Snowgrouse's Nest.
Dodgy sci-fi - Fine Whines - Photoshop - MonsterCat - Pretentious Purple Prose
snowgrouse
Wait, how in the fuck is the transformation of communion wine into Jesus's blood not spelled with two 'S'es in the middle in English? I have always read it as 'transsubstantation' because one word ends in an s and the other begins with an S? How in the hell are the two conflated? That'd mean one of the words was either 'tran' or 'ubstantation'. This seems so wrong in so many ways o_O It's probably me reading it like that because it's spelled with two in Finnish and several other languages? Check out the other languages sidebar on the Wikipedia entry, for instance. This sort of mashage-uppage hurts the hyperlinguistic and religions-nerdy part of my brain, it really does.

...what? Of course I'm using pretentious religious terms when writing; it's a fucking Grousefic. Also, it was about piss as communion.

ENGLISH, WHY YA GOTTA BE LIKE THAT?

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And the mood has swung to: irate irate

4 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
I FINISHED THE MAIN WRITING PROCESS ON DEVILRY 3!

95 000 WORDS IN SIX WEEKS, MOTHERBITCHES!

\o/

The editing is going to take me forfuckingever, of course, and then I'll just cry like a bitch because I spot so much fail and now there will be a huge slump, but ANYwaY. And I'll be making some graphics and hopefully, that trailer I've been going on about before I unleash it on you guys. Please come and hit me if I try to post it anywhere before the 15th of June? I just know I need to wait until then at least because this thing needs one wash in the whole hyperlinguistic hormonal storm that's about to hit me around then.

But. FUCK! I MADE IT! And those fuckers are burning forever in hell. And fabulously so. Job's a good'un.

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And the mood has swung to: accomplished accomplished

6 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
I had the strangest but most satisfying night last night. I basically wrote 5000+ words on the last epic giant fuck scene in Devilry 3, then was so aroused I was in PAIN (look, the scene involved hard BDSM daddy kink with Torsten fucking Barring on top) and had a fap (and that took forever because I was LITERALLY SO WET AND SWOLLEN I COULD HARDLY FEEL THE RIDGES OF MY TOYS PROPERLY) and then I did my back in and had to take a huge hit of painkillers and then I suddenly fell asleep in a cloud of codeine. And slept for like 10 hours.

And now I'm here. And I feel amazing.

The only problem is that I didn't take my evening meds when I was knocked out, and as those evening meds include anti-deps, it's going to get tricky today. And I don't want to take them now because if I take them during the day, they make me sleepy and make my clit numb and I've had enough daytime sleepiness and strange genital numbness anyway. But I had really happy dreams and am not hugely groggy and want to write like a motherfucker, so I'll just try and dedicate the entire day to finishing this scene. IF THEY EVER STOP FUCKING because it's their last shag and I don't know whether even that 5000-word fuck spree has even taken them HALFWAY in their epic shag.

But back to writing. Knock on wood.

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And the mood has swung to: surprised surprised

Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
-Watched White Banners today and enjoyed it way more than I'd expected to, which was a good bonus. I kind of knew about the plot beforehand so it didn't surprise me, and there were a few bits where it was a bit anvilly about self-sacrificing morals in a way that made my teeth itch (the way a lot of movies about women's decisions back then were), but overall, it was a hugely enjoyable movie. Mostly because Claude Rains is just one of those actors who will always be great no matter what movie they play in, and the same can be said for the ever-delightful Bonita (who, at 15, damn well stole some of the scenes from Claude)! They were utterly adorable and cute as a nerdy scientist/inventor dad and a sprightly daughter, and Fay Bainter's performance was fantastic as well. It was one of those family movies that I didn't expect to be as enjoyable as it was because of family movies often being blah and simplistic, but those performances really blew it out of the water. I got the feeling that it was one of those things where the director really let the actors explore the characters and maybe even improvise and re-do various scenes, because I got a playlike, living, interactive feel from it all throughout. It did remind me of a good stage play in the way the actors played off each other and where the performances were alive and human and vivid, which wasn't all that common back in the Old Hollywood era. So that was a pleasant experience overall. One of those films that had so many fun bits that I had to keep pausing every few minutes so I could make gifs of it!

And oh yeah.



I am not dealing with that business. He smacks her on the bum not once but twice. I don't know what would've happened had I a) headcast her as Laura Erika Barring in my head and b) seen this movie before I wrote Dance With the Devil, because of the awful awful things Smythe (who I headcast as Claude from the beginning) did to her. But it was probably better to have seen this after, so all that sweet father/daughter interaction wouldn't have prevented me from writing all those evols. And he was just so great in an unusal role and I want him to be my science teacher and for him to do me over the desk, hard. All in all, it's always great to see two actors I really enjoy watching playing off each other. They were utterly ADORKABLE.

And as it's in the public domain and everything, I've uploaded it here in case anyone wants to grab it.

-And speaking of Devilry, I'm still really stuck on the last chapter because it needs SO MUCH OOMPHS. I'll get there eventually, but I know it's going to require one of those long writing sprees of several thousands of words in one go, and as I've only managed that very rarely these days, I'm still waiting for that day to happen. Especially as it's going to be the finale of the entire trilogy and the culmination of their entire lives! No pressure there, then; no pressure at all. *Nervous Peter Lorre laughter* But I do hope to be able to get it done sooner rather than later. *knock on wood*

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And the mood has swung to: pleased pleased

10 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
Well, the plot twist Torsten just unexpectedly pulled at the last minute is going to be either the corniest or the most jaw-dropping holy-hell-what-the-fuckiest thing ever. I really can't say. I have no idea why and how he pulled that on Laura, but... uh-oh.

So, yeah, I'm on the last chapter and it's really difficult to write. Not emotionally so much as how in the hell am I going to get enough oomph into the sex scene (since they've already done everything and in the most shocking possible way), that's how, and how in the hell he's going to explain this plot twist to her and how... well, ok, I don't actually have to worry about whether their heads will go boom at it since they'll go boom in a minute anyway, but still. And man, I hate being this cryptic about it all because it's heavy stuff and I'm just itching to tell you guys.

