knightnightwrite

[knightnightwrite]

tumblr isn't letting me post a proper link post but i wrote more on The Scribe here!

[knightnightwrite]

WIP Wednesday

i am late as always but this time!!! bc my 7 y old laptop is down for the count—tagged by @lemon-embalmer and tagging @everybodyknows-everybodydies (light and love of my life and i need to get caught up on ur stuff im weeping) @bwayfan25 @takemetomyfragiledreams and anyone else that would like to do it!

~~~

The work of a scribe’s assistant was never truly done, even if her lengthy Tasks of the Day list, written in their bizarrely elegant scrawl that could never quite manage conciseness, indicated no further tasks remained.

She walked away from the Dunmeri scribe’s ostentatious, billowing mushroom home, and her muscles celebrated even in their pained howling as she made her way home.

The triumph of a day finished left her feeling underwhelmed. Short-term tasks were easily celebrated, but she knew her mentor’s current project was nearly complete. To have the scribe floating between texts, attention wandering like a child—she shuddered. She’d sooner stumble into mammoth cheese and ten angry giants than deal with her mentor stuck only with the necessary academic commissions and articles.

It wouldn’t be for much longer, helping power through the less interesting things in favor of the scribe’s specialty.

She wouldn’t let it be.

[knightnightwrite]

writing delay that is, for once, not executive functioning issues: broken laptop

[knightnightwrite]

August 14th – ghost or hungry

Day 3 of @tes-summer-fest

K,

Since you enjoyed the scribe’s voice so much from the last copy I sent, I thought I’d include an additional essay they wrote. A warning—they seemed to loathe being commissioned for this kind of brief analytical preface, so it’s a little more caustic than what I’ve previously sent. I pity the writer who paid money for this. Still—I hope it brings contemplative reflection (or at the least, amusement).

~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

The presence of ghosts within literature of all sorts and from all sorts is widespread, to say the least, and to say nothing of the variations of opinions on the undead themselves. Though, the undead and ghosts remain separate entities even as they retain thematically and categorically linked—I am endeavoring to examine ghosts only in this brief chapter. (Insomuch as a ghost can “stand” on their own, apart from other creatures or contexts.)

Mirroring the reality of ghost experiences, ghosts in textual narratives are bound to Nirn either through another’s will or by unfinished business. Their particular potential for dramatic contexts are much utilized in many stories across both mer and man—and within the particular textual realms through which I am most familiar, their disembodiment is, depending on the tastes of the reader(s), character(s), and writer(s), a hinderance or a blessing. How the ghosts themselves are characterized depends deeply on the particular context they exist in—namely, if one is unfortunate enough to come across a salacious or thrilling Breton text, one might only find ghosts as tonal paperweights desperately trying to pin down any essence of interest, import, or intimidation possible.

As with many creatures and characters, one must strike a balance between enough realistic detail and enough space to sense their importance to the narrative—and, of course, this balance must be struck within the confines of the genre(s) and the author’s creative desires. In many ways, ghosts are very similar to a barkeep or knight, tied to specific character conventions but with as much potential for depth and variety as one’s grandmother—yet it is often ghosts who are narratively saddled with the frankly uninspired ghost narratives of vengeance, trauma, violence, and tempestuousness as bland as uncooked saltrice.

Below, you’ll find one such story in an anthology of such narratives masquerading around the deep, dark, complexities of gloomy, atmospheric pastoral literature.

[knightnightwrite]

tagged by @everybodyknows-everybodydies for a five-word wip hunt where I locate five words in wips and post lil snippets; the words i got are: QUICK, STILL, HAND, LEFT, CURL

"“Here I thought you couldn’t be more stupid,” she says instead, uselessly flexing her empty hand. “Did you forget so quickly why we are here?? What we need to do??”" (mercy and augustine oneshot ive been working on for months)

"Even the brief contact of Obi-Wan’s robed side with Anakin’s as he passes destroys all Anakin’s attempts to still his hands." (from the next chapter of my star wars Nightsisters fic)

"He’s staring up at her face, and she refuses to look anywhere besides his eyes, won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his ever-encroaching skin. They both feel it—the way his warm flesh devours her elbow, stopping only past her shoulders, at the edge of her neck. Her other hand—empty without his heart beating, bloated, warm and wet against her fingertips—useless and unimportant." (mercy and augustine oneshot ive been working on for months)

unfortunately i don't seem to have the other two words in my wips at the moment -- but thank you for tagging me! as im catching up on these, im going to refrain from tagging people at the moment

[knightnightwrite]

"two old people hate-lovin themselves And each other" you say??? 👀👀👀????????

