Slash Fic Gothic

la-belle-laide:

cesperanza:

justgot1:

ohmygodtearthisdudeapart:

You have blond hair, he has brown hair. You always have blond hair, he always has brown hair. You dye your hair brown, but suddenly his hair is blond, and you feel as though maybe you are him, and he is you, and you have blond hair again, and he has brown hair.

His gaze is impossibly fond, his eyes are impossibly blue, he pulls you impossibly closer, your heart beats impossibly fast, the bulge in his pants is impossibly hard, he should maybe get that checked out.

You don’t remember ever working out and yet you look down and see you have a six pack. When you next see yourself in the mirror you have an eight pack. When he takes of your shirt you have ten, twelve abs. You’re scared to look again in case there are more.

His eyes change colour depending on his moods. At first you thought it was a trick of the light, but now you’re not so sure. They switch between blue, green and grey. Once you thought you saw a flicker of red. You make sure to kiss with your eyes closed now.

You’re white, and so is he. Sometimes he’s your enemy, but you still love him, don’t you? Of course, it makes sense. You’re not sure what you like about him, exactly, but there must be something, right? There’s this intangible thing between you, isn’t there? You feel like you may have more chemistry with your non-white friend, but that can’t be right.

You don’t remember taking your clothes off but you’re naked now. Well, all you remember is toeing out of your shoes. You always toe out of them, although you don’t quite know what that means.

Your pronouns mix into a blur and you no longer know where you end and he begins… You reach out your hand to his hand on his arm… your arm… his… You are sitting and he straddles you but is facing away… There are hands everywhere…

THE ACCURACY HURTS.

You smell like sandlewood.  You don’t know what sandlewood even IS.

Once your shoes are off, you pad everywhere. You try to walk, but you can’t, your feet don’t comply. Your only option if you want to get from room to room is to pad.

Your tongues battle for dominance. There can be only one victor. One tongue is not walking away from this battle. Will it be yours?

He tastes like smoke and wine, whatever he had for dinner, and something distinctly him. You don’t know what that taste is or where it comes from… only that it is distinctly…him

Is he The Smaller Man? Or The Larger Man? Are you The Pale Man? Are you The Slender Man? The Blond Man? You no longer have a name… you are just an epithet.

You thought you were about the same size, but, the clothes come off… and he’s The Larger Man. So large. He’s got six inches on you. You can tuck your head under his chin. Ten inches now… is he growing? Are you shrinking?

It’s weeping. OH GOD WHY IS IT WEEPING?

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Slash Fic Gothic

ohmygodtearthisdudeapart:

You have blond hair, he has brown hair. You always have blond hair, he always has brown hair. You dye your hair brown, but suddenly his hair is blond, and you feel as though maybe you are him, and he is you, and you have blond hair again, and he has brown hair.

His gaze is impossibly fond, his eyes are impossibly blue, he pulls you impossibly closer, your heart beats impossibly fast, the bulge in his pants is impossibly hard, he should maybe get that checked out.

You don’t remember ever working out and yet you look down and see you have a six pack. When you next see yourself in the mirror you have an eight pack. When he takes of your shirt you have ten, twelve abs. You’re scared to look again in case there are more.

His eyes change colour depending on his moods. At first you thought it was a trick of the light, but now you’re not so sure. They switch between blue, green and grey. Once you thought you saw a flicker of red. You make sure to kiss with your eyes closed now.

You’re white, and so is he. Sometimes he’s your enemy, but you still love him, don’t you? Of course, it makes sense. You’re not sure what you like about him, exactly, but there must be something, right? There’s this intangible thing between you, isn’t there? You feel like you may have more chemistry with your non-white friend, but that can’t be right.

You don’t remember taking your clothes off but you’re naked now. Well, all you remember is toeing out of your shoes. You always toe out of them, although you don’t quite know what that means.

Your pronouns mix into a blur and you no longer know where you end and he begins… You reach out your hand to his hand on his arm… your arm… his… You are sitting and he straddles you but is facing away… There are hands everywhere…

Fanfic Author Gothic

bibliotecaria-d:

-You always have ideas. When you open a document, they disappear.

-You have a file full of ideas. It is lost. You open all your files and find hints of ideas mixed in between the lines. None of them connect. You follow them forever, deeper into the folders, until you can’t remember what you were looking for anymore. You end up reading fanfic until 4 AM.

-You’re not a torturer by profession. It’s merely a hobby. The sadism is a natural skill.

-Your fingers and wrists hurt from typing when you’re on a roll. You swear you’re not a masochist, but it hurts so good.

-Readers accuse you of causing them pain. You say you’re sorry, but you’re not. You comfort them while not-so-subtly digging for what caused them the most harm, eager to repeat the trick.

-Your friends enable you and laugh at your yelling. When you blame them, they claim they didn’t do anything. They never do anything. You no longer remember who started it, only that you’re halfway through the fic and still writing.

-You have a WIP. You swear you’re going to finish it next. It’s always next. There’s always another fic that has to be written first.

-Anonymous messages are sent to you, asking you not to acknowledge them publically. You know if you answer they’ll disappear from your inbox. Tumblr has eaten the Ask. Was it ever there in the first place?

-Someone comments on your fic. You have no idea who they are, but their username looks familiar. Every username looks familiar. You think you know them. They know you. It’s flattering, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should be alarmed by your poor memory.

-You reblog a writing prompt meme. It’s the same meme you reblogged yesterday. There are symbols instead of numbers, and you hope people will find them more interesting and send you more prompts this time.

-Promoting your own work is okay. You tell yourself this as you reblog yesterday’s fic post, tensely waiting for a rebuke that never comes.

-People laugh at something you wrote. You can’t figure out what. When you ask, nobody responds. They never laughed in the first place. You’re not sure you wrote anything.

