Reblog If You’re Grateful For Your Commenters

I need help finding a thing to write about!!

So about two years ago, I started writing the first version of a book I was proud enough to say I wanted to publish. It was something that helped me process and come to terms with my sexuality and situations I had found or thought I would find myself in. 

Unfortunately, I went back today after six months of not touching it (I had been in the process of rewriting the second draft) and realized I kind of hate it now. It reminds me of things I’ve grown past, and the characters make me want to rip my hair out. 

Anyways — does anyone have any LGBTQ heavy prompts or ideas they want to see in fiction? I don’t really write original fantasy or sci-fi because I lose interest too fast to finish world-building, but I like romance and slice-of-life type books. 

Lately I’ve been heavily exploring gender with my lovely partner and I want to be able to write about things I know. 

Please send an ask or comment below if you have any ideas. I can’t promise it’ll get written or published, but I really want to write something of my own on the side while I work and write stuff for the GO fandom.

Also hi i promise I’m not dead <3

It's me!!

Golden Hour

Slow burn but it's written by an impatient person

Okay so. My computer died. My beautiful, six year old little love who has taken quite a beating after all these years - she's no longer with us.

Which sucks because I had an eight page paper on my 2013 word document but whatever. I'm not bitter.

But anyways- I'm probably not going to be posting a lot because I'd have to use a family members computer and I hate that. I already hate doing homework on it.

That being said, I may post some poetry tonight if I can get over this horrible headache and get around to doing it. My girlfriend and I had a nice little ranting session and I feel inspired and also dead because working retail is draining.

Anyways. I hope all of you Americans are having a happy Thanksgiving break! I'll be sure to post something soon.

Somewhere along the way fanart become worth more than fanfic to fandom.

Artists have Patreon accounts where people pay real money to view their art early or to access special pictures like scraps or tutorials.

Whereas writers are expected to produce more and more, faster, for nothing in return. No one wants to see our “scraps” and writers who do provide Tips and Tricks often get crap for “policing” how people write.

And it falls into the prevailing notion that somehow writing is something easy, something anyone can do.

This isn’t an attack on fanartists. You deserve to receive some sort of compensation and accolades for your work. And so do fanauthors.

Writing fic is hard work. Yes, anyone can type out a story, same as anyone can pick up a pencil to draw, but what makes the difference, what makes a good piece is the experience and talent of an author. It’s all the stories no one saw, it’s all the writing books we’ve read, it’s the classes we have attended, all rolled into a package that works weeks, months, years to bring the fandom their fic. Yes we write for ourselves but we also write to contribute to fandom - just like artists do.

We’re just the same - artists and authors - and we deserve the same respect for our work.

religious experience

Sit down in the waves

Let the water wash over you

Let it crash over your head

Surround you

Fill your lungs

Let it whisper sweet truths to you

Let it promise you eternity

Feel the sand scratch over your legs

Feel it beneath your fingernails

Let the salt sit on your tongue

Hang on your breath

Sting your throat

Let the ocean wash away your worries

Feel the tide drag you into deep solitude

This is your place now

Sat at the bottom

Safe in the sand

Singing songs of worship

With salt-rasped words

No need for oxygen

Let the ocean fill you with peace

As the days drag on into sweet oblivion

Come and sit with me

Safe and sound

Come and sit with the crabs

Come and feel the rocks on your feet

Come worship with me the haunting harmony of the waves

A never ending eternity

Slav pronouncing US states

Perhaps…a sick fic?

Hello darling!! Just for you <3

Sevika was… horrible when she was sick. 

Meaning when the woman got sick, she simply - pretended she was not sick. She didn’t have a fever, she didn’t see two of whoever was in front of her, she wasn’t puking, she wasn’t coughing. None of it. Because, as she continues to try and convince herself over her many years of life, if you ignored it then it wasn’t there. 

“I think you’re sick, Sev,” Vi says worriedly, on the morning Sevika wakes up feeling like hell frozen over. 