“You don’t have to demonstrate like this,” he says, obedient against the aging mattress. The warmth of his torso, hips, is disgustingly comforting against her bare thighs.

“Don’t I?”

Somehow, he relaxes further, hands beautifully still, soft, as though the restraints around them are cherished jewels. “Everything of value Augustine has learned was from Mercy. What more is there to teach?”

An ugly heat pulses down from her head, all along her skin, pooling in her nails. She leans down, palm on his chest, fingers spread wide. His flesh warps, licking up hers like the ocean, swallowing her hand until only the wrist is visible. The warmth of his flesh rivals the singular twitch of pain, betrayed only by his lips.

They stare into the other’s eyes as her hand slowly swims closer to his heart. His body parts for her, externally unremarkable as his organs and bones rearrange, like a court welcoming their long-gone king.

“Who are you?” Her fingers surround his heart, her nails pinpricks of joy.

“Who do you want me to be?”

The uselessness of the question ought to be punished, and yet her hand cannot move. He is himself, as he has always been, and yet their past fades just enough to serve a constant reminder. Even the simplest of truths eludes her.

Not Augustine, she wants to say.

(hoping to finish and publish this sometime this month, but im glad regardless to say i have a chunk of it written beyond and before this--thank you for your ask!)

[knightnightwrite]

tagged by @everybodyknows-everybodydies ~ thank youuu :D

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

i have a few WIPs that ive been working on, some of them for Years, and the file names are... not always coherent so im going with vague descriptions instead

lost god possesses traumatized twins

nightsister yanks jedi to dathomir post nightsister genocide, pre jedi genocide

two old people hate-lovin themselves And each other

two codependent losers being losers, toxic-ly

i don't have many people i know on this blog so im tagging @bwayfan25 @senshilegionnaire and anyone else that would like to do this!

[knightnightwrite]

Obikin thigh graze??

prompt: A being super confident and like sweet talking B to no extent, and then B just rolls their eyes and leans in and grazes their hand on A’s thigh and they just. straight up stop functioning

It’s cute till it isn’t. They’d been fighting earlier—well, bickering, more like—about Obi-Wan’s bantering and the havoc it supposedly caused.

(When Obi-Wan asked if this was really necessary, Anakin sulked for so long and so loud that every life form in their vicinity had a headache for hours.)

Anakin will drop the subject long enough that Obi-Wan thinks it’s not a problem anymore—then, inexplicably, he’ll round back on it as though no space between the outbursts existed.

“How would you like it if I talked to people like that?” Anakin asks for the fifteenth time, pacing in front of his seated master.

Obi-Wan holds his forehead between his hands. The room is stuffy, and his clothes cling to his skin uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t care. It’s just talk.”

Anakin sputters, waving his arms in the air, as though that would help with movement. “Just talk? Just talk?”

“Yes, Anakin, talk. It’s called talking. To other beings.”

“You flirt when you talk.”

One of them sighs. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You can’t flirt with Darksiders!”

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow. The simplicity of the statement, so very Anakin, is endearing. “So my talking is acceptable when it isn’t Darksiders?”

“Well…”

There’s a pause—awkward on Anakin’s part, amusing on Obi-Wan’s—then: “I’m waiting,” Obi-Wan says.

“You just… need better standards.”

Obi-Wan crosses his legs. “How are my current standards lacking?”

“How aren’t they?”

Obi-Wan smirks. “I taught you better rhetorical skills than that, darling.”

Anakin goes still, eyes caught in Obi-Wan’s. “That,” he says, voice low, halting. “Names.”

“Love, I need you to be more specific. Look,” he continues, spreading his legs and patting the seat next to his, “come here, sit down. Take a minute and breathe with me.”

Anakin bursts forward, throwing himself in the chair. Obi-Wan is just beginning to smirk triumphantly when his former padawan raises his flesh hand and claps it down on Obi-Wan’s nearest thigh, fingers clutching his inner thigh, much closer to his torso than he’s ever touched. Obi-Wan’s breath hitches.

“That. Stop,” Anakin says, voice low. His fingers twitch against Obi-Wan’s thigh, grip tight, and his body is hot, warm.

Anakin throws himself out of the chair as quickly as he threw himself in it, storming away, Obi-Wan’s legs uncomfortably cold.

