ladypensivewrites

[ladypensivewrites]

writing isn’t hard it’s just emotionally devastating and time-consuming and requires full body possession by an idea

[ladypensivewrites]

Get these ai writing assistants out of my face!!!! I don't care if my writing is bad at least it is mine!!!!

[ladypensivewrites]

This is definitely how I imagine this man, Lord.

Ripped ghost truthers come to my doorsteps to die.

Edit for clarification: ripped = extremely defined muscles.

[ladypensivewrites]

In Your Eyes Pt.1

Soap x Servant!Reader | smut | masturbation (f) | Regency Era | I swear it's only a coincidence that both of my first fics on here have similar titles… | This is my first time ever writing smut, so feedback is welcome. | 1,849 words

In your eyes, Lord Johnny Mactavish was everything the ideal man should be. He was generous, kind, sweet, and funny. A little rugged at times but never lacked manners. He worked along with his servants and workers, and was never cruel. Lord Mactavish had kind eyes, a charming smile, and a voice that commanded respect and exuded trust. He had big hands and strong arms, a broad frame that showed his many years working the land he owned along with the men he employed. He had money, a big estate in the countryside, and was a man of honor. He would make a perfect husband and father. However, what you thought of him did not matter.

In his eyes you were his worker. One of many servants that kept the estate clean, welcomed his guests, and served his food. Your interactions with him were reduced to serving his meals or tea, during the monthly pensions he personally handed each worker, and in brief passing with only an exchange of small, kind greetings. Maybe even to very subtle, accidental touches—your fingers brushing momentarily only. The closest you’d ever gotten to him was cleaning his bedroom or his study, or doing his laundry, where your curiosity would get the best of you. You would snoop around occasionally with the excuse of arranging messes or dusting off surfaces if you were to be assigned that day to clean his room. 

You couldn't help it. You wanted to know more about the enigmatic Lord Mactavish. The older servants always had nice things to say about the young lord. He was different from so many close-minded, cruel rich men. He wasn’t lazy, he didn’t hit or insult his workers, he was hands-on and willing to get dirty. He was odd, they said. But if odd was like that, they would take it. You would take it.

In very few words you had become obsessed with Johnny Mactavish. Or well… the idea of him. At least you could be honest with yourself about that. You barely knew him. Actually, you didn’t know him at all. You were barely two years into working at the Mactavish Estate. You knew your boss didn’t even think of your existence until payday.

And… 

He wasn’t as perfect as you had made him to be in your mind. Yes, he was all those nice things. But he was a man after all. At least once a week he would either go out to the gentlemen’s club or bring back the usual girls. Very pretty women at that.  With elegant dresses he gifted them. With ridiculously beautiful smiles and handsome laughs. A rake. That is what he was. 

By all means you weren’t an innocent, prim-and-proper noble lady, either. You knew what men brought ladies into their bedchambers for. It was definitely not to play croquet, that’s for sure. The head maid would always tell the others to not go into the second floor during those days and the girls always gossiped. You obeyed of course, even as foolish jealousy creeped up on you. You knew it was stupid, and it felt childish. You didn’t want him to be with other women, and not because he was unmarried or because you expected him to be as much of a saint as he seemed to be, but because of your absurd crush on him. You wanted him to be faithful to the imaginary relationship your mind created. 

Which is why you crossed the line. Not that he knew. But you did. You were assigned to clean his room today, and you hid your eagerness. But then the head maid told you the lord was in a haste. He had a “friend” coming over, so the room had to be clean by the evening and the sheets had to be changed. You picked your cleaning supplies and headed upstairs, even as your body tensed. You walked through the spruce doors of his bedroom and placed your bucket down on the floor, the water splashing slightly. You worked on polishing the floors, wiped at your forehead as sweat gathered there in a thick sheen, then moved around quickly after. Anger made your blood boil even more than it already did, the burning heat of the summer coming through the open windows adding to your discomfort. 