Stuffy nose. Sore throat. Bleary eyes, the throbbing promise of a migraine - and her skin hurt. Clearly there was only one answer to this. 

“It’s just allergies,” Sevika says. Nevermind the fact it comes out aller-geese because of her stuffy nose. Due to the allergies. Obviously. 

Vi’s eyebrows shoot up. She reaches out to press her hand to Sevika’s forehead, and Sevika ducks away. 

“Sevika,” Vi starts, her voice chastising, falling into the familiar I’m-An-Older-Sister tone that had worked on her little sister many years ago. 

“Vi,” Sevika says, in her I’m-Silco’s-Right-Hand voice she used to this day, except more nasally. Because of the allergies. 

Vi crosses her arms over her chest, and Sevika can feel her irritated gaze as she shuffles around the room at a snails pace, getting ready for her day. She pointedly does not look at Vi. 

“You should stay home,” Vi was following her around the house as she ignores the pressure building in her temples and tries to pull things together for her day. 

“No.” Sevika grunts, then coughs a little. “S’just allergies.”

“Baby,” Vi pulls out that sweet voice that always got Sevika, and she squints, looking back at… two Violets. 

“Stop it.” She says to the one flickering in her vision, then ambles away to pull her shoes on. For some reason (the allergies), it knocks the wind right out of her. She braces a hand on the wall, panting softly, then straightens up immediately when Vi rounds the corner with an accusing glare. 

“Sevika,” Vi says, sharply, and Sevika grabs her things and walks right out the door. 

“Silco’s gonna send you right home!” Vi yells after her from the doorway. 

Sevika waves a hand. “It’s just allergies!”

***

The allergies get so much worse. 

So much so, it has Silco casting worried looks at his right hand every so often. 

“Stop it,” she tells him, with as much irritation as she had given Vi. “It’s just allergies.”

“Allergies do not usually constitute a fever, Sevika.” Silco frowns. 

“I do not have a fever.” Sevika grunts, then hacks a little into her fist. 

Silco pulls a face. “Sevika.”

Sevika ignores Silco and instead goes to find something else to do that didn’t include being lectured over allergies, of all things. She wasn’t sick. 

Unfortunately for her, Silco comes to find her a little while later, expression pinched. 

“Go home,” he tells her. 

Sevika glowers at the task she was completing, pretending not to hear him. It wasn’t really that hard, considering one of her ears was plugged. 

“Sevika, go home.”

“You sound like Vi,” she grumbles at him, petulant, feeling suddenly very whiny. “I don’t want to go home.”

Silco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. Well. I don’t want everyone getting sick. So you have the next two days off. Don’t come back until you’re better.”

Sevika lifts her head to glare in his… approximate direction. “I’m not sick.”

“Sure. Fine. Go home, Sevika. Take care of your… allergies. Then you can come back.”

Sevika goes back to what she was doing, pretending not to hear him. 

Silco taps his foot. “Do not make me call Violet.”

Sevika drops what she’s doing with a loud, petulant sigh, and breaks into a coughing fit. 

…Maybe she should go home.

***

When Sevika trudges in the door, she’s greeted with the smell of soup and the sound of soft music. She blinks tiredly, then bends to tug her shoes off, smacking her elbow on the wall with a whiny grunt.

“Sev? Is that you?” Vi pokes her head around the corner, then softens. “Hey, baby… you okay?”

“Silco sent me home,” Sevika was pouting.

Vi softens, amusement dancing in her eyes. She steps over, crouching to tug off her boots, one at a time. She sets them aside and stands, reaching up to check Sevika’s temp. “Hm. That bastard. Come sit, babe.”

“Bastard…” Sevika mutters in agreement, sniffing thickly and letting Vi take her hand. 

She’s led to the living room, where Vi had made up the couch into something Sevika was convinced was maybe a slice of heaven. Warm blankets, a million pillows, a box of tissues, a spot for Vi to sit and play with her hair. 

