i-can-even-burn-salad

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editing is just you vs. past-you in a duel of questionable comma placement and emotional instability

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[ID: White text over a dark, grayscale photo of black rocks. The text reads: Their eyes were solid black, featureless like polished obsidian. A chill that had nothing to do with his damp clothes ran down Ross' spine. That was not healing magic. End ID]

They did say they're not a healer.

WIP Intro | Ebook

The books' out btw. It's right there. You can download it.

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ID: [ An author note that says, “whenever I felt discouraged about my writing, I remember there are three people who always read my works and it motivated me immediately like homer with his “do it for her” sign. so if you see me writing, yes, I do it for you too. thank you.“ ] /END ID

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Sometimes they fancy a shag, sometimes they don't, sometimes they never do or only for special moments or people. REGARDLESS THEY MATTER AND DESERVE TO TAKE UP SPACE.

Yesterday was International Asexuality Day, but ace books are good to read all year round. Asexual means a person doesn't feel sexual feelings or attraction to others, but this is a spectrum and can vary widely from person to person. Note that attraction does not equal romance, and asexual is not the same as aromantic. Some people are sex repulsed, some are not. Some people are sex positive, some are not.

Demisexuality falls under the asexual umbrella, and means a person doesn't feel attraction until developing a strong connection with a person. Two of my books, Phantom and Rook, and Matsdotter and Adrastus, have demisexual mains.

There are many different shades of Ace, and many different types of stories just waiting for you to read.

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writing is hard when you’re a person with thoughts and emotions and also executive dysfunction and also a deep fear of being perceived

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Pros of re-reading your own fic

a good time;

Has exactly the tropes you like and the characterization you want to read;

Gratification: yes you did finish a thing and yes you did do good;

just a very fun time all around.

Cons of re-reading your own fic:

Is that another TYpO

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Self sacrifice in an "i can take it; you can't" way X self sacrifice in an "you can take it; and i know i can't, but it'd rather this than letting you through it" way X self sacrifice in an "neither of us can take it. it doesn't matter, 'cause its gonna be me" way

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What they don't tell you about writing is that as you write, you discover scenes and entire plots that you hadn't accounted for that need to be written. So you can spend two hours writing and editing only to realise you're further away from the finish line than you thought you were when you started

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problematic time zone gap

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"I hope you're too nice to sink the ship with her." Do you even know me?? 😘

Nah it might not be THAT bad

I was talking to another Anna who would TOTALLY sink that ship and I told her you're nicer, don't disappoint me!!! 😭😂

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I turned my whump story into a book!

(Two books, actually. 🤭)

If you ever saw the whump series The Prince of Thieves floating around… well, guess what? It's been transformed into two self published novels!

(Okay, neither of them are actually published yet, but we're getting there.)

Book one, The Mark of Thieves, releases August 27!

Full version beneath the read more. 💙

(Book two doesn't have a release date yet, but it's called The Patron Saint of Scoundrels. Stay tuned!)

Aaaaaaanyway, I'm super excited to be able to share this new, reworked, fully edited story — and its cover! 💙

And if you're wondering: yes, it's still whumpy… even if some of the original whump has been removed or changed.

So if you love historical settings featuring copious amounts of guy whump + lady whump, feel free to give this a reblog, add TMOT to your Goodreads tbr, or just send good vibes my way! 💙 Thanks and have a lovely day!

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Make your Whumpees aware of their -internal- scars

Make the path a knife (or worse) ache

Make them uncomfortably aware where that organ that had to be removed because it was too damaged used to be

Make specific movements pull on some part that it shouldn't be because the scar tissue has connected structures

Basically make them aware that the Whump has not just influenced their mind and visual body, but goes deep, deep, deep, has touched everything

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Chapter 8 - Bad News

Fancy Boots

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply.

Prev | Masterlist | Next

Sweat glistened on Merridy’s forehead as she wrapped both arms around the vine and pulled with all her weight. The neighbor’s ivy was constantly trying to creep across their garden, and she was constantly busy fighting it back. This time, it had already reached the small cherry tree in the middle of the lawn, and she was not going to sit back and watch it choke the tree to death.

The ivy came loose. She stumbled backwards, pulling a good section of it out of the grass before the vine snapped and made her stumble.

“Stupid ivy,” she muttered, “I should—” When she spotted movement at the gate, she swallowed the rest of her curses. She gave the ivy one last tug and threw it onto the pile with the rest of the damn plants.