And I'm feeling hungry all the time for some reason. Probably my medications messing with me again. Ho hum. Should attempt a fap and sleep, I guess. I kind of want to avoid finishing the fic and everything because the last chapter is so... final and so huge. I don't want to let go of these crazy fuckers yet. Oh, and Laura is going to be wearing what Bonita wears here at a couple of points. Not that silly hat, but godDAMN, that black satin dress. I can't decide whether I want to jump her or steal her dress or jump her *and* then run off with the dress. (And for once, she's legal so I don't have to feel guilty over ogling her pocket-sized hourglass figure :P) The shitty B-movies I've watched just to get clips of her for some illustrationy material, you just don't know. But at least the costume porn and her attitude always make up for it.

But what was I saying? I think I need to go and focus on another pretty frock until my lady parts are raw and then crash. So tired. *flops*

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And the mood has swung to: confused confused

Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
Oh, gods. RIP, Tanith Lee. Gone far too soon. Not a week goes by that I don't think of how her stories and how her writing have influenced me, the way she taught me that yes, even strange metaphors can work if you just write them poetically enough. I had the pleasure of meeting her once and she was such a lively, creative crazy old goth lady and so fiery and so great and just--sigh. She was one of those writers whose work was so incredibly inspiring I always had to write tons after reading just a couple of pages of hers. I just reread Women as Demons recently--probably my favourite work of hers--and some of the images have haunted me forever. She wrote some stuff I didn't like at all (I can think of one popular book of hers I actually threw across the room because I hated the shallow characters so much), but when she was good, she was right up there with Angela Carter when it came to beautiful, mythological visions and insights into the female psyche. And I know I'm in the minority, but I also loved her two Blake's 7 episodes (and if you hated them, please don't come in and tell me how you hated them right now. Or ever. It's like saying you hate me). And I greatly enjoyed the fluffy adventure of Piratica as well as her sci-fi/fantasy stuff and--gods, she will be hugely missed.

One of my greatest writing heroes is gone. I'm still not even processing it properly. :( I was just literally thinking of her unusual use of a certain word and how I was now using it in a similar way in something I was writing today. :(

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And the mood has swung to: crushed crushed

4 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
What went on in my head during a typical wank one day. Inspired by having been reading Anaïs's diaries and her descriptions of her own desire and her affairs and her fantasies and her experiences. I just had to get it out, because if she can write about it, there's no reason I shouldn't. So, here we go. TMI, kinks and Connies happen, as you were expecting. But hope reading it will give something to someone at least--whether it's a resonance or a laugh or an 'unf' at a particular image, or encouragement to write about her own desire, or whatever.

I lie upon my bed with my legs open.Collapse )

And if that's not enough TMI to last you guys for a month, I don't know what is. But hope it made the world a better place for a little moment at least.

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And the mood has swung to: sleepy sleepy

Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
I was just discussing the importance of talking about female desire with pallanwen earlier today. Because of the usual reasons of female desire being suppressed, shamed, not having a language yet what with certain terms being either corny or missing altogether, female desire being laden with baggage whether it's straight or gay or introverted or directed towards abstract aliens, that sort of thing. And I realised I'd never posted this one wank report I wrote (shall add a link here later once I've posted it and edited it) I typed up on my phone about a month ago as an exercise to break those taboos of even talking about the damn thing (and having been mainlining Anaïs writing so frankly about her own desire also fuelled this outburst). I may talk about pervy stuff all the time, lust after my favourite actors, write tons of horny tags on Tumblr and churn out novels' worth of erotic fanfic, but it's never easy. It's always something where you really have to climb over a big mental hump and you're always exposing yourself to moralising, ridicule or abuse from nearly everyone out there. So whenever you see me perving wildly, there is also this very conscious sex-positive feminist and fuck-society punk urge to say it loudly if I say it, to be obnoxious about it if needs be exactly because it's something I shouldn't be saying and because of all the vulnerability involved. I guess I'd be a lot mellower about my perving if there wasn't that aforementioned hump to get over and if my repeated experience wasn't that of "someone's going to moralise at me/sneer at me/be a chauvinist pig/generally be an arse over this" whenever I even dare mention the fact I have a vagina and a libido.

But anyway. I've said that before, but I'd also like to challenge any vag-owners with desire reading this to write about that desire on their own blogs, just so that it could become even a little more normal in people's eyes; so that the world would get used to female desire as a concept a bit more. Because these things need to be talked about, and because that whole dilemma of "what do you call this female phenomenon or this part of the female body" is never going to go away until people use at least some terms and we all get used to certain terms being used. I mean, think of memes? A certain phrase can become a widely adopted term in just a few days' time, and most people on the internet will know what that term or phrase means, but we still don't have a good term for the moisture a vagina produces during arousal, for Venus's sake! (No, I'm not happy to use the term 'pussy juice' because juice is watery and that stuff's the consistency of egg white!) Frightening thought, eh?

So if you feel like it, I'd love to see more of you ladies writing about what gets you going, in the broadest possible terms of desire and the erotic. It doesn't have to be explicit or body-related at all, considering how much of female desire operates on the psychological, mental plane anyway. What do you find fanciable in your favourite actor, musician? Whose writing makes you float on happy waves of desire and why? Which scent makes you drift into happy daydreams? Which sort of touch or gesture symbolises so much to you you get teary-eyed? What sort of characterisation resonates with you on a deep level so that you yearn to see a character united with another? That sort of thing. I would like to say it'd be even awesomer and even more feminist if it wasn't, for once, desire that was transposed onto other characters (your fictional favourites or a Mary Sue) because that's problematic in a sense if you're meant to be writing of yourself (isn't it sad and pathological how often we aren't writing about ourselves but some other people--and very specifically two guys fucking? It's hugely depressing if you think of it that way, if that's the only form of sexual expression you have, like it is for a lot of geek girls). But since it's another hugely typical thing about female desire exactly because society's attitudes and the wonkinesses of female bodies kind of force female desire to be transposed anyway, I'm not going to ask people to not just write about their favourite characters rather than themselves, because again these things are difficult as hell. And it'd be dicky to say You're Doing It Wrong about anyone's desire, like there was one right and proper and politically correct and feminist way of doing it. I'm not in that camp, fear not. Even writing about your favourite m/m slash pairing is still better than lying back and thinking of England.