You dusted off every surface, the feather duster clutched tightly in your unforgiving grip to the point that the wooden edges of the worn handle pricked and dug into your sweaty, calloused palm. You dropped the duster, filled up the jar at the basin near the door with fresh water and replenished the hand towels. Then you moved to the bed to change the sheets. What was the point? He would bring one of his lady friends here, make a mess and then you or another maid would have to clean the next day again. You grabbed the thin cotton blankets and tore them off of the bed and folded them. Then you grabbed the covers and started to pull them off, almost tearing the fabric as it caught on a corner. You cursed under your breath and stopped.

You needed to calm down. 

So you gently freed the corner and gathered the fabric in your arms. With a breath in, the scent of the sheets hit you for a second. You blinked and looked around. Curiously you pressed the sheets to your nose and inhaled, then sighed. God… He had the musky scent of sandalwood, basil, and bergamot, with a hint of fern from his soap. You folded the sheets carefully and moved back to the bed, extending your hands to the pillows. You dragged them towards you and let your fingers run over the silk. With a hesitant tuck of your bottom lip under your upper teeth, you leaned down and pressed your nose to one of the pillows. Your eyes fluttered close as your fingers curled into the cover, your mind racing with the thought of what it would be like to lay next to Lord Mactavish and press your nose into his neck. Maybe he would grab your hips, pull you in. Would you be naked? No, maybe clothed in a modest sleeping gown. Then, perhaps in the bright morning, he would softly, subtly push up the skirt of your gown as he ran his hand over the length of your leg up to your thigh.

With that image you bit down on your lip and pulled back. Looked around again and listened quietly, making sure no one was working outside the room before you reached under the thin layers of your work uniform and pulled your drawers down. With your heart pounding harshly against your ribcage you climbed into the bed. You could feel your heartbeat thump against your pulse, making your body feel hot and your face flush warmly. The heat wasn’t caused by the weather anymore and you knew it. It was thrilling even if it should have felt wrong. You swallowed thickly before pulling your skirts up again with shaky hands and slotting the stacked pillows vertically between your thighs, straddling them. Leaning forward and placing your hands flat on the bed you moved your hips forward and backwards trying to find the familiar sensation of self indulgence. 

You closed your eyes and kept imagining. He would slip his hand, yes, between your legs to feel the heat gathering between your inner thighs. You pressed your cunt down, the silk beginning to moisten under you and catch against your skin. He would find it, the little pebbled nerve of your clit, so you reached your hand between your legs and found it as it pulsed and twitched needly. You whimpered as you imagined his rough, Scottish accent as he whispered in your ear. “I need you, lovie.” 

“It is daytime.” You would tell him, trying to seem innocent, and he would laugh in that sinful tone that made your sex heat up and slick. You had heard him laugh before. It was a beautiful sound and you yearned for it. To be the reason he laughed. You wanted to see his gray eyes crinkle on the corners as his lips stretch in that wide, boyish grin. Wanted to feel his lips against your skin as his fingers pinched and circled your clit slowly, torturously. You whined and covered your mouth with your other hand. 

You pressed your thighs harder against the pillows, making them bunch up slightly more against you, causing the perfect friction. The silk caught between your folds, the soft fabric rubbing against your clit along with your fingers deliciously. You moved the hand away from between your legs and grasped the top pillow to force it harder against you. Your eyes rolled back, your breaths becoming ragged and fast as you breathed through your nose. A moan slipped, muffled by your palm, as your legs began to shake, your tummy tight. 

“Johnny-” You whined, dropping your hand from your mouth to grasp at the bed. Your hips stutter, the friction becoming too overwhelming. “Johnny- You…” You hiccuped and shuddered, “You’re mine, my Lord. Mine- Oh-” You tried to keep going, push longer, but it was too much. You wanted so desperately to put your claim on him. Leave your mark behind. The thought of him finding your slick, your release, on his sheets would be satisfying. You wanted those women to know he was yours. Your scent to be all over his bed. So, you halted, your sharp pants filling the empty room. With wide eyes you ran a hand over your heated face, your head pounding along with the rest of your body and your heart. You placed a hand over your mouth as if trying to calm your breaths, slowly easing your grip on the pillow. 

