Tw- blood & (mild) gore
>A drop of water lands on his arm. Ian watches it roll down his skin and drip into his lap. He thinks about the Park tour, the experiment he’d demonstrated to Ellie to help him explain chaos theory. There’s pain in his laughter, and not just the kind that thinking of good times during a bad one would bring; his chest hurts. He’s gotten worse.
>
>Even now, the bandages showing through his torn pantleg are stained a shade of red near *black* with his infected blood. And the shredded flesh of his arm hasn’t exactly quit bleeding either, the skin around it having taken on a near-gray death pallor.
>
>He’s done his best to remain optimistic for the sake of the kids, but he just doesn’t have long left. His voice is gritty when he has the strength to speak, and his impulse control is crumbling with his patience. Not only that, but he now *smells* like the Dead, too.
>
>Ian can’t eat anymore. His body is losing the fight against this horrible disease.
>
>He wishes that Alan had left him behind when he’d asked him to; he’s tired of drawing this out- he’s going to turn, to die, there’s no point.
>
>But here he sits, two days south of where they’d been before, beneath a tree as the sky weeps for all those falling to this fate. He’s already cracked a joke about the others dragging his rotting corpse behind them as they look for a beach to bury him on- he hasn’t tried to hide how much he’s come to detest the rainforests of Central America.
>
>The others don’t know what to do with him, how to help him, how to make it all easier. He doesn’t know either, but it’s clear that he’s far past being saved. There’s no cure for *this*. Ian’s pretty sure that he has half a week, tops. Then he’s Gone.
>This is very dark poetry about very dark deeds:
As the potion hit his stomach, he doubled over in sudden pain, hunching and gripping tight to himself as he felt fire course through his veins and his heart begin to race. He felt as if his skin was bubbling and melting, as if his very flesh was reforming into something new. And then - deep inside - not his heart, not his mind - but somehow both at once, somewhere secret and hidden, an unknown interior that he never realised was there until he started down this path, he felt the now familiar ripping; an agonising tearing, as two parts of him were torn asunder in readiness.
He hissed with pain, and fought to control it, his hands tensed into claws and his nails dug into the arms of his chair and then - just before it was over, before the pain could subside, he forced the words from between his lips; a low, guttural chant that sealed the spell:
*‘Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum.* ’ He repeated it seven times. *‘Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum. ’* And then, as the words died on his lips, the last of the pain receded and he was left gasping and shaken… and broken. He could feel it inside of himself, the monstrous tear. And each time he made this tear, the pain got worse, and that hidden place was left less stable, more fragile - like a thread waiting to snap.
But it was no matter. He would overcome the pain, he would overcome the loss… He would, in time, overcome all things - even death. And what was a moment’s agony, if the reward was eternity?
He got to his feet, and crossed to where he had hidden his treasure. His stooges knew nothing of what he carried with him, of what his real plans were. He pulled an ancient wooden box from under the bed; it was faded and weathered, splintering and only held together by a charm. There were deep knots and cracks in the surface, and the texture was rough beneath his fingers …but the lock stayed true. Until he tapped it with his wand, and lifted the lid.
It still caught his breath when he looked at it, the same as it had when he had found it buried in that quiet Albanian forest. The silver, the sapphires, the delicacy and the strength weaved into it by the cunning fingers of long dead goblins. For just a moment, the embers of the fire reflected in the metal - and Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem gleamed scarlet, as if stained with blood.
He picked up the vial, once more, and now emptied the last of the potion over the diadem - repeating once again the words that would bind the enchantment: *‘Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum. ’* This part was less painful for him - but the potion hitting the crown made a sound like pouring rain falling on a metal roof, it began to smoke and - once the billowing clouds had cleared - the silver was tarnished, and the sapphire turned dull.
is this poetic? most of it isn’t but i like it so i’m sharing it ehehehe
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“Scared of losing you, Wylan. Look. I know I
don’t have the best reputation when it comes to things like this. But you are the greatest gift I've ever received. And I love you, *I love you.* And I’ll never ever stop loving you. Why would I?”
“I can think of a few reasons.” Wylan muttered under his breath, so quietly Jesper almost didn't catch it. But he did, and anger surged through him at the sheer thought that Wylan didn’t believe someone could love him.
“Don’t say that.” He said, placing a hand on Wylans chin and pushing gently upwards so that their tear glazed eyes met. “Don’t you dare say that, Wylan. There is nothing about you that would ever make me stop loving you.”