But if you do take up the challenge, it's worth pointing out (especially to some of you who are new to LJ) that you should post it on your own blog, in your own time, on your own terms, with your own graphics and stuff, and not in the comments here. That way, they won't get obscured and the object of the exercise is to talk about it publicly, so talking about them in only one person's comments would be missing the point. So if you do talk about it, put it on your own LJ or whatever space you feel writing it in, should you feel like it--if you feel safe enough to do so, of course, because it's not the easiest or safest thing to talk about for the aforementioned reasons. And give me a link if/when you're done, because I'd love to read it:)

But, anyway. Whew. This became long. I was originally meant to post that wank report here, but I shall do it in a separate post. Should you want to do this desire challenge and/or spread the word, feel free to link back to this post.

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And the mood has swung to: recumbent recumbent

Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
You know what sucks? Feeling like shit and then being trapped in a part of fic that should have an extensively happy scene, when you just want to write incredibly dark stuff instead to exorcise the demons. I'm having some serious mental health wobbles again, partially thanks to the medication I'm fiddling with and partially thanks to just having had someone randomly dump a huge, long, incredibly triggery email on me about her woes, about really awful things that touched on a lot of really traumatic things I'd gone through, that sent me into a full PTSD relapse. And completely without my consent when I'd told her my mental health isn't good at the best of times and I want to avoid such topics. I feel like such a shit fucking friend on top of that, of course, because that can look like you can't talk to me about sad things at all, but I'm honestly too old to actually care and I'd rather be completely friendless than to be dragged down by the few I have. It's honestly just not worth it--I'd rather sit here and talk into the void like usual or just talk to my cat and/or the ghost of Connie than to fucking wake up to a panic attack the first thing in the morning because I open an email from someone I like and then get attacked by some of the worst ghosts in my past (and then have to have that guilt about being a shit friend on top). But again, then I'll rather be a shit friend or not a friend at all rather than someone who takes all that and gets destroyed by it, because no. I am not going to take any of that anymore. I spent decades of my life befriending other miserable people (aren't most smart women like that?) and abusive relationships and I don't have any more time for that. I'm fucking burnt out. Absolutely finished with other people's misery dragging me down, and that's nothing to do with a lack of empathy, more like that my empathy's too strong and it has already damaged me enough--I've tried to be tough about it and not let it get to me, but my neurology just doesn't work that way, and I have the right to refuse what's effectively a bunch of knives into my innards. Life's too short and too precious for me to spend any more time feeling like I want to kill myself; my own life's quite capable enough of throwing enough bad shit at me as it is. So that's just a warning to anyone who's been trying to befriend me recently--I really can't do that kind of stuff, so if you want a shoulder to cry on, you're really better off trying to find someone else who's better equipped for that; someone whose shoulder isn't broken in fifty places and held together with duct tape. I can't bear your pain because I'm already cracking under my own at the best of times, and that (or wanting to focus on lighter things) does NOT make me into a selfish arsehole or a shallow person. I do it because the other alternative is to slit my wrists. It just means I'm a person whose capacity for dealing with certain things is limited, and I am not going to apologise for not wanting to be depressed (and if you think that's not a good enough reason, you don't know what depression means). I am just too old for that. I've had enough of that, seriously.

Summa summarum: It's not that I'm an arsehole if I don't listen to your woes, or that I don't care. It's quite the opposite; I break when you break. And I can't handle that in any other way except channeling my strength towards positive, life-affiriming things. God knows I've tried. I just need to hang on to what precious little sanity I have left, and there isn't much. And if you don't understand that (or if you are still in that angry-young-activisty mindset that thinks someone's sticking their head in the sand if they aren't constantly Angry About Things), then don't approach me. I have a zero tolerance for triggery shit these days. I spent decades being miserable and it didn't work. If I'm miserable, I can't write or 'shop bring anything good into the world and that's that. And not a single person has the right to fuck with what little happiness and sanity I've managed to scrape up for myself with bloodied fingers.

So, yes, if I don't come up and chat to you on Skype or respond to long emails, that'll be it. I really don't have the mental capacity to deal with even simple socialisation at times, let alone socialisation that might descend into complaining (which it normally does when two smart people talk, anyway). I've had chats where it's eventually descended into Bitching About Tumblr or political issues even if we've started with fannish fluff and that's not your fault or my fault but the fault of us being intelligent, and I've had like three people like that recently who've wanted to hang out with me. And I feel like I'm being a crap friend to you all and like I'm not being deep enough or reaching out to you enough and leaving you hanging when you feel like crap (and that makes me feel bad, believe it or not, because you're all good people). But if I'm having enough trouble with my own life and my health, please understand that my own survival takes precedence. I really enjoy intellectual conversations and you're great people but it really does feel like I can't be a friend these days, because I simply can't do this being a shoulder to cry on (or even simply bitching about things together) thing. It drags me too far down into a deep dark pit that'll take me days to crawl out of, and it's simply too exhausting.

So, you know. Grouse is a shit friend who can only ever talk about shallow horny stupid shallow things, but we knew that already.

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And the mood has swung to: crappy crappy

snowgrouse
-Oh, for fuck's sake. I'm not even at the end yet, and have two chapters or so to go, but now I got an idea that Torsten and Laura are going to write farewell letters to each other, and I'm writing them simultaneously into two separate files (so I can insert them into the last chapter later) and crying my fucking *eyes* out. Christ. I was in the middle of one of their last sex parties and then it just suddenly went into this and I *never* write out of order! Mostly because I write in such a state of inspiration, in such a flow that it's really hard to incorporate anything into that flow, even some things I thought might look cool in a scene and some phrases I thought were really gorgeous and should be there. It's that intense, the writing process itself, when I'm in the zone, and what's flowing out at that exact moment dictates what's going to be in the final chapter (I only really polish rather than rewrite scenes, adding some words and phrases and elaborations and deeper explorations of the emotions I've already written about).

