is how my grandmother always says it. I slap my knee when something's really funny because that is something my best friend does. I drink Mountain Dew because my dad always had one in his hand when I was growing up. On the flip side, my best friend calls animals "kiddos" because that's what I do. My ex-boyfriend's little brother still goes by the weird nickname I gave him even though we haven't spoken in years. My college professor still uses a paper I wrote as an example for one of his assignments. We all linger in each other's lives, even as we drift together and apart and, eventually, leave the world behind.

We endure within one another. We carry the stories and memories of many, many people in our flesh, our mouths, our minds, even if we don't realize it.

And so, my fic "And Still, The Sea is Salt" isn't so much a pikeuna fic as much as it's my narrative essay on how people's presences linger in each other's lives. No stars are lost at all. You leave pieces of yourself everywhere you go, and those pieces will outlive you, even if you don't realize it. And I find that to be a very comforting thought.

#I just want to make sure the pieces I leave are good ones #I know I don't always succeed at that #but I will keep trying

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decepti-thots · 5 months

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sorry if you've answered this somewhere already - out of the books you've read this year, which three did you enjoy the most? and out of the fics you've read this year, which three did you enjoy the most?

All the fics I loved this year I mostly recced as and when on my fic recs tag, and tbh I don't think I read enough TF fic this year to really sort them into a top three- if I loved it, I put it up somewhere, mostly. If I had to pluck three out, I'd say Red Gold (god tier Rodimus characterisation), Your Own Hands (a reread, but still my favourite taraprowl fic, it gets the nod) and... oh actually. Okay, this one isn't Transformers, but I have to give a shout out to this Lupin III interactive fiction Twine fic that is an INCREDIBLE use of form to do something very ambitious with a fic. It's so good! If I do have any even casual Lupin enjoyers following me, definitely take a look.

The books, discounting one I already recommended:

Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic, translated by Sophus Helle, is probably the single best book I read this year. I love the Epic of Gilgamesh very much, and this is a lovely translation, but what tipped it over for me was his essays after the poem where he discusses it in a way that is both accessible and also gets into the finer points of how to approach and appreciate the poem in a wider context. His discussion of the way gender plays into the power structures of the poem and the overview he gives of contemporary Iraqi cultural reaction to the poem were especially interesting. Especially after the former, I am really excited to read his book published this year translating and discussing all the poems of Enheduanna! Highly recommended. God I love Gilgamesh.

I reread The Invention of Love by Tom Stoppard, a play set in the Victorian era based (very loosely) around the life, death and afterlife of A. E. Housman. It's a really dense play on a lot of levels, mostly well known for being really obtuse. It has about six deeply obscure references to classical scholarship per sentence, twice as many offhand references to Victorian Oxbridge Stuff that go unremarked on, the timeline constantly jumps back and forth, a meaningful chunk of it is a dead guy talking to his younger self on the Styx, and they spend most of that time discussing the minutiae of latin grammar in poetry (with absolutely no dumbing down for the audience) as a metaphor for their unrequited yearning. I believe when it premiered on Broadway, they basically had to provide a book of like. Explanations as to what the fuck every other conversation was referencing. But I love it, even though I understand maybe fifty percent of it, because it's so beautifully written and clever and funny and able to withdraw from the ever-present threat of sentimentality. One of my favourite plays of all time. The 'poetical feelings are a peril to scholarship' exchange gets me every time. On my knees begging for a fucking proshot to be made of a performance one day.

A Play of Bodies: How We Perceive Videogames by Brendan Keogh is my favourite nonfiction by a narrow margin. It's a book that outlines a way to approach analysis and criticism of video games through a phenomenological framework, and it made me completely re-think how I understand what the 'text' of a video game is. This one is very much a work of academia, though it does give a lot more overview of what phenomenology is than, say, the average philosophy text is likely to, since it sits more in the 'games studies' area where that's not taken as much for granted, so it's not totally inaccessible. It made me think a lot about how video games exist as a unique medium in ways that completely diverge from the standard narrative of 'videogames are unique due to interactivity'. It takes a lot for me to be impressed by writing about games, given just how much of it I read/have read, but Keogh never disappoints.