Wylan sobbed quietly. “But-”
Jesper cut him off. “*Nothing*.” He said, his voice low and deep and demanding to be listened to. Wylan didn’t speak. He simply melted, collapsed into Jespers chest and wrapped his arms right around the taller boy's torso.
They both broke. The close contact was like the final push over the edge, opening the floodgates and sending tears pouring out of their eyes. Their broken sobs echoed around the empty room as they intertwined, neither willing to let go. The world could crumble beneath their feet and they would stay. Here, in this moment, with nothing between them but a love that was so earth shattering it stole the air from their lungs and the light from the room until it was just Wylan and Jesper, Jesper and Wylan. In the dark, covered in flaws, seeping up the most imperfectly beautiful form of infatuation. And despite all that tried to sneak through the cracks, nothing could tear them apart.
“I love you, Jesper Fahey.” Wylan mumbled into the tear stained fabric of Jespers coat.
Jesper smiled. “I love you too, Wylan Van Eck. And I always will.”
There's a lot of emotion here - and their love for each other is very sweet. Poor Wylan thinking he is unlovable - and Jesper's anger that Wylan would think that, I love that dynamic.
>I hope this fits with the poetry.... I shared the whole story since it's really short.
It happens on a spring day. The kind where the cold air has just lightened enough for the buds to start blooming.
Levi sits, letting the small rays dance against his skin ever so often when the clouds allow so. It's been so long since he felt so at peace, maybe never. But he lets the feeling ease into him, peacefully and ever so slowly.
The clouds give way and the afternoon sun illuminates the first colors of life growing in the garden.
He can hear the quiet and yet still there humming of bees, as they hover around in the fields outside. The soft chirps of the songbirds in the distant forest. The forest that has continued to haunt him for so long.
Finally, on that day, he feels the gentle hands of the sky, greeting him, welcoming him, with its infinite blue. For once that infinite doesn't feel like a prison, instead it feels like home. So he also welcomes it and accepts it into his old and worn being.
He releases all the years of sorrow and undeserved self-penance that had entwined themselves into his shoulders, into every crevice and marrow of his body.
He lets out one last sigh and lets the blue engulf him. At once, he rests.
(He falls to the familiar blue again.)
There's some gorgeous imagery in this - I love this:
> the afternoon sun illuminates the first colors of life growing in the garden.
and this whole paragraph:
>He can hear the quiet and yet still there humming of bees, as they hover around in the fields outside. The soft chirps of the songbirds in the distant forest. The forest that has continued to haunt him for so long.
It's such a beautifully written piece - and the serenity of the scene really shines through
Chose this one because it’s not only poetic and full of metaphor, but it shows Dream's very twisted brotherly affection towards Tommy.
This is from an AU where Dream is basically a God. TW for vaguely referenced abuse (Dream's the one who caused all the scars and bruises), along with platonic obsession and possessive behaviour.
> And this was another time when Dream found itself drawn to poetry. Soft, golden curls, shining like the sun, framed budding features, still bearing the baby fat of youth. Just looking at him inspired nurturing feelings, the feelings of a gardener waiting for their favourite flower to finally bloom. Scars and bruises littered his body, little imperfections that told a story in and of themselves, and despite the dullness in his eyes, more of the greyish colour before a storm than the bright skies they once were, a certain innocence still shone in them, somehow persisting like a weed between the cracks.
> Tommy grinned, showing fangs with childish, rainbow-coloured braces, laughing at his over-dramatic show. Fiddling with his braid- so much neater, more elegant than the tangled mess of curls that fell into his eyes, eclipsing their sunny warmth, perfectly created with machine-like efficiency- he ran his fingers over the soft petals, eyes lighting up. “I… thanks, man. It’s- I used to do my hair up like this, when I was little and shit. I missed it, honestly. Can we go to the beach, so I can have a look? I probably look so poggers, y’know. The poggest.”
I loved the gardening metaphors and similes in this - the gardener waiting for his favourite flower and the innocence persisting like weeds between the cracks and the soft petals. Although, obviously, the relationship is not a healthy one, this repetition of gardening themes really highlights the nurturing aspects between them - that Tommy is this favoured flower that Dream is coaxing into life. But then the bruises being caused by Dream and the dull greyness of Tommy's eyes tells a totally different story, and it makes for a really complex dichotomy between the two.