-I got distracted reading about Alexandre Dumas again and I love how he just took all those racist cliches about black people being savages and just fucking *ran* with them. When Paris was constantly torn by several little revolutions, he would just pull out a gun and go WHOHOO! THIS IS THE SECOND NEGRO REVOLT! (I don't know which the first one was, but he really went for it) and would frighten the shit out of people by going RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE, MOTHERFUCKERS and basically just taking that whole Scary Big Black Guy stereotype and living it for maximum lols. He was such a massive egomaniac that he couldn't give a shit, really, and while I normally despise that and wouldn't want to be around a guy like that (it's actually frightening how some of that stuff reminds me of certain media moguls, mad tyrannical TV and movie producers and the like), it just crosses over into pure absurd hilarity with this guy sometimes. I mean, he based Porthos on his dad and himself, so that tells you something about the levels of crazy jolly giants we're talking about. Christ, no wonder there were quite a few fellow artists that were just rolling their eyes at him all the time because he was just so totally OTT with his megalomania and castles and half a dozen mistresses and food and drink and crazy. EVEN WHEN HE HAD NO MONEY because he'd just bullshit it out of somewhere. Definitely a larger-than-life guy.

-Speaking of Dumas, still reading that book on La Reine Margot and rolling my eyes at the author pointing out how the nymphomaniac!Margot was a historical construct and exploitative and pornographic, and raising her eyebrow at the way the movie took that and used it. I mean, she doesn't go into a full "THIS WAS EVIL AND BAD AND WRONG" anti-sex feminist rant, but the disapproval makes me just roll my eyes, basically. Look, I think those scenes of Margot eyeing up potential lovers and going off to find a fuck in the streets were and are FANTASTIC and I found them really empowering and exciting and fistpump-inducing when I first saw the movie as a teenager. I don't think the movie even moralises them all that much because she's in power. She'a s a fucking queen and she can do this and she will do this, and she's shameless in her search for pleasure because she likes to fuck. It's not portrayed in a pathetic way--I mean, even the term 'nymphomaniac' always has connotations of some woman being desperate to be liked, being needy and just self-destructive somehow, when she could just... have a high sex drive? And really enjoy it and be happy about it? That's how I've always felt about sex anyway, so it resonated really hard with me and still does, that image of her being a powerful, sexually voracious woman who knows what she wants and takes it. It's great. (And I do wonder if this, more expansive view of a female character as a person does partially come from the director having been gay, which isn't exactly an unusual thing.) Really, the book isn't preachy and I'm loving it, but let me just say that any depictions of unbridled female desire that give the woman agency and don't reduce her to some poor miserable victim seeking guys to validate herself is a good thing. There aren't enough of those. That Margot's one of the very few female characters who's really haunted me for years and years and who I can understand on a deep level, anyhow. Only Anna Holm is up there with her, basically.

-Speaking of AWF, can we just talk about THE WAY THIS MOTHERFUCKER STANDS?



I'm not just saying that in a rhetorical Tumblr manner! Can we talk about it? That tilt of his hips and the way his legs are so twisted and wrappity-aroundity that he's going to turn into a double helix if he's not careful? And the way his entire weight is on one leg again, creating that RIDICULOUS amount of bounce only his lady-sized hips afforded him? (I still think that had there been a skeleton of him, some archaeologist might mistake it for a woman's on the basis of that pelvis alone; I think it's wider than Joanie's.) But can we talk about his elegance and the way he stands and commands the entire room and just becomes the very picture of aristocratic arrogance and I--*hyperventilates* CAN WE?

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And the mood has swung to: giddy giddy

5 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
I don't care if something awful is going to happen soon at this rate, but I've had a pretty good day. Such a good day, in fact, that I've got to record it for posterity.

Today, I have actually:

-Had a fairly decent night's sleep (not the best, but one that's left me functional, which is rare)

-Went to a) the supermarket b) the post office c) the pharmacy on my own without assistance and without a walking stick (this only happens once or twice a month)

-Tested a new sex toy I was sent and wrote most of what's going to be the final review (sadly, it wasn't the greatest, even if it was one of those posh new toys--I'm so sick and tired of G-spot toys because they don't really yield to your body's curves and you can't stick them deep and thrust with them, which is my preference with toys. Please tell me I'm not the only woman on the planet who's all meh about those and prefers dick-shaped, elastic toys you can thrust with/ride instead? Please? My wanking really isn't just about lying down on my back and barely moving the toy at all or finding the most pleasure in the front wall of the vag. I want it deep, dammit. Oh, and I fucking hate those rings because they are the wrong way around when you should be able to hook your fingers in from the top and not from the side, FFS. Are there ever any actual *women* involved in the design process of these things? Who the fuck holds their toys from the side? Where your actual THIGH is? What?!)

-Actually wasn't too tired to shave my bits, partially to make the reviewing easier when there wasn't anything in the way

-Wrote an entire chapter of Devilry 3 and a very fucking intense and shocking one at that. It's the shortest chapter in the entire thing, as it's plotty and not meant to be erotic, but still. I got through an entire major turning point at the end, after which there will only be the final crescendo. 2600 words down so far and I'm still polishing it, so it might end up being more than that. Oh, and it's one of the creepiest, if not *the* creepiest thing I've ever written a protagonist doing. And considering the dark shit I've written the Master doing, that's pretty damn creepy. If you thought all that business with Smythe was bad, you ain't seen nothing yet. I was shocking myself as I wrote it.

-I will answer those meme questions for other fics later on, fear not. I just realised I'm going to have to read the fics through again before knowing what the hell to answer, so it's taking a while. And I'm just itching to change so much about the original Of Roses Unfurling you wouldn't even know--there are so many phrases I'd never use now and so many things I'd use different words for and augh. It's really irritating because the first fic isn't nearly as good as some of the later ones, so the reader won't get a good idea of the standard it does end up reaching eventually. Damn and blast. But isn't that the curse of all long fic series? (And it was my first solo longfic, so I was still trying to figure the whole thing out and didn't have chapters or anything and still used many phrases that were more versaphile than me. But ah well, you live and learn.)

-Since I've got a couple of new Connie people reading this thing (well, presumably reading this thing), I should point out that the Connie mood theme I'm using can be found here and it's totally up for grabs. And if you want any Connie-related icons, I can whip some up if you wanna.

-Oh, and I just Photoshopped Torsten doing Laura up the arse and I'm so going to hell. I'm not sure if it's that great a manip, however, so I don't know if it'll ever see the light of day. But I felt distinctly corrupted while 'shopping it, even if the Bonita headshot was from when she was about 20. This damn 'verse is really screwing my brain around but I am already starting to feel melancholic about having to say goodbye to these two after... two chapters or so, I think. *sniffle* And the weirdest thing is that I've exorcised so many "how far can you go?" demons with this 'verse that I don't think I will ever be able to write anything darker or more twisted, ever. So that's a strange thing to contemplate, considering how much darkfic I've written in my *mumbledy* years of fanficcing. But on the other hand, even rereading some of the Jaffar/Princess stuff makes me realise how much I miss the purity and the depth of their love, really. At least they are much better for my health.