Cleaning her hands on her pants, she squinted in the direction of the figures approaching her. A man and a woman, by the looks of it, looking around while walking with a certain determination. They didn’t seem to be prospective customers, having cast no second glance at the front window displaying colorful glass, which left few possible reasons for their visit, most of which were unpleasant at best.

“Hello!” she called out, knowing that the kitchen windows were open to let the warm breeze in. Damien needed a warning to prepare himself for unexpected visitors. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Merridy Whitley?” the man asked.

Merridy nodded, forcing her posture to relax ever so slightly. It was a good sign they were looking for her and not for Damien.

“And Jonathan Whitley?”

Well. So much for that. “He’s my husband,” Merridy said. No confirmation of whether he was at home before she knew what these two wanted.

After a moment of silence, the woman cleared her throat. She pointed at her companion, then at herself. “Cadoc. Wanda. We’re from the citadel. Riordan Finnley has put you down as contacts in case of emergency?”

Merridy’s thoughts came to a screeching halt at hearing her friend’s name. Emergency? What kind of emergency? And they were his contact? Hoping for some kind of elaboration, her gaze wandered back and forth between the two, but she was only met with silence. They seemed to be waiting for something. Finally, she nodded, even though she hadn’t known. The movement felt wrong, like it wasn’t her body, but that of a puppet merely responding to her cue.

“There was an incident during the last mission. His status is currently unknown, but we thought you—”

Blood rushed in Merridy’s ears, drowning out the woman’s words. Behind her, the back door opened, and footsteps approached hastily. The moment he reached her, Damien put his hand on her shoulder, as if he knew her legs were about to give way under her. 

“What exactly does that mean?” Damien asked. “What happened?”

Merridy stared at the grass between the two strangers, her gaze latching onto a torn-off ivy leaf caught between two of the stepping stones and swinging in the wind. How could his voice sound so steady, his hand on her shoulder be so still, when it felt like her heart was about to break out of her chest?

“We’re not sure.” The woman spoke matter-of-factly. “According to eye-witnesses, a storm came out of nowhere and wiped out the camp. He was separated from the rest of the group on their way to the emergency portal, and it closed before he could make it through.”

The man took over, sounding more sympathetic as he said, “We’re in the process of putting together a rescue party. We will keep you updated when we know more.”

Merridy could get no word out. It was Damien who said, “Thank you,” and Damien who bid them farewell, and Damien who said, “Let’s go inside.”

Ivy and cherry tree were forgotten as he led her to the bench and made her sit down. The words tumbled back and forth in her head. A storm. Status unknown. Wiped out.

“Merry.” Damien grabbed her shoulder and turned her around until she was facing him. “Are you listening?”

She shook her head, having not heard a single word of what Damien had said.

“Let’s visit my brother,” he repeated. “Josephine knows more about the inner workings of that place. She will know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Okay,” Merridy whispered, and then, “He can’t be gone.”

“He isn’t.” Damien pulled her into his embrace, with her cheek against his chest and his chin on her hair. “He isn’t. They just have to find him.”

Sitting at Josephine’s kitchen table, Merridy glared at the wooden tabletop so she wouldn’t glare at people. To find Riordan, they would have to start searching, and that was apparently not going to happen before the next day. It was barely even evening! Somewhere out there was their friend, possibly hurt—possibly dead—and no one seemed to be in the slightest bit of hurry to get going.

“The researchers who witnessed the storm believe that it was a magical anomaly,” Josephine explained. “Those things are unpredictable and dangerous. There are preparations to be made, protocols to be followed.” 

��Fuck those protocols,” Merridy whispered. It was loud enough to be audible, but no one commented on her choice of words. She rubbed her eyes. Crying wouldn’t help now.

Damien put his hand on her arm, but his gaze rested on Josephine. “What else?” he asked in the tone of someone expecting more bad news.

“They are struggling to put together the search party. Too many people are on the expedition to Shining Pearl, leaving the citadel severely understaffed. I’ve sent out a few requests for backup. If we are lucky, a few will follow my call. I offered—” She broke off, cleared her throat, tried again with an apologetic look at her husband. “I know you’re no longer an active member, but—”

“I’ll go,” Valadan interrupted her. “Of course I’ll go.”

“I want to go, too,” Damien said. “Can you get me in?”

“Damien…” Valadan ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s Raqhar we’re talking about.”

Damien took a slow, shaky breath. “But it is possible?” he asked.

Silence answered him. Josephine and Valadan exchanged glances. 