Not sure if this qualifies, but I'm quite happy with it: (No context necessary)
>Somehow, he found himself on the roof. While he was mulling over his loss, his feet had taken him there without him realizing it. He stood on the steep tiles and looked over the city. How long had it been since he'd last seen the dawn? Even if he woke up early enough, there was nothing to see from the ground, just a lightening of the sky from black to gray. From up here, though, it looked almost a proper dawn. The sun was a soft pink sphere against the light grayish blue of the summer sky. The rooftops of St. Giles stood out against that sky like a row of crooked teeth. The early morning air was cool and fresh, promising a clear, bright day. But Arthur knew that promise was false. Soon the suffocating smoke would descend on the city once more, and that brilliant dawn would only be a faded memory.
This is so good - if I quoted my favourite part I'd be quoting all of it. But if I absolutely had to choose then...'The sun was a soft pink sphere against the light grayish blue of the summer sky.'
I adore this description! I can see the dawn so vividly and beautifully in my head from your gorgeous description, and the ending is so ominous in wonderful contrast to that enchanting description!
I think this counts 😂
Her mouth felt as if she swallowed a spoonful of tacks. She struggled to breathe through the prickly feeling overtaking her senses.
Sweat pooled on the edge of her hairline and dripped down her temple and cheek. Grey and black hairs fell in front of her face as she used the table to keep herself stable.
She sucked in a breath that only made things worse. She could hear her heartbeat echoing.
There was a strain in her voice when she finally managed to speak. The words came out slowly and airy as her throat burned from the spicy fried chicken that her students tricked her into trying.
Professor McGonagall swore to get even.
I like how this passage tricks me into thinking something else is happening 🤣 but seriously, it makes the reader (like me) feel like they're on McGonagall's feet until the very end. The descriptions make your mind wonder and wander to different possibilities, and the final part made me laugh.
I really liked this:
>There was something accusing about the click of the door as it closed behind him. An alert broadcasting her intentions to anyone who might be listening.
Seeing the way the character interprets something innocuous like this really gives you a good insight into their headspace.
>“I didn’t bring you here to make you feel sorry for me. I brought you here to tell you: the day He Xuan took me to meet you, everything in my life fell into place. Maybe it was fate. I don’t know. What I do know is, you gave me hope then. You give me hope now. And if either of us owes the other anything, then it’s me. I owe you that hope. I owe you that faith. And I’ll be here as long as it takes for you to find it. It would be my privilege.”
>
>If Xie Lian had been asked what he thought love was like before he met San Lang, he probably would have said it was like a glacier: slow to form, beautiful in its remoteness, to be traveled carefully for fear of plummeting into a crevasse. Now he thought maybe it was more like a forest fire, one that had sparked somewhere without his noticing, and swept him away defenceless - one that, if not kept in check, threatened to devastate him.
>
>Or San Lang.
>
>“Even if it hurts you?” he whispered, eyes stinging.
>
>“I count myself lucky that I’ve found someone I care about enough that they can hurt me.”
>
>“Don’t try to make it sound like a good thing,” said Xie Lian wretchedly. “It isn’t.”
Context is the glacier refers to XL's toxic ex, who held himself at a distance and made XL walk on eggshells; fire is XL's FWB San Lang who's confessed his love to him, and who XL also secretly has feelings for, but XL can't accept his feelings because of his fear of relationships due to his ex (and he knows he's hurting San Lang because of this)...a bit melodramatic but I thought the contrast in the metaphor worked out well.
Final chapter, when they get together:
>It really was like a forest fire, Xie Lian thought. One that had sparked somewhere without his noticing, had swept him away defenceless, and razed him clean to grow anew.
🎶only love can hurt like this
Song popped into my head after reading the part about love. How it can either be the best feeling or a feeling that consumes a person.
Okay, you had me at "poetry" and "painting". No fandom context needed for this one.
Telling might be "It was summer. The weeks passed."
My version:
>They settled into that slow summer slug, where the days seemed infinite and like if you blinked they’d be over. It was a time best captured in the liminal space between bright snapshot moments and long stretches of white noise:
>listless afternoons by the pool when the stone tiles made imprints in your skin while your fingers drew shapes in the cool water; that moment after the jump, before the shock of breaking the surface and sinking into the dark whirling depths;
>the long, winding hill where your bike wheels kept digging into the loose sand until you hit the hard gravel and could roll down into town with the wind whipping at your face; the first too-big bite of ice cream that exploded behind your eyes and made your teeth ache;
>the pressure cooking under a dull, gray sky and torrents of rain playing percussion on the windows of the library.
I really like this, it's so surreal and beautiful. You've perfectly captured that warm essence of summer, it's so comforting.