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And the mood has swung to: good good

8 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
(Crossposting this here from Tumblr because it needs to be immortalised, and because it'll be easier to put in additions here.)

Despite popular requests, here ‘tis: The Conrad Veidt Drinking game. Yes, dear reader! Now, in the comfort of your own home, you can destroy your liver as well as your already-tattered heart and sore genitals appreciating this magnificent star!

(Aikainkauna HQ accepts no responsibility for any injuries caused. And if I’ve forgotten any essential Veidt tropes, feel free to send Jaffar to spank me add suggestions.)

Are you ready? Let’s go!



Cut for lengthCollapse )

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And the mood has swung to: thirsty thirsty

Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
Doing this huge fic meme for A Surrender in Ambergris for ataslightangle (shall be doing the other requests later, worry not). Pretty much answering all the questions anway, because I can.

CutCollapse )

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And the mood has swung to: groggy groggy

2 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
Since I've got a couple of new people reading, I guess it might be time to resurrect this meme. Hit me, because I can and will talk about mah fics forever.

Pick a fic of mine and a question (or questions) and I'll tell you:

1. Which part was most difficult?

2. Which part are you proudest of?

3. What's a reference you made no one has picked up on yet?

4. Which bit sums up your take on a character?

5. Favorite line(s) of dialogue?

6. Favorite lines(s) of prose?

7. Were there any points where you were trying to do something specific with sound, vocabulary, or rhythm?

8. How many drafts did the work go through?

9. Were you listening to anything while writing the fic? If so, what?

10. Imagery that is important to the fic, either while composing or in the fic itself?

11. What were you most worried about during the composition?

12. How do you want readers to react to this fic?

13. What did you want them to take away from it?

14. What inspired this fic?

15. If you used a beta, what did you agree or disagree on?

16. Did anything surprise you during the writing?

17. Were any parts written under the influence?

You don't have to pick a single question because I'll gladly answer them all. I think I've done all the answers for Falcon here and Pairidaeza here and Because The World Belongs to the Devil (just the first part, that is, not DWTD) here. But I've written plenty since then, so go ahead and ask.

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And the mood has swung to: thirsty thirsty

2 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
Lookit what I made in Potatochop! Grouse, 35 years, all by myself!



Just went past the halfway mark. I think. 52 k down. I have about five chapters left--meaning, five chapters at *least,* unless these two crazy fuckers throw something unexpected at me. Which always happens anyway.

I don't think I've ever had as hard a time writing a fic as I have had with this one, what with the health issues :( If I hadn't been feeling so rubbish, I would have finished this damn thing already. I just get so pissed off when I am not at my best because the damn heavy painkillers are groggifying me so that my prose isn't the greatest (but if I don't take them, then the pain will be so bad I can't even type). So that means I have to go over the whole thing several times to polish it up. I just hope I won't burn out with the polishing thing (which happens often--I get too tired of looking at the same text and then just end up posting it and months later, realise some of the sentences make no sense at all). Dammit. But please stop me from posting this thing for at least a month yet, ok? Because I know I'm going to need at least one more hormone-induced hyperlinguistic storm to go over it all. And I really do hope I will have been able to cut down on the meds drastically by then.

I'm raring to go on one of the most fucked-up and wrong sex scenes I've ever written in my life, but now the damn bloodbath is on and I had to take tramadol and am even groggier than usual :P I'm not so sure about this thing where opiates are supposed to be these poetry-inspiring drugs because you can write bugger-all (at least in long form) on this junk. But dammit, I want to try and get on with this thing.

I'll just be really interested to see what people will think by the end of the story because these two will have sunk so low by then. And will have made it hot in their experience and will have justified everything to themselves with creepy psychopathic clarity. Torsten's just told Laura about how great it was for him to discover sex at a young age when an older guy thought to molest him at twelve--and Torsten ended up seducing the older guy instead. But that's pretty much the logic all kiddy-fiddlers operate on, anyway--they've usually been molested as kids themselves and just think of themselves as initiating other kids into the same experience. So, you know, that sort of thing, on top of the 1940s attitudes about sexuality and stuff (and the whole molestation thing being the usual way anyone ever got into gay sex, too, back then--I knew that already and having read what Anaïs reported from the gay/bi guys she knew, it was the rule rather than the exception). Phew, it's heavy stuff. It's really weird to write that, even if morbidly fascinating. I really wouldn't have been surprised if Connie had been harassed and propositioned a lot in Berlin when he was a young boy because the whole gay/child prostitution thing was epidemic there even before WWI, because he was a pretty boy, and it's sad to think about that when it really seems more likely than not (what with the rumours of him having been a lady of the night after the war and all that). I read somewhere that one in every three women and children would've had to prostitute themselves at some point during the worst years of the recession, so fucking hell.

But, of course, I'm writing about Torsten now and his whoredom is just bulletproof. He basically took all of that in his stride because he's an impossible arsehole like that. I'm sure that once he goes to Hell, the first thing he'll do is bum Satan, make him suck his cock out of his arse and then he'll assume the throne.

Because you know he will.

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And the mood has swung to: groggy groggy

Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
-Finished reading Mirages and I'm SPIRITUALLY EMPTY. The next edition of Anaïs's unexpurgated diaries can't come too soon. I was so glad she finally found Rupert Pole at the end because she always becomes so miserable whenever she has some stupid shrink undermining her self-esteem (as in making her doubt and analyse fucking EVERYTHING to the point where she's harshing even the perfectly cool parts of herself, like dismissing her own dreams and I just want to *strangle* those shrinks), and especially when she doesn't get laid. When she's allowed to dream and fly and soar with beauty and imagination and gets an adequate amount of hot dickings to recharge her batteries, she's the Anaïs I know and love. I can so identify with her feeling spiritually dead when she isn't sexually active. (The worst times of my life have been whenever I've been through some gynaecological surgery and haven't been able to wank--I would die without the happiness hormones brought on by deep vaginal orgasms.) She's even had the same fucking nightmares I have had about being cockblocked and even had the same problem of fancying (and being chased by!) femme guys who were too gay to do her and oh, FFS. It's just so relatable, although I have no idea HOW she managed to pull nearly every guy she ever met. It's like every time she meets a new guy and writes about him in her diary I'm like "Ah, yes. I wonder how many entries it'll take until you fuck." But it really does revitalise her to the point where it's never pathetic, I don't think--she needs to love as much as she needs to breathe, and that's also a refreshing contrast to this stupid concept of a woman who sleeps around having a shitty self esteem or whatever. She just had a high sex drive (which she'd inherited from her dad, who could come five times a night even in his fifties) and was hugely poetic and the whole woman was just made for love, basically. I love her so.

