I made a decision to abandon this blog. It’s not really who I am anymore, and sometimes it feels like it’s keeping me stuck in my depression.
However I will still be writing.
Feel free to follow my personal blog here where I will probably post abstract bits and pieces. Feel free to submit any prompts.
Also, subscribe to my A03 for fanfiction.
Thank you so very much for all the support you’ve given me over the past year or so.
See you soon.
x x x
“i’m gonna do it. i’m gonna write,” i whisper to myself as i continue to browse tumblr
Charles Bukowski, “A Poet in New York”
If you ever feel stressed out about university and exams and the future and stuff, bear in mind that F. Scott Fitzgerald failed his entrance test when he applied to Princeton and was only actually allowed in because he told the admissions staff it was his birthday, then flunked out (twice) and joined the army to fight in World War One (which finished before he actually got to go to war), and then when he decided to be a writer he got so many rejection slips that he literally wallpapered his room with them, and then eventually he wrote the Great American Novel, so what does that tell you?
❝And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.❞
It wasn’t exactly like the Doctor had forbidden her to explore past her room, was it?
So she couldn’t be blamed for getting curious about how big exactly the TARDIS was, and letting her feet carry her down the long corridor, quickly getting lost in the labyrinth of rooms and passageways and stairs.
It turned out the TARDIS was very big. Well, at least now she knew.
And her excuse for checking the rooms she passed? Well, she was looking for a map to find her way back to the control room.
Some rooms were obviously used often, such as a huge wardrobe, bigger than any dressing room she’d ever seen, stacked with hundreds of coats, dozens of hats, pink sixties dresses, nurse outfits, red leather jackets, anything you could imagine was there.
Then there were rooms like this one.
The air felt like a mortuary when she opened the door, like the dust itself was holding it’s breath. The door didn’t swing open easily like the others had, there was resistance, like the TARDIS was trying to keep this part of itself locked up tight.
Clara stepped inside the nursery.
Why on earth would the Doctor have this?
Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust, no fingerprints gracing any of the painted surfaces. The crib was in the center of the room, a great mobile of planets above it. Clara didn’t recognize any of them, though the central planet appeared to have domes coming from it, and was being orbited by two moons. She touched it delicately with the tip of a finger, listening to the pleasant jangling. The dark blue crib had something carved on it too, similar to the carvings on the upper part of the TARDIS in the control room. She wondered if it was just decoration or writing.
Toys littered the floor, ones that could be universally recognised such as stuffed animals (though she couldn’t name a single one, some looking like eldritch abominations and others looking suspiciously like earth animals with a few extra genes thrown in) to ones that she couldn’t guess at their purpose. The carpet had a pattern on it though that was easy to recognise as a galaxy, that literally swirled around the feet as one moved on it. Books were piled in a corner, literally hundreds of them in several languages, including the last Harry Potter book looking rather dog eared.
Clara suddenly felt uneasy to her bones. She stepped back outside, closing the door to the untouched nursery of the Doctor’s….Whatever. Some things, she didn’t want to know, or understand. Not yet.
❝A writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view, a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway.❞
You actually filled my prompt. I'm dy i n g good monsieur you come from god in heaven (tell cosette i love her and i'll see her when i wake) but seriously I love you a lot.❞
Eek, no worries! If you ever have any other Les Mis prompts, throw them my way!
i need this in my life, someone write this for me please
As Enjolras stepped into the apartment that him and Grantaire shared, he got the immediate sense that something was wrong. Not a big, gut wrenching sense, but the simple sense of wrongness he got whenever Grantaire wasn’t around.
It was unusual too because since he’d gotten kicked out of the university for repeated offences of ‘drunkenness and insolence’ he was usually here or in the cafe, drinking or smoking or generally being the type of nuisance that made Enjolras smile despite his wishes. It was nice to have his lonely flat filled with another living, breathing human. He’d never quite realised how lonely he could get until his boyfriend wasn’t around. Like now.
He wandered into the kitchen, dropping his school bag laden with books the the ground with a dull thud, grabbing a piece of fruit from the bowl and chewing on it as he noticed the note on the table. At least when Grantaire went out he left a note. On the part at least he was reliable.
Out for a few hours. Don’t miss me too much Apollo. - R
Enjolras frowned slightly. While Grantaire was usually home, once every two weeks, he did disappear for hours. Enjolras wondered about an affair, but it was too regimented to be that, unless he was fucking Combeferre. So he was left puzzled, and whenever he asked the man about it, he waved it off with that annoying nonchalance he possessed.
And to annoy Enjolras more, he had left his coat on the floor. With an annoyed growl, Enjolras crossed the gap to the offending fabric, yanking it off the floor. A piece of paper with an address and time scrawled on it, Enjolras realised as he picked it up. It was a community college not too far from here, and the time and date was well…Now. Why would Grantaire have this?
Logically, Enjolras knew he should wait until Grantaire came home and ask him like a reasonable person. But anyone who knew Enjolras for two seconds could tell he was hardly reasonable. Another moment later and his red blazer was on his shoulders, and he was out the door.
He stood in front of the brick building, only now beginning to have second thoughts. It looked closed up for the day, and soon the streetlights would be flickering on. He didn’t even know what room Grantaire was in for goodness’ sake. He was about to turn on his heel and march home when a young woman with blonde hair came out the main doors, blinking at him standing there aimlessly.
“Are you here for the art lessons?” He hesitated before nodding, trying to look as un-suspicious as he possibly could. “Right then, they moved the classroom, it’s the one at the very end on the right.” She smiled as she held the door open for him, and he murmured a polite thank you and made a mental note on what she looked like so if he saw her again he could thank her more graciously. Or ask her how interested in revolution she was.
He followed the corridor, wondering perhaps if Grantaire was taking art lessons and just didn’t wish to tell him for whatever reason. It seemed an odd secret to keep however. He reached the door, and braced himself for a confrontation as he opened it and saw -
His boyfriend. Nude. In front of people.
They were painting him, feasting upon his form in paints and pastels, and Enjolras felt a rush of fury because he wasn’t theirs to feast upon. The curve of his spine, the shoulder blades that looked apt to burst wings, the slim line of his hips and even the space underneath his knees were Enjolras’ to love and cherish and appreciate.
The students looked up, the model did not.
“Can I help you?” The tutor said, wide eyes growing wider at the expression on Enjolras’ face. He didn’t bother replying, simply striding over to Grantaire, ripping his blazer off to throw it around the man. Grantaire’s face flashed through shock and annoyance before settling on amusement.
“Apollo? Want to take some art lessons?”
“I want you to put your clothes on.” Enjolras whispered, in something more like a growl than anything else. “Now. Nobody gets to see you but me Grantaire. Nobody.”