Yes, you wanted them to know. You wanted him to know of your affections, of your desire for him, but you knew this wasn’t the way. You didn’t want him to find out this way, even if the thought felt like a rush. Exhilarating. He would be disgusted. Appalled by you. You didn’t want that. You didn’t want him to hate you, let alone lose your job because of this… mistake.

You ultimately let go of the pillow and, with shaky legs, moved off to stand up. You quickly put your briefs back on, even as sticky slick made your folds feel uncomfortable. You then grabbed the pillow, grimacing at the spot of wetness you left on the silk, and slid the cover off, the other pillow following. Your chest felt heavy, your mind replaying your actions over and over. Guilt creeped up on you, so you grabbed a new pillow from an elegant storage trunk to replace the soiled one. 

It's fine, no one will find out. You thought as you gathered all the laundry from the floor along with your cleaning supplies and placed them into your basket, moving to clean the bathroom. Unfortunately, someone would know, as his gray eyes had witnessed everything through the half-opened door.

[ladypensivewrites]

In The Eyes of The Devil

Navy Soldier!König x Siren!OC | TW: Gore, death, murder, suicidal thoughts, and violence | angst with a touch of chaos | 1,593 words 

The ocean was on fire, the sky alight with smoke and ash and sparks. In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean the sea wasn’t blue, it almost felt like being surrounded by angry oil as it swallowed every bit of life left behind. König’s eyes, icy blue, reflected the scorching, unforgiving orange and yellow of the flames consuming his ship. The Le Boniface had been a powerful warship serving his majesty until just a few minutes ago when pirates had successfully blown right through the middle of it after three hours of belligerence. 

König knew he had gotten cocky, placing his men at risk, going toe-to-toe with Captain Ghost Riley. What a ridiculous name. It boiled his blood to even think of his rival. König wanted revenge. He wanted to kill Riley and his crew for every life he just lost. He was trembling with rage as he looked around the carnage left behind, the bodies that floated around him, the few survivors practically grasping at straws to stay afloat and stay alive. Boards of the once pristine wood were scattered around the wreckage and König held tight to his piece. He was seething and breathing hard as his teeth clenched tight, almost painfully. 

The ship groaned horribly, the sound rumbling through the water and his bones, and echoing in the abyssal sea. A fluttering sound amidst the destruction caught Admiral Kilgore’s attention. His eyes widened as the flag of his country floated down and landed in the ink water, hauntingly graceful, right in front of him. He let out an angry scream, his voice resonating along with the groaning of the sinking ship. Then he heard a sudden gargle and a splash, followed by silence… Then cries. The men began to yell and cry out in fear and horror. An eerie cacophony of hisses started, like the fluttering of a beetle’s wings.

“HELP! HELP! HEAlrghglgl-”

“OH GOD!”

“PLEASE! PLEA-”

Gunshots ricocheted, the blows reverberating as the men slipped into a frenzy. König looked around wide-eyed. “SIRENS! Blughblugh-” Sirens. The lost and damned. He could see them now, splashing out of the water, crawling and swimming over the wreckage and the dead towards the fresh-blooded men. Their slick hands snatched bodies easily, dragging the men under to drown and feast upon their flesh. König reached under the water for his pistol or his sword, but neither of his weapons were on him. “Scheiße!” With a groan he let go of his slab of wood and swam towards one of the dead bodies near him perched upon a large wooden door. König hissed in pain, realizing then he was injured. He grabbed onto the wooden door and forced himself up against the dead man. He winced and looked down at his side. His uniform was bloodied, a bullet hole on his clothes where dark blood bubbled and spilled, staining his navy blue uniform. With ragged pants, König made up his mind. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. He reached for his dead crewmember and forced his body around with ease. His breath caught momentarily at the sight before him. The dead man’s eyes were wide open, blood oozing from every possible orifice, and there was a large hole in his stomach, where his insides were spilling out. König swallowed. He had lost men before, he was familiar with loss and the horrors of war, but it was the guilt that tore at him. He had survived with just a bullet wound, while his crew had been massacred because of him.