#ask meme

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marcspectrr · 2 years

Text

I headcanon that Steven is a writer.

I'm putting this all into a fic but I wanted to kinda break it down.

He's got all this love for all this information left behind by people who wrote as a way of expressing the way they saw the world and the people in it. He surrounds himself with words and immerses himself in them at nearly all hours of the day. For leisure, for comfort, for escape, for feelings of actually being alive rather than being ignored. The sensation of finding what it means to be human lies in books, for him. And he reads. I'm talking losing track of time and his surroundings reads, falling asleep with his glasses on and a book on his chest reads, prepping his food absentmindedly with the hand that's not holding the pages reads. Pieces with metrical rhythm and emotion and impressionistic style like poetry, and more prosaic and objective and formal --- two very different stances of the world, both of which he just absorbs. He goes from reading poems that emphasize the duality between romantic love and melancholy to encyclopedias on the communal stability that marriages in ancient Egypt provided. Fiction and non-fiction. Articles and letters and memoirs and essays. Short stories and thousand page novels. Old narratives and new. Maybe even plays. And the best way to become a better writer is to read, so of course he's found his voice through writing.

He leaves behind a million and one notations in his books --- making corrections, 'it was actually during the Old Kingdom, around 2,500 B.C. to be exact. How mental!', to scribbling a small but neat stream of consciousness down the side of the page, 'can't imagine how it must've felt to observe lunar cycles and realize the impact on the ability to harvest --- looking up and attaching even more meaning to them, another story to something we don't have the answers for.' He writes without realizing sometimes, the words just pour from him, begging for somewhere to land, somewhere where they're preserved in a way they would be if they were to instead fall on listening and intrigued ears. Nobody shuts him down this way. He can spill these passing thoughts with no judgment so he does. Not only in the dusty margins but on empty pages too, making things he only wishes he could say deserving of more meaning.

Marc sees this. He's always had an itch for knowledge he couldn't summon the care for, somehow, always felt drawn to libraries and book shops and literature he couldn't harbor intrigue for to save his life. He wasn't the brightest in school but managed to pass without much effort on his behalf and he always had suspicion as to what the reason for that was. Or who the reason was. Soon, whenever he felt pulled towards words like 'paleolithic' (whatever the fuck that meant), he'd think of one name. Steven. The National Geographic channel is a mumble, playing not too far from where he sat, but before he knows it his eyes find themselves drifting back to the screen. Steven. He fills the flat with things that cause these inexplicable pulls. Books, mostly. A lot of books. Whenever he goes out on missions he begins to...collect. Vague souvenirs, he thinks, swiping a little paper weight in the shape and a pyramid off the shelf. Knick knacks, he knows his dad would call them, though he didn't really agree with the term. They weren't inherently meaningless. Somehow he knew Steven would infuse meaning in the handmade rug from Milan even if he was under the impression that he'd never been there to attach sentimental value to it. (Handmade, yeah, it was pricy, but that particular job paid him generously, and Marc found the sand-filled gaps in the floor to be a little depressing, nothing a couple thousand euros worth of handmade rug couldn't fix.)

Over time, the flat fills up. More books, unsurprisingly, but also documentaries. Some vinyl records, the beginning of a nice collection that Marc can't help but want to indulge in, oddly curious of Steven's taste in music. He doesn't, because it's Steven's, not his. It doesn't belong to him, that was the whole point of buying the appartment in the first place. This is Steven's flat, filled with the beginnings of all of his own knick kn-- collections, and he wasn't about to contaminate that. Marc was merely an observer, occasionally using a hollow space to hide the essentials in existing post-this-is-the-beginning-of-the-closing-part-of-my-life-I'm-almost-gone-I-promise. A phone holding a contact of the only person who's ever truly loved him to torture himself with, a charger to senslessly charge said phone, and a key to a place he can't stand being in but deserves.