[knightnightwrite]

sanctuary

It is the third day of living in a new hut in an unfamiliar land, and the sun is peaking out over the hills, shy in the early morning. Icicles wink with increasing ferocity as the morning crawls forward, sunlight’s reflected brightness clawing through the window.

A Dunmeri girl, just shy of fifteen, curls against her mother’s side. Body heat rarely goes unappreciated, but here it radiates such comfort that she feels herself reaching—there is little else she could want in this moment.

Still, despite the warmth and the travel-ache in her limbs, she finds herself turning away, keeping her eyes open and grazing the still-unfamiliar walls. Stares at the banners carefully dispersed throughout the hut in spaces that will feel right, soon. Symbols of the Tribunal face her with a warmth not diminished by their new surroundings.

Below these, her mother’s carefully carved altar piece displaying the Tribunal. It was carved before she could remember—before she was born, and when she is of age, she too will carve her own.

She’s been practicing for three years now, started as soon as tradition allowed. Her hands ache at the memory of carving them, practicing which attributes she would depict.

Her mother’s rendition of Almalexia carries a warmth in her facial features that is less common in Vvardenfell’s temples, yet prominent in her family’s private altars. Her voluminous, curly hair swirls around her fierce eyes as she stares at the two Dunmer, miles away from home, as she always has—with serene, watchful wisdom.

Her mother inhales sharply beside her, a sound she’s heard countless times. Vehk and Seht’s stares come into focus, each carrying their own wise attentiveness, then the rest of her room, foreign yet welcome protection from the cold that seeps between cracks and crevices.

The walls don’t quite feel familiar, but there is time yet.

written for @tes-summer-fest sanctuary prompt, takes place roughly a few years after the events in eso

[knightnightwrite]

Mercymorn/Augustine, wearing each other's clothes 👀

A wearing B’s clothes. (and them running their cold fingers under their shirt, B’s breath quickening dot dot dot)

“Why are we doing this again?”

Mercymorn rolls her eyes, knowing full well he knows the answer and asks the question to be an ass. “Because you can’t get enough of me. Because we have absolutely nothing better to do. Because you have absolutely nothing better to do. Why else do you think we are doing this??”

Augustine tilts his head away from her. “Thanks for the reminder. I’d forgotten how alluring you couldn’t be.”

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t the kind of sexy talk John likes. Am I going to have to teach you everything?”

Augustine meets her exasperated gaze with blatant irritation and bites his lip. Her teeth ache.

“C’mon,” she says, seeking distraction. “Come here.”

They’re both naked, clothes discarded, and it’s ridiculous that they aren’t already touching. They can’t practice when they’re not doing anything.

Augustine obeys, but, as ever, with his own modifications. He steps forward, eyebrow quirked, silently telling her to stand still. Halfway to Mercymorn, he bends over, picking up her discarded shirt and pulling it on.

He hasn’t stopped walking towards her—only stopping when he’s got her shirt on fully, otherwise naked, standing inches away.

“Will you teach me?”

His nose nearly brushes hers. He’s taking her hands and placing them on his hips, half under her shirt, fully touching his warm skin.

Mercymorn forces herself to scoff. She chokes on it when she feels Augustine shiver against her fingertips, palms.

She hates the feeling of his pulse, the compilation of organs carrying along like nothing’s happening, except. Well. She supposes she could say that everything’s functioning according to what they should be in this situation.

Augustine lowers himself to his knees, her hands thoughtlessly shifting to his head with the movement. Despite his face, he manages to look pretty in her shirt.

He opens his mouth, presumably to ask another stupid question, and she threads her fingers in his hair and yanks him closer.

Accepting prompts from this list all through July!

[knightnightwrite]

for the month of july, i'll be accepting writing asks with any of these prompts! it's my birthday month, and i'm always a slut for writing touch-starved characters

Touch starved promps?

touch starved prompts.

oh you like this song? oh you want to dance to it? oh you want to dance to it with me? oh it’s a love song? oh we have to slow dance? oh

A being super confident and like sweet talking B to no extent, and then B just rolls their eyes and leans in and grazes their hand on A’s thigh and they just. straight up stop functioning

“want a massage? i’ve been told that i’m..very good with my hands” *gets a pillow thrown at them*

hiding from someone so they pull themselves into a very tiny area, and both are literally against each other,,,,,

^ them hiding, but B will not fucking shut up and stop panicking. A putting their hand over B’s face and their eyes widen and cheeks are scarlet

playing with their hair.

