(& two-parters)
— JUST FRIENDS THAT FCK (camping, friend with benefits Harry) > 7.5K wc
— SLIP (pottery instructor Harry) > 6.6K wc
— RIDETHET!GER (pornstar Harry aka anal chronicles) > 8.6K wc
& 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓!𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 (pornstar 2.0) > 4K wc
— ROSEMARY (hairdresser/ex-boyfriend!Harry) > 29K wc
... (calling this section experimental)
— FILL (one night stand with Harry) > 2.5K wc
— DOG TEETH (ABO au/alpha!Harry x omega!reader) > 10K wc
series.
FETISH — early access wip (spanko!Harry) ON HIATUS
The one in which there's an interesting blog focused on a niche genre of soft-core pornography, two next-door neighbors in an apartment complex with paper-thin walls, a simple case of misinterpretation, a man that runs from intimacy like there's an award waiting at the invisible finish line, and a pet bunny called Snuggles.
TDIAG — completed > editing wip (masked sex club au) ON HIATUS
The one in which there's a sex club, Greek stage names, an exploration of boundaries, an open house, a pair of dress shoes, and two evident sides to the same coin.
*
SAIL MY RIDGES — incomplete, on hiatus (pirate Harry)
other things.
kinktober 2024
— 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀 (wholesome-ish, trivia host Harry and awkward ass reader)
collaborations | scattered concepts | concept directory by trope
Hi girly! It been so long–how are you doing? I really hope everything is okay!! xx
HELLO I am all good, I just moved and it’s been a… process LOL. And I’ve been putting in more overtime, so it’s been kind of crazy! Thank you for checking in on me!!
I love and miss TDIAG ♥️ take all the time you need to write of course, just wanted to tell you that you will always have a fan in me! Your writing is truly unparalleled
It’s not until a face is peeking at him from the aperture between the door and its frame that he raises his gaze, chin still ducked. Or rather, three quarters of a face, with four baby blue polished fingers wrapped along the outer edge as it peers out at him. As little of her that he can see hiding behind the chainlinked door, the vantage point assures him that she’s a match to the pictures online. This is already a promising start. Despite this, the girl doesn’t say anything. Her mascaraed lashes bat down in what’s quickly becoming an uncomfortable stretch of silence.
Harry is the first to break it, clearing his throat as he lifts his chin to properly assess her. “Hi. Y/N?”
“What’s the passcode?”
The lull between them as he processes her words is comical. His eyebrows climb a tad higher on his forehead, and then they crease. “Pardon?”
The girl flexes her fingers over the door. If he’s not mistaken, she clicks her tongue, too, like she’s the one that’s been pending an answer in some seedy hallway, just standing there for the taking. The sound would be more justified, Harry thinks wryly, if the roles were reversed. And instead of apologizing for keeping him waiting (or even disproving that the sound had been one of exasperation), she matter-of-factly drums her fingertips against the wood and deadpans, “I texted you a passcode. So you would give it to me at the door.”
Well. If she’s not going to take responsibility for taking her sweet time (or open with conventional niceties, it seems), he decides that— after spending close to five entire minutes on the doorstep— he doesn’t actually mind cutting the middleman.
That being said, it makes the request no less odd. He’s never been asked for a passcode at the door before (like this is all a needlessly formalized initiation exercise to a secret society, and not just a transactional one-night-stand), but Harry supposes there are people even more hypervigilant than he. The dedication is impressive, strangeness aside. He’s just so… bewildered by her no-nonsense directness that he can’t do much besides blink, stick his hand into his pocket, fish out his phone, and navigate to their messages (pretty obediently, actually). When he absorbs the first two words of the unopened notification, his brows seam together a little tighter. His eyes list over the chat bubble as he quietly reads it to himself.
Yeah. It occurs to him, somewhere between confusion and disbelief, that this might actually be the weirdest fucking welcome of his life.
Harry clears his throat to choke off the laugh clinging somewhere between his vocal cords, squints, and reads aloud, “Warm soup. Bicycle. Orange tuba—“ he clears his throat again, cadence entirely (impressively) flat, “Bees, bees, bees, bees… Bees. Ah, there’s bees in my car.”
The door clicks shut abruptly. Behind it, he can hear the metal sound of the chainlink unfastening. Then, the doorknob rattling as it spins. Suddenly, the view ahead of him is not the peeling door at all. It’s wrenched open with such momentum that it slams inwards on the doorstopper, squealing as it swings back slowly from the sheer force of the impact.