The books turn into journals, and something twists in Marc's stomach when he realizes this. Marc was never a writer, but he knows how intimate the act can be, what kinds of things can be confessed on a blank page meant only for the eyes that filled the blank lines. He catches himself guiltily glossing over a series of scribbles, one left open on the cluttered desk, one made up of handwriting he would soon recognize and be one more distinct thing he saw that bled into the thought of Steven. It was neat, half cursive, probably from haste, a little different from his own. He tore his eyes away after a minute, forcing himself to finish erasing the traces of himself he'd incidentally left throughout the flat that night. One line had stuck, though, replaying in his head as he carefully dragged the rickety table back into its place. 'Doesn't have to be that grand to feel like I'm helping, though. Talked to a nice lady yesterday for nearly an hour about ancient cuisines throughout Egypt, and she seemed fascinated, really. It felt nice.' Maybe it was selfish to cling to it, to feel a wave of relief wash over him at the thought that Steven was...was happy. Steven was happy. Marc didn't know what to feel. Relief was new for him.

Besides the journals, there were a dozen or so books left open at all times, with annotations Marc couldn't really understand most of the time but he smiles nonetheless at the absurdity of some of 'em. They were less private than the journals, easier to read and gauge the man's state of mind from afar. After...everything, Steven begins to leave sticky notes around, specifically for Marc to read. They're a baby blue color, stuck to the front of the fridge informing him vegetables do happen to exist, to the bathroom mirror telling him they're almost out of shaving cream, and sometimes around the edges of pages left open on the desk, inviting Marc's eyes to the excerpts and comments. One baby blue sticky note holds two arrows pointing to some stars in some familiar constellations taking up the page, The Big and Little Dipper. Marc reads: 'You know they named these 'The Indestructibles'? They're undying stars, constantly rotating, believed to be a safe portal to the afterlife. Think it's a nice sentiment, to have something constant like that and deem it literally incapable of destruction, innit?'

Marc feels a hint of that childhood wonder trickle back into him as he stares at the stars. It's not so tainted like it used to be. He used to shove it away, knowing it was too close to memories of sitting in the backyard with RoRo making up stories for each star to be safe for him feel. Now, he felt a fondness with it as he reached for a pen and an orange sticky note. Thinking about when exactly Steven placed his affinity for the night sky, if he felt pulls towards it like Marc felt towards books. There is a quiet sense of still getting to share the allurement with a brother that causes his hand to shake in the slightest as he writes on the sticky note.

'That's pretty fuckin cool.'

#moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #moon knight meta #mk meta #this is something thats so important to me you have no idea #and i theres a whole separate thing about marc and layla writing letters to each other that i wanna get into later #its just like...my favorite thing to think about is ways in which marc and steven connect #but dont even get me started on how jake plays into all this i will not shut up ahfkfkfk

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cboffshore · 3 months

Text

20 Questions for Fic Writers

thanks for the tag, @fabrowrites!

Tagging: @basicallyjaywalker and, uh, I'm not really sure. NWOD buddies, if you see this, you're all welcome to hop on too!

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

Twelve! One is technically a mini essay collection and one is a poem, though, so ten proper fics.

2. what's your total ao3 word count?

122,397!!! Which is.... wow!!

3. what fandoms do you write for?

Ninjago. That's it. I don't really engage with other shows enough to write fic for them, and I think writing fic for IRL bands and such is weird as hell, so I don't that at all.

4. what are your top five fics by kudos?

Oh boy, let's see:

A Disappearing Act (Done Poorly) leads the race, which makes sense - she's been around the longest!

It Doesn't Take Much (To Cover Up Small Cuts) is a bit of a surprise, but so worth it.

The Splinter in the Blind Man's Eye: An Unofficial Revision . What a great group project. Too bad Tommy wandered off to work on Dreamzzz or whatever... This one is like a tombstone on my account. Or maybe a mausoleum...

Just Cross The Waters my beloved!

Coughing Up Feathers is one that I'm amazed isn't higher - kind of had a spike in activity when I updated OSSAS this year.

5. do you respond to comments

YES. I love to blabber. Please ask me questions!!