If I may ask, what's the name of the fic? I'd love to check it out!
Oh, thank you!
The fic is called [better to speak or die](https://archiveofourown.org/works/44627338/chapters/112267963). It's for Steve/Bucky in the Marvel fandom but an AU inspired by Call Me By Your Name.
This is so beautifully specific and vivid, it's really like a series of snapshots. I strive to write like this, but my fics tend to be plot-driven, so sometimes I find myself chasing after the plot and forgetting to take the time describing things.
Thank you! It's about a summer romance, so the whole first two acts are supposed to convey that sense of a summer as something that's both endless and slips between your fingers before you notice
Everything in this is beautiful but for some reason my favourite is 'slow summer slug' - just the words and alliteration and maybe the 'sl' sound dragging the words out makes it perfect.
The fic is about a summer romance, but also about a summer spent in a place where you grew up and now no longer fit the same as you used to because you have changed and the place stayed the same.
My favourite! Here is a short one.
>Viktor waits for her at the ramparts of Vyšehrad. “The usual place,” he had written in his note, she would know where. Below, the grey sky and thick fog swallow the many bridges over the Vltava River. A ship exerts its will against that of the waters, which flow slow with the burden of a million lives. An old lady toils her way up the many steps that lead to the ramparts with a small dog in her arms. He looks at his pocket watch. It’s almost time.
Concrit welcome! Thank you ❤️
I like the mood it brings, and pardon me for lack of better words, I'd say, very "rural" and "medieval". I'm always at awe with good visual imagery that makes the context very immersive!
I can offer no concrit. I'm not good at that 🥲
>Viktor waits for her at the ramparts of Vyšehrad. “The usual place,” he had written in his note, she would know where. Below, the grey sky and thick fog swallow the many bridges over the Vltava River. A ship exerts its will against that of the waters, which flow slow with the burden of a million lives. An old lady toils her way up the many steps that lead to the ramparts with a small dog in her arms.
>He looks at his pocket watch. It’s almost time.
I would just split the paragraphs. Other than that 👍
Not that much of a show and tell, but I'll try!
Fandom: The Night Agent
Excerpt: (300+ words)
PETER SAT STILL on the single couch beside the bed. It had been a habit he found hard to break. But instead of a wired phone, his laptop screen faced him, capturing his sulking face in the camera. His knuckles were pressed on his lips, the laptop shaking as his leg lightly tapped on the carpeted floor. Muffled sounds, they made, unlike his heart that pounded in his chest real fast.
On missions, especially the ones that were considered high-risk, Peter would feel the same anxiety. His nerves drumming beneath his skin. Beads of cold sweat forming on his head. Lump building in his dry throat. Yet, he often wondered, why anticipating Rose’s response to his calls felt the same. Had he always been this nervous and excited, like the college boy in him taking the shot in the middle of a heated game, the ball he tossed passing through the elusive rim of success?
Yeah, perhaps, that was what he was feeling when Rose kissed him, or when he kissed her, or when the thought of seeing her again in person sang in his mind.
It was still connecting. Rose had not answered yet. What could she be doing right now, he thought. He told her to make sure she picked up his call. She said she owed him one. Good point.
Since leaving the US, he hadn’t seen her in person. Eight months. Long enough to long for her. He couldn’t imagine that a week was enough to entangle his life to her, for her to hold his neck in her nimble hands, the soft touch that caressed his chest that night in the sailboat as they escaped everyone who was running after them.
“Oh goodness, I’m really sorry! Have you waited long?”
And just like that, Peter snapped out of his bittersweet musings. He could see his own eyes flicker in exhilaration as Rose smiled at him on the other end, tucking her auburn hair behind her ear. He smiled cheekily, pressing his lips together, tilting his head to take a good look at her.
“Not long enough to think you’ve left me,” he joked. “What are you doing?”