What he expects to see is the door to the motel room. Bit of the paint chipped, residual scuff marks from age and the inevitable drunken one-offs, where their knees would meet the wood before their keys did. What he doesn’t anticipate— what he sees instead— is Y/N, posed in a lewd contrapposto like a draconian pin-up girl, baby blue fingertips cupped over the latex hugging her waist.
“…Good boy.”
It’s at this moment that Harry decides this is all beginning to feel like a very tailored fever dream.
hi!!! i just found your works and is your patreon down/deactivated? i love and read a lot of your stories on tumblr, but every time i click on your oatreon link, it says the page cant be found
Hi, welcome! Thank you! I no longer run patreon and will not be running it in the future, we can consider it permanently closed
Hi i believe that if you want to rewrite ANYTHING you are entitled to do so! Even if you never post it, it will help you grow as a writer with so many things such as storytelling and character development. Thats not meaning that you need work! I think you’re extremely talented but it’s also valid to be proud of the content you post. So if you write for yourself, then truly write/rewrite what your heart desires! Especially when it’s free, you don’t owe anyone anything except yourself💕
This is really nice, thank you :) <3 As writers, we write for ourselves first and foremost, that’s why/how we got into writing in the first place! Thank you for understanding that and sending in this kind message
Hi I don’t mean to come off mean or rude but I’m just curious why you need to write more for tdiag? I thought the fanfic was already finished on Patreon? Are you re writing it? I loved your ending ! Also is your Patreon back open now?
HI not rude at all, I’m gonna answer this in three parts!
Basic TDIAG timeline:
So TDIAG was never intended to be a patreon fic— it was written before I started patreon and only the last two parts were shared to patreon as early access (the parts were then uploaded to wattpad). A couple months after, I took the entire fic down off of every platform because I was considering rewriting it for publishing (but then I had to run the patreon and pump new content every week and do school, and TDIAG is like over 200K words and it was just waaay too much so I gave up on that project). Since I knew I didn’t have the time to rework the entire thing for publishing and so many people loved that story, I just reposted it back onto wattpad with some edits!
Rewriting TDIAG:
TDIAG was written over the course of like 2ish years(?) and over time I started experimenting with different writing styles. By the time I got to the last two chapters, I was playing around with a completely different writing style that didn’t fit the rest of the story at all! When I brought TDIAG back (after taking the whole completed thing down), I made lots of heads-up posts that I was editing/rewriting parts of it and that it would take time to see the whole story back up. I got an ask recently that was like “hey everyone just wants to see the next chapter you don’t have to rewrite it just put it back up” basically and uhhhh…….. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but…. there is nothing to post LOL. Those last two parts were deleted so at this point, I literally *have to* rewrite it. That is why it’s taking so long to get the last two parts— writing is really time consuming, I have to do it from scratch (and memory and loose plot snippets from the planning draft for the fic), and I’m just really busy nowadays. Even if the parts did exist, I just didn’t like them and wouldn’t share them again because they weren’t written in a way that flowed with the existing prose! Most people are pretty understanding. Others come off a little more… entitled, I guess? Which I understand is just a really strong form of eagerness, but I do just want to put it out there (not @ you, anon, just a general statement):
At the end of the day, I write for me, first a foremost, because it makes me happy. Things got a little muddy with that once I started running patreon, because given that there was a monetary exchange, I had to fulfill a service, which is a whole other animal. But when it comes to posting on wattpad/tumblr, I choose to share my writing, but I write it for me first and foremost. While I sincerely, deeply appreciate the appreciation for the story, I have the right to post a part, not post a part, take a part down, rewrite it, delete it, rewrite again, contemplate sharing it, keep it to myself, etc. It’s my writing for me to decompress/do a thing I like/verbalise a movie from my head that I can look back on every once in a while. And I love you guys and that you guys love the story, but please remember that fic writers are real people that just use writing as a fun hobby/form of decompression, and if you’re getting it for free, you’re getting it for free.
Patreon:
I have permanently closed patreon and have no plans to run patreon in the future. It was just too stressful for me, and I quickly lost my love for writing with the constant time constraints </3 The love for writing is the entire purpose of writing for me
I hope that answered your question! Sorry it got a little long
at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