there’s only one bed, and you will under no circumstances cross your side, or i will make sure you’re six feet under. (in the morning) why are our legs entangled. WHY ARE MY HANDS AROUND YOUR WAIST. why am i turning red.

character B being so desperate, and A is absolutely in awe of the way they come undone so easily

“we should probably go out there” “..yeah just..give me a minute” “oh..oops?” (���you are so paying for this later”)

^ “just think of something else!” “LIKE WHAT” “i don’t know!..pizza or something”

“you just turned three different shades of red in the last 5 minutes”

A pulling B by their waist to get their attention

they’re in a crowded place, and B is holding A so tight and A’s mind is running wild

A wearing B’s clothes. (and them running their cold fingers under their shirt, B’s breath quickening dot dot dot)

[knightnightwrite]

macdennis 15

It’s suspiciously quiet when Dennis pauses outside their apartment, ear tilted closer to the door.

Not being able to hear Mac is unsettling. Of course because the guy exudes noise—there’s probably nothing he can do quietly. Dennis knows all of Mac’s sounds. The absence of them usually means the absence of the man himself, which is also less than ideal.

Mac’s the kind that’s easiest to control the more physically close he is.

And yet, as Dennis opens the door, there Mac is, placidly sitting on their blow-up couch, not a care in the world.

“Back already,” Dennis asks, hating how redundant it is. Obviously, Mac is back.

“Yup.”

Dennis inhales carefully. Walks over to the couch. “How was Johnny?”

Mac’s silence speaks louder than his usually too loud voice. Dennis sits down next to him mostly just to do something. His stomach growls.

“That’s a bummer. Well, hey, do you have crabs left over like last time?”

Mac shakes his head.

Dennis grits his teeth. Disobedient waste of space. “Mac?”

The man in question blinks. “Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot. But hey, I got you this slinky.”

[knightnightwrite]

Hannigram 8

Will looks over at Hannibal, a semi difficult feat considering they’re both in the same bed, bundled beneath blankets, the boat’s bobbing barely discernible. It hasn’t been long since their embrace, since Will decided life without Hannibal was unthinkable, and their bodies are recovering from their unexpected survival.

“You think I have any idea what’s going on? I don’t.”

“You should,” Hannibal responded, voice irritatingly smooth despite his extensive wounds. “You’re in better shape than I am.”

Will huffs. “That wasn’t the plan.”

The implicit responding question—and what was the plan, exactly—remains unasked. Will’s skin itches with anticipation, the illusory sensation of bugs crawling up his arms. Familiar in its disappointment.

All Will knows (all, it seems, Will ever knows about Hannibal) is that none of this is what he anticipated.

Hannibal’s voice gives little away. “It seems that your plans are often thwarted by unexpected behaviors. The futility of familiarity is unavoidable.”

Will looks away, closes his eyes. Swallows thickly, tasting nothing. “I could never entirely predict you.”

Hannibal’s breathing is steady, and Will clings to the sound of it. Hannibal clears his throat. “There was a time when I took pride in that.”

“And now?” Will can’t open his eyes, can’t look at Hannibal.

He can, however, feel Hannibal’s eyes on him. “What does it mean, to be predictable?”

Will sighs, biting back a harsh smile. “To be boring?”

“To be known.”

Accepting asks from this prompt post throughout June!

[knightnightwrite]

Obikin with 1...

“I have never seen a display of such idiocy in my life.”

“Ah-na-kin,” Obi-Wan protests, clutching the drink in his hand.

Anakin grins and continues, all glee and amusement; “I never expected the tables to turn this drastically.”

It is a bizarre sight. Normally, Anakin’s the one who gets uproariously drunk after a reckless mission. Obi-Wan always makes sure to pad his high alcohol tolerance with the Force.

Plus, Obi-Wan respects Rex enough to not put a large dent in his definitely unauthorized stash of booze. Usually.

“Now you know what it’s like,” Obi-Wan drawls, blinking up at Anakin from his seat, “dealing with you.”

Anakin hums. “I bet my view is much better, though.”

Obi-Wan’s face is uncharacteristically red, but his voice is steady. “I beg to differ.”

This brings Anakin’s joy to a halt. “Don’t be foolish, master.” His eyes skitter away, clinging to the familiar dining room tables, loathing his master’s drunken flirtation.

(It isn’t decent, isn’t fair.)

None of this fits into their careful routine, which has withstood—as of yet—war, the permanent alterations both of their galaxy and their Jedi Order.