-Torsten and Laura decided to throw me a completely fucking unplanned event that'll take up the most of a chapter. What the fuck. As if I didn't have trouble cramming in all the sex scenes anyway. I mean, ok, it'll help them forwards with the plot as they'll meet people who will help them accomplish what they set out to do, but still. It just HAD to involve a sexy costume party and more fetishes. Three words: Fox tail buttplug. The furries are going to be in tears of joy. Oh dear.

-Thanks to everyone who's been offering to make English subs for Connie films. Again, I really don't blame you if you are burned out by the timing process, but do let me know if that happens so I won't wait up.

-I had prepared to just be bleh and not want to see Crimson Peak. I am probably going to be so pissed off at Crimson Peak. It has some of the shittiest, most poorly fitting excuses for period costumes I've seen in a long while and they look utterly AWFUL on the actors, particularly Hiddles. And when it's a tall, lean, smoothly moving sexy dude of that level, it's a fucking CRIME to hide a body like that. We don't see those often enough. But apparently that costume comes off and there's hot fucking, so I might just swallow my dignity and suffer through it in the theatre? I am just not so sure if I can deal with the whole period fail thing, though. Can someone make me an edit with just the smut? Because dear GOD, I NEED MORE OF THIS TYPE OF THING IN MY LIFE. LOOK AT HIM. HOW DARE YOU PANDER TO MY SEXUALITY LIKE THAT?!?

-The funniest thing about the cat's dementia is that it's not just her randomly crying and being WAAAAH at things. It's that she also does the opposite. She can become SO FUCKING HAPPY about something (like being given a bit of grilled chicken) that she'll just curl up at the foot of my bed and purr for over an *hour* without a break, and it's ridiculous. She's very rarely had such long purr sessions before, but now getting chicken or getting pettinz from Dad can easily make them happen. I'm glad it's not all misery for her, then, and that she's superhappy sometimes at least.

-The folks are in Italy for a week and I have trouble going to the shops on my own. And while there is now a service where you can order a supermarket to bring fudz to your door, that costs like 10 e and you have to schedule a specific time, and 10 e is a lot of money for me and my body laughs in the face of schedules. Bugger. Maybe I'll just struggle on and do a bit more fasting; I mean, that might even make me lose a bit of weight...

-Many thanks to ataslightangle for providing English subs for Rasputin and putting up with my poking of them last night for five and a half hours. That was a huge piece of work and I'll have to buy you about five pints if we ever meet. But it's a significant cultural event in that now far more people have a chance to enjoy Die Veidt as Russia's greatest love machine. Both the film and the subs can be found here, as usual. I still kind of feel it's more of a docudrama than an exciting drama or whatever, but it's realistic at least and probably the most human version of Rasputin I've seen, without that crazy mad monk/power-mad manipulator stuff he was later caricatured into (the script had input from some guy who had actually known him, apparently). So it's basically just all sex and vodka and Jesus and I *still* wonder how in the hell they could make a thin, catlike dude appear a lumbering bear and how Connie even managed to come across as butch and heterosexual for a bit, so that's something. As usual, a Connie movie is worth watching for his performance alone. The whole assassination sequence when he's being slowly poisoned and just loses himself in music is just sublime. Sex panther Connies and spiritual Connies are the best Connies, so it's great whenever the two are combined.

-What else? IDK. Restless and groggy. Not sure if I'll get any writing done and I'm starting to get sick of this grogginess. But that's nothing new, is it?

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And the mood has swung to: full full

1 feather or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
Name: Snowgrouse
Time and date: 15:26, 12 May, 2015
Average hours of sleep a night: Far too fucking few. I'm barely functional with less than 9.
Last thing I googled: Probably something about various drug interactions because I'm on so many medications for the stomach wonk right now.
Nickname: Grouse if you know me through the internets, Krizu or Riekko (which is the Finnish word for snowgrouse) if you're a RL Finnish person.
Birthday: 30 August 1979
Sexual orientation: Conrad Veidt. He's the man and the woman and the androgyne and the daddy of my dreams. I could get really wanky and wangsty about my orientation in so many ways but basically, femme people, but as I'm a near-complete bottom and have serious traumas and squicks about bossy women and like the way a guy feels on top of me, I prefer to be underneath a guy and being fucked very thoroughly. But the patriarchy and biology fuck RL guys' brains up too much for us to be truly compatible because I can't deal with the emotional clumsiness or outright assholeness, and most women are neurotic basket cases, and queer people are mostly crazy in the head and unstable as fuck, so that just makes sex with most real people not all that satisfying. I'm just happiest with porn and Connies because I need a level of emotional security no real person can give me. Aren't I a cynical old bitch? At least I'm no longer banging my head against the wall about needing to find a partner or whatever. I'm by no means asexual, hell, I'm a fucking nymphomaniac (I just wanked for so long I wrung out seven orgasms), but unless Jaffar shows up, it just isn't likely I'll ever meet The One. Wanking is just so much better, sorry.
Height: 5 ft nothing (152 cm).
Favorite color: Black. Shut the fuck up, it's a colour. Emerald green, blood red, dark purple.
One place that makes me happy: Various places in Britain. Portmeirion would be on top of that list.
How many blankets do I sleep under: Just the one.
What I’m wearing right now: Bra, knickers, leggings, socks, all black.
Last book you read: Still reading Anaïs's Mirages.
Most used phrase(s): Swearwords, mostly.
First word that comes to mind: Hallelujah.
What I last said to a family member: "Have a great holiday." My parents are just off to Sicily for a week.
Favorite beverage: Water, Pepsi Max.
Favorite food: Chicken korma.
Last movie I watched in theaters: Can't remember. Might have been Maleficent.
Dream Vacation: Somewhere in Britain that involves first a convention and then lots of lounging in a luxury hotel with plenty of peace and quiet, beautiful cultural things and wild no-strings-attached casual fucking with no emotional wangst involved. And great food and alcohol that magically doesn't give me hangovers or make my illnesses worse. A good mix of friends and solitude and fun and peace, basically.
Dream Wedding: See above. Unless Jaffar shows up on his white clockwork horse, there's no point in planning such things. I used to when I was younger, but it just isn't realistic anymore.
Dream Pet: I've already got Noki. Would be great if I could rein her in front of a chariot like Freyja did with her Fluffy Nordic Monstercats Of Doom, though, so she could pull me around when I needed to do shopping and stuff.
Dream Job: I've already got one as a sex toy reviewer, even though it doesn't really pay (except over the last two years, they've sent me like 800 euros' worth of things to stick down my pants and another 150 e supervibe is on the way next week, so I can't complain). And I'm already a disability pensioner, which is where I want to be, TBH, as I can't really work anyway when my health is what it is (I can't even fulfill my own ideal fic quotas or deadlines, so it'd be pointless). I can still wank and write porn, so the sex toy reviewing goes hand in hand with that and I'm pretty happy where I am right now, because I am making the world a better place and empowering other women through that, which is more than you could say for many 'proper' jobs, really. Wouldn't say no to winning the lottery, though, of course.