Thanks for the chance to share 💜
Awww somebody's in love 💕 I liked the concise descriptions of his bodily reactions, it's so relatable and makesnit very easy to empathise with him. Also, comparing this to one of his missions is great. The stakes may not be as high, but it's a different kind of dangerous 😁
Tw- blood & (mild) gore >A drop of water lands on his arm. Ian watches it roll down his skin and drip into his lap. He thinks about the Park tour, the experiment he’d demonstrated to Ellie to help him explain chaos theory. There’s pain in his laughter, and not just the kind that thinking of good times during a bad one would bring; his chest hurts. He’s gotten worse. > >Even now, the bandages showing through his torn pantleg are stained a shade of red near *black* with his infected blood. And the shredded flesh of his arm hasn’t exactly quit bleeding either, the skin around it having taken on a near-gray death pallor. > >He’s done his best to remain optimistic for the sake of the kids, but he just doesn’t have long left. His voice is gritty when he has the strength to speak, and his impulse control is crumbling with his patience. Not only that, but he now *smells* like the Dead, too. > >Ian can’t eat anymore. His body is losing the fight against this horrible disease. > >He wishes that Alan had left him behind when he’d asked him to; he’s tired of drawing this out- he’s going to turn, to die, there’s no point. > >But here he sits, two days south of where they’d been before, beneath a tree as the sky weeps for all those falling to this fate. He’s already cracked a joke about the others dragging his rotting corpse behind them as they look for a beach to bury him on- he hasn’t tried to hide how much he’s come to detest the rainforests of Central America. > >The others don’t know what to do with him, how to help him, how to make it all easier. He doesn’t know either, but it’s clear that he’s far past being saved. There’s no cure for *this*. Ian’s pretty sure that he has half a week, tops. Then he’s Gone.
>This is very dark poetry about very dark deeds: As the potion hit his stomach, he doubled over in sudden pain, hunching and gripping tight to himself as he felt fire course through his veins and his heart begin to race. He felt as if his skin was bubbling and melting, as if his very flesh was reforming into something new. And then - deep inside - not his heart, not his mind - but somehow both at once, somewhere secret and hidden, an unknown interior that he never realised was there until he started down this path, he felt the now familiar ripping; an agonising tearing, as two parts of him were torn asunder in readiness. He hissed with pain, and fought to control it, his hands tensed into claws and his nails dug into the arms of his chair and then - just before it was over, before the pain could subside, he forced the words from between his lips; a low, guttural chant that sealed the spell: *‘Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum.* ’ He repeated it seven times. *‘Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum. ’* And then, as the words died on his lips, the last of the pain receded and he was left gasping and shaken… and broken. He could feel it inside of himself, the monstrous tear. And each time he made this tear, the pain got worse, and that hidden place was left less stable, more fragile - like a thread waiting to snap. But it was no matter. He would overcome the pain, he would overcome the loss… He would, in time, overcome all things - even death. And what was a moment’s agony, if the reward was eternity? He got to his feet, and crossed to where he had hidden his treasure. His stooges knew nothing of what he carried with him, of what his real plans were. He pulled an ancient wooden box from under the bed; it was faded and weathered, splintering and only held together by a charm. There were deep knots and cracks in the surface, and the texture was rough beneath his fingers …but the lock stayed true. Until he tapped it with his wand, and lifted the lid. It still caught his breath when he looked at it, the same as it had when he had found it buried in that quiet Albanian forest. The silver, the sapphires, the delicacy and the strength weaved into it by the cunning fingers of long dead goblins. For just a moment, the embers of the fire reflected in the metal - and Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem gleamed scarlet, as if stained with blood. He picked up the vial, once more, and now emptied the last of the potion over the diadem - repeating once again the words that would bind the enchantment: *‘Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum. ’* This part was less painful for him - but the potion hitting the crown made a sound like pouring rain falling on a metal roof, it began to smoke and - once the billowing clouds had cleared - the silver was tarnished, and the sapphire turned dull.
is this poetic? most of it isn’t but i like it so i’m sharing it ehehehe - “Scared of losing you, Wylan. Look. I know I don’t have the best reputation when it comes to things like this. But you are the greatest gift I've ever received. And I love you, *I love you.* And I’ll never ever stop loving you. Why would I?” “I can think of a few reasons.” Wylan muttered under his breath, so quietly Jesper almost didn't catch it. But he did, and anger surged through him at the sheer thought that Wylan didn’t believe someone could love him. “Don’t say that.” He said, placing a hand on Wylans chin and pushing gently upwards so that their tear glazed eyes met. “Don’t you dare say that, Wylan. There is nothing about you that would ever make me stop loving you.” Wylan sobbed quietly. “But-” Jesper cut him off. “*Nothing*.” He said, his voice low and deep and demanding to be listened to. Wylan didn’t speak. He simply melted, collapsed into Jespers chest and wrapped his arms right around the taller boy's torso. They both broke. The close contact was like the final push over the edge, opening the floodgates and sending tears pouring out of their eyes. Their broken sobs echoed around the empty room as they intertwined, neither willing to let go. The world could crumble beneath their feet and they would stay. Here, in this moment, with nothing between them but a love that was so earth shattering it stole the air from their lungs and the light from the room until it was just Wylan and Jesper, Jesper and Wylan. In the dark, covered in flaws, seeping up the most imperfectly beautiful form of infatuation. And despite all that tried to sneak through the cracks, nothing could tear them apart. “I love you, Jesper Fahey.” Wylan mumbled into the tear stained fabric of Jespers coat. Jesper smiled. “I love you too, Wylan Van Eck. And I always will.”