“Foolish? Hmm. I—“ A large yawn bursts out of Obi-Wan, hurriedly stuffing his gaping mouth against his arm, as though Anakin shouldn’t see him so unsightly.

“C’mon master. You need sleep.”

As much as Anakin wants to see his master disheveled and different, he doesn’t want it like this.

Accepting asks from this prompt post throughout June!

[knightnightwrite]

oh my gosh this list is so good. Mercymorn and Augustine with 11 if I may???

She’s got one hand wrapped around a wine glass, another grasping her rather too fashionable dress—too fashionable for a party that asks everyone wear their skin and little else.

Her siblings, her friends, her comrades, enter into this occasion with varying degrees of eager grace. All except—

“Reckon you don’t wanna be here either?”

His irritating, low voice comes closer than she anticipated. (He often comes a touch faster than she can predict. Not that it matters much in the grand scheme of things.)

She snorts, sending a glare his way. If you talk to me too much, He’ll cream his pants with excitement.

Augustine raises his eyebrows. Wouldn’t you be living up to your name, then, speaking to me?

The way Mercymorn sighs makes Augustine’s shoulders slump slightly, her disappointment akin to a teacher’s at a predictably mediocre pupil trying for intelligence and failing for the thousandth time. “I didn’t get this dressed up to immediately waste my efforts. You would understand, if you were able to look this good!!”

“You do look ravishing, Mercy,” a third voice interrupts, placing a hand on the small of her back, then his other hand on Augustine’s. “Both of you do.”

Mercymorn knows the smile Augustine gives John so well it comforts her, despite its careful, rehearsed tilt, so different from the way his real emotions look.

John beams back, hands pushing the Lyctors slightly closer.

“Mercy is right—“

“See!!!”

“—watching can be very enjoyable.” He tilts his head, and Mercymorn tilts her head towards his nearly thoughtlessly, so that their heads are gently touching. She sends a playfully smug look at Augustine as John continues: “shall we watch together?”

“Sure,” Augustine replies, “better than moping in a corner.”

“Now now,” John says, indulgently smiling.

Mercymorn takes the cue for what it is and begins squabbling with Augustine as John leads them away, rubbing his thumb against her dress.

Accepting asks from this prompt post throughout June!

[knightnightwrite]

Writing Prompts

1. “I have never seen a display of such idiocy in my life.”

2. “Do you think I should go for elegant and classy or bad ass and cut throat?”

3. “You hid your battle axe in your sleeping bag?”

4. “I’ll snap your neck like a brittle twig.”

5. “The further I go into this world, the more I want to scream.”

6. “Oh sorry, didn’t see you there.”

7. “My feather boa is my greatest achievement.”

8. “You think I have any idea what’s going on? I don’t.”

9. “I’m here witnessing a chaotic mess and doing nothing because I simply do not care.”

10. “For you to believe I have any sort of happiness in me right now is absurd.”

11. “Reckon you don’t wanna be here either?”

12. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

13. “I left you behind to protect you! Can’t you see that?”

14. “This cake matches my heart. Black.”

15. “Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot. But hey, I got you this slinky.”

[knightnightwrite]

40 Questions — Meme for Fic Writers

Describe your comfort zone—a typical you-fic.

Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?

Is there a trope you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole?

How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

Share one of your strengths.

Share one of your weaknesses.

Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Which fic has been the hardest to write?

Which fic has been the easiest to write?

Is writing your passion or just a fun hobby?

Is there an episode above all others that inspires you just a little bit more?

What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?

What’s the worst writing advice you’ve ever come across?

If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

If you only could write one pairing for the rest of your life, which pairing would it be?

Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

Do you use any tools, like worksheets or outlines?

Stephen King once said that his muse is a man who lives in the basement. Do you have a muse?

Describe your perfect writing conditions.

How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

Choose a passage from one of your earlier fics and edit it into your current writing style. (Person sending the ask is free to make suggestions).

If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

Have you ever deleted one of your published fics?

What do you look for in a beta?

Do you beta yourself? If so, what kind of beta are you?

How do you feel about collaborations?

Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

Do you accept prompts?

Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?

How do you feel about smut?

How do you feel about crack?

What are your thoughts on non-con and dub-con?

Would you ever kill off a canon character?

Which is your favorite site to post fic?

Talk about your current wips.

Talk about a review that made your day.

Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

Write an alternative ending to [insert fic title] (or just the summary of one).