“I’m sorry.” He told the man and grabbed the musket that was still hung over his shoulder. He searched him up and found a knife and extra ammunition. He wasn’t sure if it would work, there wasn’t a lot of dry gunpowder left, but he would try. König tore the man’s sleeve and his belt and used it to wrap his wound and apply pressure. Then he felt it: a hand, wrapping around his leg. König turned fast and shot the siren straight in the head, red and brain fluids blowing up in the air behind her. She sank into the water. He apologized again to his dead mate and pushed the limp body into the water. König pulled his whole body onto the door and kneeled in the middle as best as he could, then began to shoot at the sirens as they finally took notice of him and at other sirens as they attacked the other survivors. 

He tore a piece of the door and used it as a paddle to get closer to the crew mates that were screaming for help, slamming it against the demons that jumped up at him with hissing war cries. Red joined the blackened sea, yet no matter how much König tried, once he turned from one siren to the other, another would grab a man and slip away. He ran out of ammunition and gunpowder, and he claimed whatever musket or pistol was left or had ammunition left. But at some point, after what felt like hours, the world was quiet. There were no more screams or gunshots. No more gargling or cries of terror. The ocean had killed the fire and swallowed the Le Boniface. 

He was truly… alone. 

For the first time in years, he was alone. His crew was dead—either swallowed by the sea, blown up, shot, died by injury, or drowned by the horrid mer folk surrounding the wreckage like hungry sharks. His ship had sunk into the deep. There were no signs of life for miles. There was no way he could make it back. He was injured, bleeding out, tired, and alone. He would die sooner or later. 

König had no idea how long he was staring into nothingness, but when he finally felt his body throb and ache, he knew things were truly over. He held his bleeding side, then looked down at his hand. He had bled through the makeshift bandage. König sat carefully and winced. The adrenaline was long gone. He looked at the pistol in his hand. He had one bullet left. König was a condecorated admiral. A leader. A soldier. His heart hurt, the guilt tearing at it. He shouldn’t have pursued Ghost in that pointless manhunt. He thought he was doing the right thing, ridding the world of a pest. König’s men had known that the infamous pirate captain was hiding tricks he could have never predicted in full, yet they paid for his obsession.

The admiral contemplated his imminent death. He could wait to bleed out, throw himself into the water and let himself sink and drown… Or… He could use his last bullet. No. It wasn’t the honorable way to go. It would be cowardly to take the easy way out. His men had suffered, he should suffer, too.  

Upon looking up away from the pistol, König gasped and drew the weapon at eyes that looked back up at him. He didn’t shoot, though. The siren did not hiss at him or jump at him. She looked at him. Looked at him. Looked. Her eyes were doe eyed, lashes wet with salt water. She blinked. Didn’t speak. Held her upper body up by propping her crossed arms on the wooden door. Her fins occasionally lifted from the water behind her and dipped right back into the water, as if she was curious. Just… looking. 

She reached out to him, touched his boot. König groaned at her and pulled away, pointing the pistol at her again. The siren moved back into the water, her expression one of fear and shame, as if she were a child getting scolded for doing something wrong. She held her hand to her mouth, eyes rounded as they looked at König like an innocent babe. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” König hissed the words. He could have just shot her, but for some reason… he couldn’t bring himself to do so. So, he watched her instead since she made no attempt to scram. She was beautiful, like all sirens. But between all the screams and the fire and the shooting, König had not stopped to look at them. He had heard—as any soldier, sailor, or pirate would—that sirens were breathtaking creatures. Their beauty wasn’t human, nor was it humanly comprehensible. There were no words to describe what he saw or how she looked. Like the tales said, sirens looked like a creation a god would make. Their arms were covered in feathers instead of scales like their tails. A woman, half fish, half bird. He was sure she could walk on land if she wanted to, or turn the small feathers littered across her skin into large wings. A syrian-greek myth he could never comprehend. He wouldn’t even live to tell anyone what he’d seen.

The siren slowly came closer again and pulled her body up towards him. She spoke to him. He heard her voice. But it wasn’t human. It wasn’t words he could understand or a language created by man. It was the voice of the sea and it mellowed him almost instantly. He hadn’t even realized how close he had gotten—nor that he had moved at all—until her hand cupped the side of his face. Two threaded fingers pressed down on his temple, while her thumb pressed under his eye, and her palm laid softly against König’s cheek.