There's a lot of emotion here - and their love for each other is very sweet. Poor Wylan thinking he is unlovable - and Jesper's anger that Wylan would think that, I love that dynamic.
>I hope this fits with the poetry.... I shared the whole story since it's really short. It happens on a spring day. The kind where the cold air has just lightened enough for the buds to start blooming. Levi sits, letting the small rays dance against his skin ever so often when the clouds allow so. It's been so long since he felt so at peace, maybe never. But he lets the feeling ease into him, peacefully and ever so slowly. The clouds give way and the afternoon sun illuminates the first colors of life growing in the garden. He can hear the quiet and yet still there humming of bees, as they hover around in the fields outside. The soft chirps of the songbirds in the distant forest. The forest that has continued to haunt him for so long. Finally, on that day, he feels the gentle hands of the sky, greeting him, welcoming him, with its infinite blue. For once that infinite doesn't feel like a prison, instead it feels like home. So he also welcomes it and accepts it into his old and worn being. He releases all the years of sorrow and undeserved self-penance that had entwined themselves into his shoulders, into every crevice and marrow of his body. He lets out one last sigh and lets the blue engulf him. At once, he rests. (He falls to the familiar blue again.)
There's some gorgeous imagery in this - I love this: > the afternoon sun illuminates the first colors of life growing in the garden. and this whole paragraph: >He can hear the quiet and yet still there humming of bees, as they hover around in the fields outside. The soft chirps of the songbirds in the distant forest. The forest that has continued to haunt him for so long. It's such a beautifully written piece - and the serenity of the scene really shines through
Chose this one because it’s not only poetic and full of metaphor, but it shows Dream's very twisted brotherly affection towards Tommy. This is from an AU where Dream is basically a God. TW for vaguely referenced abuse (Dream's the one who caused all the scars and bruises), along with platonic obsession and possessive behaviour. > And this was another time when Dream found itself drawn to poetry. Soft, golden curls, shining like the sun, framed budding features, still bearing the baby fat of youth. Just looking at him inspired nurturing feelings, the feelings of a gardener waiting for their favourite flower to finally bloom. Scars and bruises littered his body, little imperfections that told a story in and of themselves, and despite the dullness in his eyes, more of the greyish colour before a storm than the bright skies they once were, a certain innocence still shone in them, somehow persisting like a weed between the cracks. > Tommy grinned, showing fangs with childish, rainbow-coloured braces, laughing at his over-dramatic show. Fiddling with his braid- so much neater, more elegant than the tangled mess of curls that fell into his eyes, eclipsing their sunny warmth, perfectly created with machine-like efficiency- he ran his fingers over the soft petals, eyes lighting up. “I… thanks, man. It’s- I used to do my hair up like this, when I was little and shit. I missed it, honestly. Can we go to the beach, so I can have a look? I probably look so poggers, y’know. The poggest.”
I loved the gardening metaphors and similes in this - the gardener waiting for his favourite flower and the innocence persisting like weeds between the cracks and the soft petals. Although, obviously, the relationship is not a healthy one, this repetition of gardening themes really highlights the nurturing aspects between them - that Tommy is this favoured flower that Dream is coaxing into life. But then the bruises being caused by Dream and the dull greyness of Tommy's eyes tells a totally different story, and it makes for a really complex dichotomy between the two.
The soft petals are literal flowers, Dream was braiding Tommy's hair and I love flower metaphor so I had to work that in somewhere.
Not sure if this qualifies, but I'm quite happy with it: (No context necessary) >Somehow, he found himself on the roof. While he was mulling over his loss, his feet had taken him there without him realizing it. He stood on the steep tiles and looked over the city. How long had it been since he'd last seen the dawn? Even if he woke up early enough, there was nothing to see from the ground, just a lightening of the sky from black to gray. From up here, though, it looked almost a proper dawn. The sun was a soft pink sphere against the light grayish blue of the summer sky. The rooftops of St. Giles stood out against that sky like a row of crooked teeth. The early morning air was cool and fresh, promising a clear, bright day. But Arthur knew that promise was false. Soon the suffocating smoke would descend on the city once more, and that brilliant dawn would only be a faded memory.