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Elegy Above Sea Level isn't a fic - it's that single poem I mentioned earlier - but it's really the only work I have that ends on a purely bitter note. I don't deal in unbalanced angst, but I like this one. Goes down like a raw spoonful of cocoa powder, honestly, and I adore it.

7. what is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oof, that's... that's a tough one. I would have to say Coughing Up Feathers purely because it's got a miniature "everyone laughs" ending that still makes me smile when I read it back.

8. do you get hate on fics?

No, and you know what? I wish I did, sort of. Maybe not outright hate, though. As much as I love opening my comments to find my readers excited for me, it does get a little repetitive sometimes. Peer review me in the comments! Find an inconsistency and make me justify it! Lord knows I've done my share of criticism (on Tumblr and Discord, though - I'm just nice enough to not do it in the comments) and I think it would be fun to get that energy back. Plus, spite fuels me! If you make me mad, you get more writing. Win-win.

9. do you write smut? if so, what kind?

Nope. Never. I would rather eat pillow stuffing.

10. do you write crossovers? what's the craziest one you've written?

Not any more, but my very first fic from middle school was a god-awful triple hit of Star Wars (with total homebrew lore, all I kept were the lightsabers and Force tricks), Ninjago, and - get this - Lindsey Stirling. I abandoned it halfway through the Rise of the Snakes season installment.

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope! That's the nice thing about focusing on an underappreciated angle - everyone else pays attention to the big, popular stuff, and only the people who would appreciate it even look twice at mine.

12. what's the longest you've spent working on a fic? and the shortest?

If I Can Think (Of Something Clever) took me about three months of on and off writing, plus LOADS of planning, so that's my longest! On the other hand, I wrote Wouldn't It Be Grand? (It Ain't Exactly What You Planned) in the span of a few hours.

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope! Not sure I want to, either, although maybe someday...

14. what's your all-time favorite ship? from all fandoms?

IT'S THE MISFORTUNE'S KEEP. I don't do romance, not really, although to properly answer that I will confess that I do like Jaya enough to write it now and then.

15. what's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I don't really have any WIPs in limbo right now, so I don't have an answer here? Either I finish a fic or I lay it to rest when the momentum dies. No middle ground.

16. what are your writing strengths?

I've been told that I'm very good at comedic timing and imagery! I love trying to paint the mental image of a room - sometimes I even do floor plans to help me out.

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

I worry that my action writing is a little too straightforward - I write like I had to when I was a stage manager, so my actions are VERY cut and dried. It helps me visualize better, so I'm unlikely to change, but I wonder sometimes if my readers get sick of it.

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I've never done it, but I think it's a cool idea!

19. first fandom you wrote for?

Ninjago. I've never written fic for any other.

20. favorite fic you've written?

My favorite usually tends to be my most recent, so that honor goes to If I Can Think (Of Something Clever). It also breaks a few records - both in personal best fic length, and in the fact that it's the first fic I've ever seen that comprehensively gets to Nya's experience during e63 instead of just nodding at it during the aftermath. That entire series is fueled by that "be the fic author you want to see in the world" idea, because let's be real - there isn't a lot of Nya centric Skybound content. When there is, it's usually aftermath, but I want to see the thick of it! I'm doing my best out here.

#lila speaks #tag game

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lookedlikethebins · 6 months

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Could you tell us about all the wips you have planned cus I can't keep track anymore 👀

omg i'm so so sorry i really do talk about a bunch don't i? i've always got a bunch of fics going at once so no matter what i feel like writing i have something i can jump into... which must make keeping track a nightmare. so yes! let me recap for you:

in no particular order we have:

shirt-sharing fic: this one keeps changing (and taking longer to write than i wanted lol) but essentially the bare bones idea is matty borrows a shirt from george before a interview with the whole band and it Doesn't Go Unnoticed.

new parents fic: a brief glimpse/collection of glimpses into the life & times of new parents george and matty!

the "if i believe you" fic: based on a line in a poem: "God did a very good job with you." it's in the country recording studio/abiior-era and matty just has a lot of thoughts about how God makes good things-- of course He does-- but he, himself, is not one of those things. but george is. george is divine, matty just is. (very prose/internal monologue heavy and i'm loving writing it tbh.)