“Wow,” she breathes, eyes wide. “All this for allergies?”

Vi was fighting a laugh. “I - yes. Yes. Sit, Sev, let me get you some soup. And some medicine.”

“Okay,” Sevika sighs, nearly falling into the little nest that had been made for her, snuggling in with a soft groan. Her skin sings a little at the comfort of it all. She’s dozing by the time Vi returns with a cup of hearty soup. 

Vi doesn’t even bat an eye, though; she sits and props Sevika up against her, pillows supporting her back and neck. “Here, medicine first. Tastes bad, sorry babe.”

Sevika wrinkles her nose, but dutifully swallows what she’d been given. Her throat was even more sore now. The soup feels amazing on it, though, and she eats everything Vi offers her. Vi makes sure she’s comfy before she tugs the blankets up around her, fingers slipping through her hair gently. 

Sevika melts into it, closing her eyes and sniffing thickly. “Hey, Vi?” She mumbles when she’s on the verge of a doze.

“Mm?” Vi’s fingers brush over sore temples, soothing. 

“I think I’m sick.” Sevika mumbles, already slipping into sleep. 

“Oh wow,” Vi’s laughter echoes in her voice as she tries to stifle it to not wake her. “Really?”

“Yeah…” Sevika’s sigh is punctuated with a soft whine. 

“I’ll take care of you, baby. You rest.” 

“Mm’okay. Thanks…” Sevika mumbles as she finally gives in to what was, most definitely, not allergies.

“Nope,” I whisper as I exit out of a fic with no paragraph breaks.

The Rhythm of Love

Keith always known that Lance had the most angelic singing voice known to man. But they were dating, so he supposed he was a little biased. He could sit and listen to his boyfriend sing for hours - while they were cleaning, in the car, on the quad at their college campus. Even if he was goofing off, Lance still blew Keith away with his range and the sweetness of his singing voice.

He liked it best when Lance sang in Spanish. It was so natural, the way it flowed, and he looked so happy when a song in his mother tongue. More often than not, Keith found himself whisked into some form of dancing with his significant other. Lance would take him by the hand, twirl him around.

The most common thing Lance liked to do was make silly faces at him while he sang. Sometimes he would sneak kisses, but he always made Keith laugh. The Korean had noticed that this was a habit his boyfriend had formed whenever it was a particularly rough day.

Those singing and dancing sessions usually ended with Keith pressed against Lance as the Cuban sang into his hair along with the music, swaying from side to side. They didn’t have these very often, but Keith appreciated them nonetheless. It was comfortable.

The point is, singing had becoming integrated into the Korean’s life. He’d learned to love it, love the way it changed the dynamic of their relationships and the routine of everyday life. A few years ago, Keith was left to his thoughts.

Lance had learned just how dangerous that had been when Shiro, Keith’s older brother, had called him by mistake instead of Matt and Pidge. Keith would never forget the look on Lance’s face when he woke up in a hospital, arms bandaged and pain thrumming through his temples.

After that, Keith’s boyfriend had taken it upon himself to immerse him into music. He couldn’t complain; he found he preferred the music tastes of his boyfriend over anyone else’s. Granted, they lived together, so it was about ninety percent of what he listened to anyways.

Sometimes, when all of their friends gathered together, Lance would bring his guitar out and they would drink beer and sing old camp songs. Other times, Keith would beg and plead and nag to get Lance to serenade him with old Cuban love songs.

At the moment, Keith and Lance were spending a day off together. Music was playing, of course, and they were baking a cake for Pidge’s birthday. Which is code for Keith was baking a cake - it had surprised him that he was the one who knew how to cook more than his boyfriend - and Lance was being in the way and trying to eat all the batter.

“Lance.” Keith snaps, swatting his hand away. “If you keep eating it, I’ll have to start all over.”

“Ouch,” Lance whines. He pouts for a moment, then reaches over to steal more. “I’m fine with that.”