“It is,” Josephine finally admitted. She didn’t seem happy about it. “Just not without risk. In an emergency such as this, it’s easy to get outsiders approved as guests. But while there are usually no checks at the citadel portal, the other side might be guarded.”

“That backwater shithole?” Damien scoffed. “The only reason Riverbreak got a portal is that it’s the last pretense of civilization before the steppe. It’s not even part of the regular network connecting to a hub.”

“You know where he went?” Josephine seemed surprised.

“We talked about it.” Damien’s voice wavered, but Merridy didn’t think anyone but her noticed it. “I know the area. I’ve been there before. I can help.”

“And you don’t think that will make it more dangerous?” Valadan asked. His voice increased in volume until he was almost shouting. “Have you forgotten that you’re a wanted man? What if someone recognizes you?”

“Do you think I could forget that? Do you think there’s ever a moment when I don’t—” Damien broke off and took a deep, measured breath, the anger in his voice gone as quickly as it had come. “The last time I was there was before… it all got out of hand,” he whispered, staring at his trembling hand, still resting on Merridy’s arm. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing.” When he looked up, their gazes met. He must have seen her determination. “We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” he corrected himself.

“And you think it’s helping him if you get your ass arrested?”

Damien flinched under Valadan’s words. Merridy decided that the two guys shouting at each other was getting them nowhere. She turned towards Josephine. 

“Be honest. How likely is it that they will frisk a rescue mission?” she asked. She would be going anyway, but Valadan was right: Damien getting arrested would help no one.

“Unlikely. It’s more of a concern for highly monitored portals, like the one in Caldeia, or regions with goods worth smuggling. Not in a…” Josephine smiled slightly, even though it did not erase the lines of concern from her face. “Backwater shithole such as this.”

“Then please. Let us help. It’s not like we’ll be amongst people for long.” 

“Guess that’s true.” Josephine’s resistance was waning. “You’d be leaving the town straight away. If we can get a cart to carry the equipment, Damien might be able to sit in the back. And if you find Riordan, you can use an emergency portal to return.”

Noise from the stairs made all heads turn. Valadan cast his brother one last unhappy look before he excused himself to check on his son.

“You’re absolutely sure about this?” When Damien and Merridy nodded in unison, Josephine sighed. “I’ll go back to the citadel to get started with the paperwork, then. Can you two pack provisions, sleeping bags, stuff like that? If I don’t have to request any equipment, it’ll be easier.”

Merridy nodded again. There was no need to tell Josephine that it was already done; two backpacks, always ready to allow them to leave at a moment’s notice.

“Good. Make sure you’re prepared for at least a week in the wilderness.”

“You don’t think he’ll still be at the campsite?” Damien asked.

Josephine’s expression hardened. She wrapped her fingers around her right forearm, covering thick scars faded with age.

“I hope he isn’t.”

Rescue Mission \o/

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writing is 10% storytelling and 90% rearranging three sentences for an hour like you're trying to solve an ancient curse

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Fountain of Youth pt. 9 - Sloth

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6a | 6b | Part 7 (optional NSFW chapter) | Part 8 | Part 8b | 

Author's Notes: I swear it'll get better for Emmeline. Not quite yet, but soon, if I can get around to writing it. ^^;

Content Warnings: lady whump, immortal whump, multiple whumpers, female whumper, captivity, torture, forced labor, injury, sunburn, heat stroke, passing out, exposure to the elements, exhaustion, starvation, dehydration, tied up, put on display

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It’s only a matter of time before even the most sadistic crew members grow bored of their prisoner. Eventually all are in agreement that she is no use to them, and so one evening Captain Mara gathers the whole crew on deck together. She has Emmeline bound at her feet like a lamb for the slaughter.

“All those in favor of selling her at the next port, say ‘aye’.”

“Aye!” shouts every one of them.

“Then it’s settled. In two weeks’ time, if the winds are on our side, we’ll dock at Butcher’s Bay. The merchants there will buy and sell anything…and I doubt they’ve ever seen something like this.” The Captain prods at Emmeline with her boot as she says it. “You hear that? Someone’s going to pay a pretty penny for you, girl. And Butcher’s Bay didn’t get its name for the cattle…” Several crew members laugh at that. Emmeline shivers.

One man raises a hand and the Captain nods for him to speak.

“What’ll we do with her until then?” he asks.

“What indeed,” Captain Mara muses. “I won’t have any freeloaders on my ship. Let’s put her to work.”

