all the king's horses (couldn't tear us apart) the basic eight. flannery/natasha. r. ~1000 words. this week, natasha is reading bovary and flannery is reading karenina. for marketchippie
soiree of infidelity, have I told you that I'm violently in love with your prose.
FALLEN WOMEN CRYING INTO THEIR MUFFLERS, THIS IS PERFECT, SOMETIMES I AM ASTONISHED WITH HOW PERFECT THIS BOOK IS TO ME AND FOR YOU AND THEN I RECALL AND THIS IS MAKING ME REMEMBER BECAUSE OF HOW THIS IS PERFECT.
(for a moment there is the sick sensation of her fingers closing around empty air and she feels she has followed a ghosts into the forest behind Kate's house), oh, stomach clench, oh, this story, oh, girls (oh: girl)
And the whole of the sex is just astonishingly gorgeous, have I told you that I'm violently in love with your prose.
She will dream of a body wrapped in secrets, layered in myth and pressed, hot and gasping against her own.
God.
God.
Ugh, I love this book; ugh, I love you. Never cease doing precisely what you do, girl.
MERCI! THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE THO. Because like, Isabel. I love the Basic Eight a lot. But these two? THESE TWO? Most fabulous, fucked up and enthralling dynamic in the whole thing? Well, yes. (What is an Adam State.)
I write way too much fic about books that only my friends have read. This is not necessarily a bad thing.
This corner of the internet is like an Opera Breakfast Club of our own, except with literature. (Reasons I rec this book to everyone I love. A NERVE, IT HITS.)
Sometimes, I just remind myself that this comment exists because "you've prodded my Basic Eight beach rubble" remains one of the best things anyone has ever said to me.
Comments 7
soiree of infidelity, have I told you that I'm violently in love with your prose.
FALLEN WOMEN CRYING INTO THEIR MUFFLERS, THIS IS PERFECT, SOMETIMES I AM ASTONISHED WITH HOW PERFECT THIS BOOK IS TO ME AND FOR YOU AND THEN I RECALL AND THIS IS MAKING ME REMEMBER BECAUSE OF HOW THIS IS PERFECT.
(for a moment there is the sick sensation of her fingers closing around empty air and she feels she has followed a ghosts into the forest behind Kate's house), oh, stomach clench, oh, this story, oh, girls (oh: girl)
And the whole of the sex is just astonishingly gorgeous, have I told you that I'm violently in love with your prose.
She will dream of a body wrapped in secrets, layered in myth and pressed, hot and gasping against her own.
God.
God.
Ugh, I love this book; ugh, I love you. Never cease doing precisely what you do, girl.
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I write way too much fic about books that only my friends have read. This is not necessarily a bad thing.
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Literature and incest and alcohol.
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Honestly? / Of course not. Honestly. The very idea.
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