non-famous!matty fic: george, ross, and adam are still (a version of) the 1975. waughy has this really nice officemate at the uni he's teaching at that's a TA/PhD candidate for the lit dept. george has to pick waughy up for rehearsal one day and the rest is history... we just get to see matty being The Biggest Fan of the 1975 and also, entirely by coincidence, being bespectacled and having hot takes on books (that i'm reading...)

the gatty ft. raughy fic: matty is apparently the last person to know that two of his closest friends/bandmates are dating and he's confused that 1. he missed it completely 2. everyone else (including his own husband) seemed to know but him and 3. they let him just Be That Oblivious for years. he starts paying closer attention and enjoys seeing his friends happy (with the correct context now)

camera roll collection: basically i found a bunch of candids (taken by the band/jordan) of matty and/or george and said, context be damned, i'm using this as a photo prompt like i'm in middle school and this is a timed essay. first picture is this 2019 pic of matty at the airport.

the hours of the left behind part ii: this fic was originally intended to be a standalone of the hours right after george drops matty off to fly to barbados. but now part ii is when george picks him up and tries to help matty readjust to being home. but also matty begins to sees how george was while he was away (having put on a brave smile every time matty called).

(be my) god and country ch 3/epilogue: not sure how i want to expand this universe bc i really love the foundations that fic has for timelines/ideas on certain aspects of their relationship that i want to keep returning to and building on (and not rewriting again and again lol) BUT i have ideas for a honeymoon maybe, a wintering-type fic where they go home for christmas, they talk about having kids... it's a whole world of possibilities!! open to suggestions...

#thank you for asking!!!!!!#i try to tell myself there's no glory in the process so i don't like to talk about my wips TOO much until they're done #but sometimes talking about them helps me get and stay excited and also i can see which ones y'all are into (and finish those first hehe)#answered #asks #andfacedown fics in progress #also yes i know thats a lot of wips im 1. chaotic and 2. just got out of an mfa program where i worked on the same thing for two years #i love variety now....

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landwriter · 1 year

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💝 & 🍭 for the fic asks! :)

Thanks, Nate! :)

💝What is a fic that got a different response than you were expecting? For sure it’s gotta be Black Shore! It’s the strangest thing I’ve written, and I felt in my heart it was really neat but did not expect much engagement at all from a story that opens by addressing the reader, has poems, is broken into arbitrary sections, and is from the POV of an ocean that is technically also Dream. This was the third fic I'd ever posted. Not only did it get read, but @missmisnomer made insane and gorgeous art for it, and @btwimkindagay wrote an ESSAY that made me weep. To me, writing is just loving things loudly into the void and it’s such a fuckin’ incredible and life-affirming experience when people love a thing back. Especially when it’s a bit weird.

🍭Why did you start writing? I sure didn’t plan to! At all! I’ve spent my life telling stories and writing creatively in every way that did not force me to actually own up to Writing, because perish the thought that I might do something I love dearly and be witnessed Trying, and potentially Failing. Better to just love it from a distance! When struck by bouts of awful desire to Be A Writer, better to just say Someday Soon! Better to bear it and go on.

Then two things happened last September: I watched The Sandman and liked it a lot; and I remembered that I had once started writing a fanfic over a decade ago, and I suddenly remembered the title. I looked it up expecting the cringe and laugh, and instead found lots of nice comments, including this one written nine years after the last update:

What am I doing, I said. I used to be brave enough to write when I was 12. And it had meant something to someone, even then. I left lots of insane messages in my best friend’s DMs. And when I was done crying and unpacking all my grief for the kid who wrote and frustration with the grown-up who wouldn’t, I went to bed. I was too wired and raw to sleep. So I got up and started writing a Sandman story. Then I kept writing all weekend. And the rest is history.