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And the mood has swung to: tired tired

Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
There are some people who are just so bright they resonate through history once they've left their mark. Anaïs is one of those people. Whenever I read her, I feel as if I am falling into magical thinking more. That sort of state where everything seems to have meaning and everything clicks into place and everything seems interconnected, and even happy accidents gain spiritual significance. And before you say it, I don't care one *whit* about how irrational and superstitious that is, because it's a happy state, a magical state, a state with Meaning, and I'll take that over nihilism and cynicism every day. I wish more of us could live in that state more often because it certainly doesn't harm anyone, whereas hopelessness does.

It's just strange. I may write a poem about going into the desert the way saints and prophets did to find God, and then a couple of days later, I get to a part in her diary where Anaïs writes about the *exact same thing.* And I won't even go into the thing where Connie's filled all my prayers and rewarded me with riches I never knew I needed, pushed the keys of his characters into locks in chambers I never knew my subconscious possessed. That sort of wonderful feeling when things just click and flow and run on and on. They are so incredibly rare and precious that I just want to throw myself into that stream and float there and forget everything else. I'm surrounded by so much hatred from all sides that I'd much rather have this--Anaïs's writing about how she has to craft herself a new world through her dreams and her fictions and her personas and her entire life because it's all so ugly and intolerable and miserable otherwise really resonates with me. She made her life her great work, her work of art, nurturing beauty and pleasure and living fully in it even through her anxieties.

Only the passion matters, only the orgasms, only the poetry, only the ecstasy. Politics and categories and definitions and limitations can go to hell.

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And the mood has swung to: thirsty thirsty

Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
-I still wish there was some sort of statistics thing on Ao3 where you could find out how people find a given fic. (Not something that'd put even more work on the already overworked Ao3 volunteers' shoulders, but like an external tracking thing or something). Because I'm still getting 30+ hits a day on Because The World Belongs to the Devil (SERIOUSLY?!?! o_O) and then have fics hardly anyone ever reads, and I'm just baffled as to how people find it. I've tried Googling the title and can't find any recs (if you've recced it somewhere on a site Google's spiders haven't found, tell me so I can thank you!) so it's most likely the tags that lead people to the fic, but I still want to find out. Especially as there are thousands upon thousands of fics among the most popular tags anyway, so it's still baffling. The second part isn't getting as many hits, and as I always keep moaning, my actual best writing doesn't get as much even if that's quality BDSM too, so it'd be really fascinating to find out the dynamics of what gets people clicking. Although if we *did* have a great stats program out there somewhere, the cynic in me kind of imagines that it'd just lead to large-scale abuse of people just tagging their fics with certain tags to get people to come in. You know, the same way people attach lame hipster tags onto Tumblr posts to get a bazillion followers (which I have never really understood, because you'd think people would just leave when they saw you were cheating and spamming to get some attention/revenue through your porn ads).

-My stomach pains have lessened greatly, but I am still knocking wood because I bet they'll come back once I start cutting down on the stomach drugs/painkillers and when the post-period hormone drop happens. I'm still in the throes of PMS and the levels of prostaglandin (which protects the stomach lining) are at their highest, so once those bleed out it's likely I'll be in stupid amounts of pain again. But at least I've managed to write more now (also thanks to the prostaglandin's hyperlinguism-boosting effects), and have had nights where I've slept for a staggering five or seven hours in one go, so that's something.

-Not sure if I'm even halfway through with Devilry 3 yet. Depends on how many sex scenes I'll end up fleshing out in detail as opposed to short flashes. But they've had a major dramatic turn which will now start their spiral into the evillest shit, and it's chapter 6 already (of about a dozen or so), so I guess it's fairly safe to say it's halfway-ish. I did have to take another hit of painkillers just a couple of hours ago, and it actually pisses me off how that got in the way of writing one of the most shockingly erotic scenes in the entire thing. I can't really focus on the words if I'm too whacked out from the drugs and especially if I'm to write something insanely sexy because I know I'll have to wank once I finish the scene (or sometimes in the middle of it if it's long because some of the images he throws at my way are just so hot I fear my bits will explode unless I release the pressure somehow). And the damn things numb my bits too much for that.

-I really wish that people who were ill, depressed or AD(H)D or just were generally dithery and apathetic and droopy would just grow enough balls to *admit* they are that, before making promises they can't keep. I am really fucking tired of that, I really am. I used to be like that until my twenties and tried and do things beyond my capacity (especially because they were usually nice things, commissioned artwork or activisty projects I really believed in, etc.) but it just made me into an unreliable dick. And for fuck's sake, your friends don't deserve that. You don't betray their trust if you just say you can't promise to do something or just admit you're too tired/depressed/unsocial to do something. It's far worse to tell them you can do something for them and then can't deliver.