-The fic is 50 hours long and 7000 words long; no one cares. A 10 minute speedwrite is reblogged into eternity.

-The kudos stack up. They are a solid block of names. You can’t read who left them. When you blink and look again, only 10 Guests have left kudos.

-Your inbox is full. There’s a comment on your fic. It has been edited 17 times. Six more emails come in as you read the initial comment. The numbers in your inbox climb and climb. You can’t find what’s been changed in the comment, but you can’t stop obsessively comparing each message.

-This comment is a book report. Glee and fear fill you in equal amounts.

-Someone apologizes for leaving a comment on an old fic. You can’t find who started the absurd rumor that authors don’t like comments on old fics. You plan their murder anyway.

-You eye your old username and associated fics. You pray that no one ever finds them. You resist the urge to tell people where to look.

-The fic is finished. You are dead. You are sick of it. You’ve never been so tired in your life. You hate the world. You force yourself to post it, absolutely exhausted, and suddenly can’t sleep for refreshing your inbox.

-The words multiply. You can’t control them. They eat your brain and come out your eyes. When people try to talk to you, you speak in snatches of character dialogue and narrate unconnected events. They keep talking to you, encouraging you to say more. The words own you now.

-No one believes you when you say the story is writing itself. You stare in despair at the screen. Why won’t anyone help you?

-You’ve misspelled ‘the.’ Autocorrect is wonderful until it’s not.

-Sleep is for the weak. You dream you’re still writing.

Fandom Veteran Gothic

alakeeffectgirl:

farashasilver:

  • One of your favorite old fics has been taken down. You can find it on Wayback Machine, but it’s only the original Geocities site. The font is Comic Sans and there’s a tiled repeating background of stars obscuring the cyan text.
  • You read a fic at some point in a fandom you no longer participate in. You want to re-read the fic, but the title and pen name of the author keep escaping you. You don’t even know where it was posted. You can find dozens of other fics with a similar concept but not that one.
  • An author you used to follow moved their work from their personal website to their friends-locked blog. You sent them a request three months ago. It is still marked “pending.” You wonder if you will ever get to read their work again.
  • You get a follower out of nowhere. Their screen name is familiar. It’s the person you RPed explicit chat logs with when you were sixteen. You’ve changed screen names four times since then and don’t know how they found you.
  • You forgot the password to your old FanFiction.net account. There are terrible relics of your past as a writer archived there. They must be destroyed. You can’t recover the password because the email account no longer exists, and the site isn’t answering your emails.
  • You were in this fandom when it was small and just getting started. Now there’s a whole expanded universe of new material, and you just want to read fics in your original fandom. Only the new characters are popular.
  • Three fandoms later, you run into someone you had fandom drama with five years ago. You wonder if they ever forgave you for your part in what happened. You’re too shy to ask. Interactions are tense and you go your separate ways. You travel the same fandom circles for a while, but never speak.
  • You have WIPs on your hard drive from years and fandoms ago. You want to finish them, but the fandoms are no longer active. You wonder if anyone would read them if they were done. You sometimes open them

    and wistfully read their partially-finished stories.

THIS ALL OF THIS OH MY GOD

les mis gothic (amis edition)

bahorel:

  • the friends of
    the abc meet every week in the back room of the musain. sometimes you
    invite friends to the meetings. they never pass the initiation, and
    you never see them again. your chairs are made from bones.
  • enjolras is
    beautiful like a marble statue and an angel, and you cannot take your
    eyes off him. you cannot stop listening to the words that fall from
    his lips. you want to be close enough to touch him. you cannot stop
    looking, and your vision blurs into nothing. you cannot stop
    listening, and his voice joins together to form endless ringing. your
    hands blister when you go to touch him. you are not the first.
  • bahorel says he
    is not training to be a lawyer, but blondeau always calls out his
    name, and he is never crossed off. you try to ask him where he has
    been, but he dismisses you. nobody else knows where he goes. you try
    to follow him one day, but you find suddenly you are trailing
    nothingness.
  • bossuet goes by
    many names. every time you memorize one, others switch to calling him
    by a new pseudonym. one night, a young man leans over and whispers
    his real name in your ear. they find him in the seine the next
    evening. you guard the secret closely. nobody else must ever know. he
    is too powerful.
  • the others tell
    you that feuilly is a fan maker, and that they respect him as a
    worker. they tell you he creates pieces of savage and terrible
    beauty. you catch his eye across the back room. his hands are always
    smeared with paint. the paint is always red. you hope it is just
    paint.
  • “i’m ill’, says
    joly, and you nod in understanding. joly always thinks he is ill. his
    hair falls out. his mouth pours blood when he speaks. he drags his
    feet and his body rots before your eyes. joly always thinks he is
    ill.
  • jehan prouvaire
    plays his flute, and you stop to listen for a moment. the music is
    ethereally beautiful. it permeates your soul. you go home, and you
    sleep for three days straight. when you wake up, you can still hear
    it.
  • courfeyrac
    romances anything that moves. he moves on from the women and onto the
    men and then, slowly but surely, into the eldritch horrors that
    follow us all.
  • grantaire follows
    enjolras like a shadow, reeking of drink and burnt out candles.
    everyone interacts with grantaire except enjolras, who never seems to
    notice. even you have been drawn into one of grantaire’s long-winded
    speeches, full of classical allusions. enjolras asks you who you are
    speaking to, and you realize he has never seen him. grantaire puts a
    finger to his lips.
  • you see combeferre
    reading books on geology, and later on you hear that he has broken
    open a pebble to inspect it more thoroughly and personally. you see
    him reading a book on human biology one night. he looks up and meets
    your eyes. you are suddenly afraid.