(let’s get real! fic writer asks)

#asks #let's get real writer asks #second question is something i alternate between making fun of myself abt and sometimes still wanting to just sob heavily for so #enjoy!!#gwntan12 i don't know where you are but i would like to send you a gift basket one day #you made me cry #bisexuality and writing: two core aspects of my identity i was fully aware of when i was 12 and cheerfully repressed for the next decade+#about me

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lume-nosity · 1 year

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nerdy bf kazuha hcs !! (ugh yk kazuha is so yk like he's 🥰🥰 and like kazuha is so 😍😍😍😍 and then when he 😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘

contains: highschool au, mentions of other characters, mentions of getting high lol, kazuha wearing glasses 😋😋😋 (i hc that this man is blind. thick glasses, like a 200+ grade on his glasses.)

notes: here in the philippines, you just sit in one classroom with all the same people. so basically you and kazuha are in the same section, and he sits riiiight beside you. aside that this is vv messy lol, and my first time writing a hc format !, this was to make up for that kazuha fic for valentines that i didn't write lol

how is he like before classes?

he's running with you, why? he woke up late and rushed to class with you 💀

you're probably bugging him while he's spending free time in the library !!; "i need to study, dear..", he says, as he continues to be favored by most teachers...

of course — you have your own things to do and such so, you and him may just be staring at each other... until he's caught off guard by a mutual friend.

since kazuha and you decided to make your relationship public, kazuha has been suffering a few stolen haikus. you two have very few fingers to point, yet not a single one has been recovered.

how is he during class/in the middle of the day?

he's insufferable and cute, but mostly insufferable in the good way.

he's good at studying. he is smart, very, but when it comes to his "deep poems" it's probably something he scribbled while he was high lol.

in your row, (from left to right) you have kazuha, you, ayato, and yoimiya. whenever the other two aren't paying attention, kazuhas definitely teasing you.

...

"why don't you understand? it's quite simple..."

"just let me copy a few missing sentences??"

"no 🥰"

"little shit."

...

and oh man when you're daydreaming infront of him??? and he sees it???? AND YOU'RE STARING AT HIM FIXING HIS GLASSES?????? damn bro he's so fine

kazuha, while being a good student and never causing any fuss (at least nothing serious), might be reprimanded by teachers for paying attention to only you. jesus, it's a miracle you two have not been separated away just yet.

good lord he's honestly so demonic 😭, like you'll ask him "hey 'zuha, can i get some notes from you? i didn't copy fast enough.." and then he'll deny you for a bit before letting you copy 💀

and yk whats sexy and cool? volunteering to answer — you get nervous each time he raises his hand though...

does he bring you back home?

you bet your ass he does, and he's on time too. your poor boyfriend (not really, he does this willingly) multi-tasks while walking you back home, he's writing an essay or something 💀

maybe he might've been writing a haiku that'll be stolen if he doesn't put it away, but who knows? because it certainly isn't you.

...

"what 'cha writing?"

"a haiku, why?"

"can i see? please? just one, tiny glance.."

"as much as I'd like to, no sadly. i'm not finished oka-"

...

you proceed to a) attack him verbally, asian mom style b) keep staring in hopes that you'll be able to see it or c) snatch it away from him (never been successful)

...

i made this to deny and cope because i have a crush on my guy friend now because omg i... i think i... like him 😟 pssst some of the teasing kazuha does is very much based on my crush 🤯

i'm so disappointed in myself

my goodness

this is really good… i can clearly picture that whole thing in my head. kazuha with glasses… so fine tbh. (aha i have glasses too we could be twinning then)

kazuha please let me copy your notes fr like i’m too tired for school HDHAJC

also… did i read that last part right 👁️? another mutual has a crush on someone too?

wow, interesting, seems like a bunch of my mutuals have crushes that i wasn’t aware of? it’s cute, really. (not in a teasing way but in a more genuine way because i’m audibly going ‘aww’)

if you really do feel that way towards your friend, and would like to end up with him, (or you’d like to shoot your shot) i answered an ask similar to that here

either way, no matter what you do, i hope it works out well <3

#📬 lume answers #💛 lumes mutuals #🤍; riri!#genshin impact x reader #kazuha x reader #love this kazuha prompt sm <3 #it’ll live rent free in my mind #and also #dude if another mutual tells me that they have a crush too #then i’d be the ‘wingman mutual’ GSHSJCI

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