Cut for lengthCollapse )

So, for the love of whatever you believe in, lease have the courage to admit you're useless. And channel what little energy you have into something that makes you happy instead of something that'll make you *and* other people unhappy. *drops mic*

-Speaking of channeling one's energy into something useful, I just watched another one of those hour-long WB family films with Bonita in and they are really good stuff for when I'm too tired to focus on a full-length and/or serious movie. Quite a few of those have been nice, easy and entertaining things, especially the Nancy Drew films. They aren't the sort that require a massive emotional commitment, just nice little pieces of fluff (even if there was some pretty disturbing and borderline pedobait-y stuff in The Beloved Brat, I have to admit). And I always end up drooling over the cut of her outfits, as I often do with Classic Hollywood costumes because they really knew tailoring back then. I really want a seamstress who could make me something like that, especially as those costumes have really shown the possibilities of making something look great no matter what your shape and size. And as Bonita's the same shape I am, 5'0" with an hourglass figure and big tits, I've been really surprised at the way they've made her outfits work in that they've managed to make her look taller than she is and have really flattered her figure. And let me tell you, it isn't easy to get the hourglass out even with a corset if you're that short, because the curves are spread over such a tiny frame that they often just get squashed into this hobbit-sized blob.

Some examples here, here and here. You only notice she's tiny as hell when she's standing next to really tall people, like, *cough* this guy here.



And you knew I would use an image of those two at some point, didn't you? It's still a shame she didn't become my perfect Laura until I'd written the first two fics, because I could've milked that height difference *so hard* had I known, dammit. But I didn't want to make Laura a shortarse because it's so often a disadvantage and I sure as hell didn't want her to remind me of me too much. (Except in the above gif. That's me every day of my life.)

-I probably had something else to say, but I'm too tired and groggy right now. I just hope the pain will wear off as the painkiller wears off so I can get back to the kinky stuff (the scene I'm writing involves a kink that's so bad Ao3 doesn't even list it. Jeebus, these two).

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And the mood has swung to: okay okay

2 feathers or Ruffle my feathers
snowgrouse
If there's one thing that gets me exhausted and writer's-blocked really really fast, it's trying to go through my notes on a longfic and trying to get them all in some semblance of order. As in, I've got nearly 5 k of notes for Devilry 3 because I've had SO MANY little ideas for Torsten and Laura that never made it into the first two fics. It was before I'd even decided there should be a third part, because I wanted to write those ideas down just in case I could write a series of short stories to go with the universe. And it pisses me off that some of those scenes will eventually have to be left out and I can't really ever share them--particularly if they're so short they'd never work as entire scenes. If it's just one observation about a scent or something, or Laura being reminded of something as she looks at trees, some childhood memory of Torsten's about his siblings, or something like that. It's insane how many ideas I've had about those two; in terms of sheer variety, I've never been as inspired by any other pairing or character. (And even when I love Jaffar and the Princess more because they are loving and warm and there isn't an aspect of dark horrors and extreme taboo-smashings to their love at all, the fact that Torsten and Laura have that dimension to them *and* have the modern world to move about in with all its possibilities means they are able to feed me more ideas).

GoD. I just... I wonder if I should just give up and write a fucking short story collection in addition to the trilogy because this is *impossible.* There are so many things I still want to explore with them, but the Grim Reaper is already swishing his scythe at them. And it's funny because even if I've got fairly firm ideas of what sex scenes I'll expand to proper, chapter-long encounters and which ones will just be small vignettes, I still feel that some of the longer ones might not be different enough to the ones in the first two fics. Or maybe that's to do with the fairly linear progression they've had towards darker and darker kinks, so if they have some slightly less fucked-up sex in between (which kinky people *do* all the time anyway!), it won't seem as striking because the reader might be expecting to be hit with some new outrageous fetish. ASS TO OTHER GIRL'S MOUTH IS NOW VANILLA FOR THEM AND FISTING IS THEIR IDEA OF A ROMANTIC EVENING.

And I still haven't started writing a tags list because that drives me into triggery, angst-inducing intrusive thought spirals of horrible depression really quickly, because it just reminds me of all that PC gone mad moral policing bullshit that's all over the place in fandom now. Bleh:P I've made a firm decision not to even warn about racism even if they say and think some stuff that's racist by today's standards, because when you mention something like that in the tags, that'll mean people will really pick up on it and at worst, will start whining about it. And if I don't warn about it, people will think I approve of racism myself (the default mindset is ALWAYS 'the author approves of this awful thing', isn't it) and then it's basically just a no-win situation. And that's before we even get to the *hugely* wank-prone things about gender and sexuality. But fuck it, they are from the 1940s and I am going to write them as such, and they are arseholes; they shouldn't really be the sorts of characters one should look up to. I mean, it's like the porn equivalent of Hannibal Lecter or something. You might cheer when he chops up a chauvinist pig's brain for dinner because that's satisfying to read about, but you would be sent to jail if you did it IRL.

Anyway, the first part hit 13 000 hits on Ao3 today. o_O No pressure. Yeah.

BUT THERE IS SO MUCH PORN HERE AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WEAVE IT ALL INTO A COHERENT NARRATIVE AT TIMES. I just want to pour all these details in but the fic's already spilling over. *sob*

At least I'm inspired as hell and typing a lot thanks to the PMS. But it's still tough trying to wrangle everything and to remember all the hot details I may have had during the ten bazillion times I've fapped to this or that scene. If you think my stuff's detailed as fuck, that's the *edited* version of the sprawling madness that's in my brain whenever I visualise a scene--there's so much detail that ends up on the cutting room floor, you wouldn't even know. I should just do this animation of myself sitting down and looking at a picture of Torsten with words floating around my head, Sherlock-style, until the words crowd and eventually obscure the entire screen. HOW COULD ONE MAN EVER HAVE BEEN THIS EROTICALLY INSPIRING? VEIDT, HOW IN THE FUCK? WHERE DOES ALL OF THIS COME FROM? DID YOU NOT GET TO DO ALL OF THIS IN BERLIN ALREADY? WHY ARE YOU TORMENTING ME LIKE THIS? I AM WRUNG DRY AND SORE.

*flops*

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And the mood has swung to: creative creative

8 feathers or Ruffle my feathers