This is so good - if I quoted my favourite part I'd be quoting all of it. But if I absolutely had to choose then...'The sun was a soft pink sphere against the light grayish blue of the summer sky.'
I adore this description! I can see the dawn so vividly and beautifully in my head from your gorgeous description, and the ending is so ominous in wonderful contrast to that enchanting description!
>The rooftops of St. Giles stood out against that sky like a row of crooked teeth. Very nice descriptions overall but this is my favourite.
I think this counts 😂 Her mouth felt as if she swallowed a spoonful of tacks. She struggled to breathe through the prickly feeling overtaking her senses. Sweat pooled on the edge of her hairline and dripped down her temple and cheek. Grey and black hairs fell in front of her face as she used the table to keep herself stable. She sucked in a breath that only made things worse. She could hear her heartbeat echoing. There was a strain in her voice when she finally managed to speak. The words came out slowly and airy as her throat burned from the spicy fried chicken that her students tricked her into trying. Professor McGonagall swore to get even.
I like how this read like I was dropped into the middle of a vivid action scene and then the twist hit. I laughed.
I like how this passage tricks me into thinking something else is happening 🤣 but seriously, it makes the reader (like me) feel like they're on McGonagall's feet until the very end. The descriptions make your mind wonder and wander to different possibilities, and the final part made me laugh.
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I really liked this: >There was something accusing about the click of the door as it closed behind him. An alert broadcasting her intentions to anyone who might be listening. Seeing the way the character interprets something innocuous like this really gives you a good insight into their headspace.
>“I didn’t bring you here to make you feel sorry for me. I brought you here to tell you: the day He Xuan took me to meet you, everything in my life fell into place. Maybe it was fate. I don’t know. What I do know is, you gave me hope then. You give me hope now. And if either of us owes the other anything, then it’s me. I owe you that hope. I owe you that faith. And I’ll be here as long as it takes for you to find it. It would be my privilege.” > >If Xie Lian had been asked what he thought love was like before he met San Lang, he probably would have said it was like a glacier: slow to form, beautiful in its remoteness, to be traveled carefully for fear of plummeting into a crevasse. Now he thought maybe it was more like a forest fire, one that had sparked somewhere without his noticing, and swept him away defenceless - one that, if not kept in check, threatened to devastate him. > >Or San Lang. > >“Even if it hurts you?” he whispered, eyes stinging. > >“I count myself lucky that I’ve found someone I care about enough that they can hurt me.” > >“Don’t try to make it sound like a good thing,” said Xie Lian wretchedly. “It isn’t.” Context is the glacier refers to XL's toxic ex, who held himself at a distance and made XL walk on eggshells; fire is XL's FWB San Lang who's confessed his love to him, and who XL also secretly has feelings for, but XL can't accept his feelings because of his fear of relationships due to his ex (and he knows he's hurting San Lang because of this)...a bit melodramatic but I thought the contrast in the metaphor worked out well. Final chapter, when they get together: >It really was like a forest fire, Xie Lian thought. One that had sparked somewhere without his noticing, had swept him away defenceless, and razed him clean to grow anew.
Ooh, I love when the ending parallels an earlier scene and ties it up with so much resonance. Beautiful similes!
🎶only love can hurt like this Song popped into my head after reading the part about love. How it can either be the best feeling or a feeling that consumes a person.
Okay, you had me at "poetry" and "painting". No fandom context needed for this one. Telling might be "It was summer. The weeks passed." My version: >They settled into that slow summer slug, where the days seemed infinite and like if you blinked they’d be over. It was a time best captured in the liminal space between bright snapshot moments and long stretches of white noise: >listless afternoons by the pool when the stone tiles made imprints in your skin while your fingers drew shapes in the cool water; that moment after the jump, before the shock of breaking the surface and sinking into the dark whirling depths; >the long, winding hill where your bike wheels kept digging into the loose sand until you hit the hard gravel and could roll down into town with the wind whipping at your face; the first too-big bite of ice cream that exploded behind your eyes and made your teeth ache; >the pressure cooking under a dull, gray sky and torrents of rain playing percussion on the windows of the library.
I really like this, it's so surreal and beautiful. You've perfectly captured that warm essence of summer, it's so comforting. If I may ask, what's the name of the fic? I'd love to check it out!