And so Emmeline begins long days of hard labor, in shifts twice or even three times that of the regular crew. For this she is given a threadbare pair of breeches and a loose linen tunic with the sleeves cut off, but nothing else. She is forced to perform her chores barefoot on the hard deck, and by the end of the day her feet are so sore that she can hardly walk.

It has been only a few days since they keelhauled her; most of the cuts and abrasions have healed but her dislocated shoulders have only just started. This doesn’t stop the pirates from having her haul buckets of water and crates of wood with her ruined arms. The strain on already torn muscle and swollen joints only further delays her healing.

She scrubs the floors, some twice over when the Captain is dissatisfied with her job. It’s one of the few times she feels any sort of urge to fight back, when she has spent the day on hands and knees, her body aching, and is told she will have to do it all again in the morning. But she has no strength to fight, and to try would only earn some horrible new punishment she couldn’t even conceive of. Emmeline has always been slow to anger, but after all she has endured and continues to endure, she feels a bitter hatred towards them all, especially the Captain. To pass the time while she slaves away she daydreams of rescue, and in her lowest moments, of retribution for those who have made her suffer so.

Emmeline works from dawn until dusk, on deck in the stifling mid-summer heat while overhead the ruthless sun beats down. Sometimes the air is so thick she can hardly breathe. Soon she is badly sunburnt, even burned on the soles of her feet from walking across the sun-baked deck. And without enough time and care to heal, her condition only worsens. She is often fevered and nauseous, with a near constant pounding headache. For the first few days she powers through it, but when the heat does not relent, Emmeline grows dizzy and faint. She struggles to remain standing, let alone work. Early one morning she collapses on her way to the galley. One of the cooks finds her and brings her to Captain Mara, who reluctantly allows the prisoner a full day of rest before resuming her chores.

As the days go on, the ship’s supplies begin to dwindle. Emmeline is given so little food or water to begin with, and now they allow her even less. She is wasting away. She passes out more and more frequently and remains unconscious longer. Worst of all, her healing slows until she barely improves at all, too weary to do anything but continue breathing. Delirious with heat, pain, thirst and starvation, Emmeline decides she will be glad to be sold. How much worse could anyone else possibly be?

–

When Emmeline stops waking at all, Captain Mara gathers the crew to decide what to do with her. They consider everything from storing her in a box until they arrive ashore to eating her if the food supply should run out. But then one suggests securing her to the bow of the ship as a figurehead, something their current vessel lacks. It will keep her out of the way, and serve as a warning when they dock at Butcher’s Bay. In the end the decision comes down to the Captain, who gives her approval, adding, “but get her conscious again, first. I wouldn’t want her to miss the view when we arrive.”

A few members of the crew spend a night with Emmeline, trickling water down her parched throat until she wakes. Her thoughts are muddled, her breathing comes in soft rasps. After a little more water they coax her to eat some dried fruit, then water again. They repeat this for hours, reviving her enough that she’s aware of where she is and can sit up on her own. Her healing resumes slowly, alleviating only the very worst of her symptoms. She remains feverish and frail, but the Captain decides she’s ready. In a few days’ time they should reach the bay and she isn’t about to waste any more of their provisions on the girl.

They dress Emmeline in a worn old chemise and carry her back out to the upper deck, where the mere hint of the rising sun makes her flinch. Where are they taking me? She makes a feeble attempt at begging, as if it would ever make a difference.

When they reach the bow of the ship the man carrying her slings her off his shoulder in one swift, dizzying motion that makes her head swim. Rough hands grab her and drag her forward, nearly dropping her as they mold her into position with her back to the wood and her arms at her sides. They secure her with several lengths of rope wrapped around her body and the bowsprit and pull them tight. Emmeline’s head droops forward, but true to their word of making her the ship’s figurehead, they lift it so she faces out to the open sea and tie her by her hair with expert knots that she couldn’t wriggle free of if she tried.

And as terrible as all of that is, the worst part is when they leave, and Emmeline is left there to languish, body aching, parched and half-starved. The motion of the boat makes her head spin and the humid air is hard to breathe. She drifts in and out of consciousness. As dawn turns to day, Emmeline wilts in the heat of an unforgiving sun. When night falls, she shivers at the breeze on her feverish skin. By morning she is delirious and can no longer keep her eyes open. In the end she faints and doesn’t wake, ensuring she won’t get the view the Captain hoped for.

But the ship never reaches Butcher’s Bay.

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[ID: an illustration of a pale beige leopard with blue eyes, leaping to the left, surrounded by pine cones and branches. End.]

Amur leopard!