“Well, I’m not!” Keith snatches the bowl away, just as the oven beeps to indicate that it was hot enough to start baking things. “Look, now you can’t anyways. I’m putting it in the oven.”

He pours the batter into three separate cake pans, sliding them into the oven and setting the timer.

“Now what will I eat?” Lance groans.

Keith rolls his eyes, sliding the oven mitts off and making a shooing motion. “Other food. I think we have chicken nuggets out in the freezer in the garage.”

The Cuban perks up, sliding off the counter and leaning over to kiss Keith’s flour-dusted cheek. “Hell yeah, chicken nuggets! I’ll be back.”

The Korean shakes his head fondly, looking over at him. He turns back to the task at hand, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counters. He had never been a clean baker. Once, he’d baked a cake at Hunk’s house, and the poor guy nearly had an aneurysm. Now he stuck to his own kitchen. At least here, he could get flour all over the place and it was a team effort for cleaning, so long as he let his boyfriend ‘help’.

The music was playing softly beside him. Keith turns it up once he recognizes the song, humming to himself. He had never thought his voice was remarkable. Lance had been the one in choirs, with a couple voice lessons, with the garage band he’d been so devoted to in high school. Keith just liked to sing to himself on occasion.

He could harmonize, though. Pidge had told him once that his melodies were eerily good. He didn’t like to sing the low undertones that you usually found underneath the lead singers’ voice - he liked to find a pitch or a range that was new and fun to try.

The song that was playing already had a lead vocalist whose voice was strange. Not in a bad way, like some of the music Lance had tried to get him to listen to. This guy could do things with his voice that made Keith shiver and have to catch his breath. Lance liked to try and imitate him, just for the reaction he got out of his boyfriend.

Singing to this one artist was fun. Keith found new ways to sing along every time, by changing his pitch or adding slides or simply making his voice do incredibly odd things that made his ears happy. This was one of the times he experimented.

Personally, Keith was impressed just because he could hold the pitch. He sings to himself as he wipes the kitchen clean and stacks dishes in the sink. It isn’t until he realizes that Lance had been gone a long time looking for chicken nuggets that he stops what he’s doing, singing and all, and looks up.

Lance was leaning on the doorway, his arms crossed and a small smile on his lips. His blue gaze was incredibly soft, resting on Keith like he was the loveliest thing he had ever laid eyes on.

Keith blinks at him, then blushes and looks back down, busying himself with the dishes. “Oh, hey. Did you find the… stuff?”

“No,” He hums, pushing off the wall. Lance walks over, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and kissing his shoulder. “How did you learn to sing like that?”

“Oh, I just,” he leans back into Lance, shrugging. “I dunno. I just… sing, I guess.”

“It’s beautiful.” The Cuban murmurs, nosing at his neck. “You’re beautiful.”

Keith smiles to himself, tipping his head back to look at him. “So are you.”

“Oh, hush.” Lance laughs, brushing his hands along his side. “Let me pamper you, babe. Let me praise your beautiful singing.”

“Lance...” He groans, a blush creeping up his neck.

His boyfriend laughs, peppering kissing up his neck and wrapping his arms snugly around his waist. “Okay, okay. Just promise me you won’t stop, okay? I wanna sing with you.”

Keith thinks about this for a moment, biting his lip. “Yeah,” he consents. “I guess so. Just don’t make me sing in front of people.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

They stay like that for a little while, Keith leaning back against Lance. Music filters softly through the kitchen. The timer counts down. Life slows down for a just a few moments.

“Did you find what you wanted?” Keith hums after a moment.

“No…” Lance grunts, dropping his chin onto Keith’s shoulder.

“Did you move things around, or did you just open the freezer?”

Lance stays quiet at that, huffing and tightening his grip. Keith rolls his eyes, pulling away and taking his hand. “Let’s go. I bet you it’s in the back.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He whines, following Keith out to the garage. The two bicker good-naturedly, caught up in each other’s company and love. Back in the kitchen, the music that had brought them together plays on.