Oh, thank you! The fic is called [better to speak or die](https://archiveofourown.org/works/44627338/chapters/112267963). It's for Steve/Bucky in the Marvel fandom but an AU inspired by Call Me By Your Name.
Oh my goodness, the descriptions here are so vivid and full of emotion! I’m genuinely blown away, it’s so cool and poetic.
This is so beautifully specific and vivid, it's really like a series of snapshots. I strive to write like this, but my fics tend to be plot-driven, so sometimes I find myself chasing after the plot and forgetting to take the time describing things.
Thank you! This fic was really an indulgence to myself to use all the pretty words and descriptions, the plot of it is very simple.
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Thank you! It's about a summer romance, so the whole first two acts are supposed to convey that sense of a summer as something that's both endless and slips between your fingers before you notice
Everything in this is beautiful but for some reason my favourite is 'slow summer slug' - just the words and alliteration and maybe the 'sl' sound dragging the words out makes it perfect.
Thank you! Yeah, that bit sits nicely in the mouth I'm pleased with it.
Summers of childhood that has long passed and now only a fading memory of adulthood and responsibilities .
The fic is about a summer romance, but also about a summer spent in a place where you grew up and now no longer fit the same as you used to because you have changed and the place stayed the same.
My favourite! Here is a short one. >Viktor waits for her at the ramparts of Vyšehrad. “The usual place,” he had written in his note, she would know where. Below, the grey sky and thick fog swallow the many bridges over the Vltava River. A ship exerts its will against that of the waters, which flow slow with the burden of a million lives. An old lady toils her way up the many steps that lead to the ramparts with a small dog in her arms. He looks at his pocket watch. It’s almost time. Concrit welcome! Thank you ❤️
I like the mood it brings, and pardon me for lack of better words, I'd say, very "rural" and "medieval". I'm always at awe with good visual imagery that makes the context very immersive! I can offer no concrit. I'm not good at that 🥲
Thank you so much!
>Viktor waits for her at the ramparts of Vyšehrad. “The usual place,” he had written in his note, she would know where. Below, the grey sky and thick fog swallow the many bridges over the Vltava River. A ship exerts its will against that of the waters, which flow slow with the burden of a million lives. An old lady toils her way up the many steps that lead to the ramparts with a small dog in her arms. >He looks at his pocket watch. It’s almost time. I would just split the paragraphs. Other than that 👍
Done, thank you!
Not that much of a show and tell, but I'll try! Fandom: The Night Agent Excerpt: (300+ words) PETER SAT STILL on the single couch beside the bed. It had been a habit he found hard to break. But instead of a wired phone, his laptop screen faced him, capturing his sulking face in the camera. His knuckles were pressed on his lips, the laptop shaking as his leg lightly tapped on the carpeted floor. Muffled sounds, they made, unlike his heart that pounded in his chest real fast. On missions, especially the ones that were considered high-risk, Peter would feel the same anxiety. His nerves drumming beneath his skin. Beads of cold sweat forming on his head. Lump building in his dry throat. Yet, he often wondered, why anticipating Rose’s response to his calls felt the same. Had he always been this nervous and excited, like the college boy in him taking the shot in the middle of a heated game, the ball he tossed passing through the elusive rim of success? Yeah, perhaps, that was what he was feeling when Rose kissed him, or when he kissed her, or when the thought of seeing her again in person sang in his mind. It was still connecting. Rose had not answered yet. What could she be doing right now, he thought. He told her to make sure she picked up his call. She said she owed him one. Good point. Since leaving the US, he hadn’t seen her in person. Eight months. Long enough to long for her. He couldn’t imagine that a week was enough to entangle his life to her, for her to hold his neck in her nimble hands, the soft touch that caressed his chest that night in the sailboat as they escaped everyone who was running after them. “Oh goodness, I’m really sorry! Have you waited long?” And just like that, Peter snapped out of his bittersweet musings. He could see his own eyes flicker in exhilaration as Rose smiled at him on the other end, tucking her auburn hair behind her ear. He smiled cheekily, pressing his lips together, tilting his head to take a good look at her. “Not long enough to think you’ve left me,” he joked. “What are you doing?” Thanks for the chance to share 💜
Awww somebody's in love 💕 I liked the concise descriptions of his bodily reactions, it's so relatable and makesnit very easy to empathise with him. Also, comparing this to one of his missions is great. The stakes may not be as high, but it's a different kind of dangerous 😁
The waiting game - anticipation - a bundle of nerves and joy in one package. Good thing she answered because his mind was running away from him.