He finally reacted, though, his body reminding him that this was a man-eating-monster and not an angel. But, when he reached for her wrist to tear her hold away, her eyes commanded his attention, the clicking of her voice lulling him again. It was disorienting for a moment, but then he saw his men by a shore. Their warped voices called out to him and cheered for him. They were alive and waiting for him.

In the eyes of the devil, König saw hope. And like a man tempted by sin, he reached for them, leaning closer and closer towards the siren. The closer he leaned in the more she drew back into the water. Then with his head breaking into the sea, the devil took him.

[ladypensivewrites]

[ladypensivewrites]

I blame Bridgerton for unrealistic expectations of declarations of love...

Edit: I beg your pardon George and Charlotte in their rightful place :)

[ladypensivewrites]

Writing Tips

Punctuating Dialogue

✧

➸ “This is a sentence.”

➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.

➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”

➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”

➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”

➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”

➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.

“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.

“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”

➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”

➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”

However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!

➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.

If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)

➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“

“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.

➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.

➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”

➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.

“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”

➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.

“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”

[ladypensivewrites]

i'm 2 books into the throne of glass series (shoutout 2010s YA) and i'm enjoying it so much i've had to break my "dont draw book fanart til youve finished the series" rule

(commission info // tip jar!)

[ladypensivewrites]

writing badly and cringily is actually an essential part of the writing process, both in terms of individual projects and in gaining voice and confidence as a writer in the long term. there is no way around the cringe. there's no way around the work.

[ladypensivewrites]

one of my worst writing sins is abusing my power to create compound words. i cannot write the sentence "The sun shone as bright as honey that afternoon." no. that's boring. "The sun was honey-bright that afternoon" however? yes. that sentence is dope as fuck. i do not care if "honey-bright" is a word in the english dictionary. i do not care if the sentence is grammatically correct. i will not change. i will not correct my erred ways. the laws of the english language are mine.

[ladypensivewrites]

Being a writer and not knowing what to write or where to start sucks. I want to make a living out of writing. It's been my dream since I was a child to become a published author. My style and writing preferences have changed through the years. I used to write more than I do now. I barely even open a book to read anymore.

I'm never happy about any ideas I get, never satisfied with anything I come up with, and I always end up stuck somewhere in the plotting stage. I wrote fanfictions from 2020 to 2022. I stopped when I found out all of my stories had been re-published in different fanfiction websites without my consent.

That didn't stear my dream, though, didn't change what I wanted. It encouraged me to start working more on my original work rather than fanfiction. However, my writing hasn't come smoothly since my days as a fanfic writer. My ideas were more frequent then, and I would spend hours and sleepless nights writing. Now I'm stuck staring at a blank page, trying to figure out what I want to achieve as a writer. Do I want to write fantasy or romance, YA or adult fiction. Do I want to make vampire novels my trademark or do I want to write fae romance.

How do I write about what I don't know? I lack a community where I can talk about my work, yet I am also afraid to share my ideas and find myself betrayed. Writing is more than just words on paper, yet writing has become meaningless words to me.

I'm pointlessly attempting to string sentences together, to create something worth it, something good, something groundbreaking, yet the words don't come, and nothing seems special enough or interesting enough. First drafts aren't meant to be good, but I feel like I'm running out of time. I can't even write a prologue.

"Start in the middle.", "Start with the action." But nothing comes to me. It is frustrating to be a writer and have no creativity at all. I've been imprisoned in this "writer's block" since 2022. So, what do I do? How do I figure out my story? How do I take control of the narrative? How can I love writing the way I used to again?

Novel writing will never stop being my dream, and I refuse to give up even through this endless fog. However, it doesn't stop me from wondering if I'm wasting my time. If writing was just once a brief hyperfixation—a dream never meant to be.

[ladypensivewrites]

[ladypensivewrites]

I was listening to the ACOTAR audio book, and I realized that (apart from power and political crap) the whole issue happened because Amarantha wanted dick and Tamlin said no, so girly threw a tantrum and turned Prythian upside down.

[ladypensivewrites]

I would have folded, too... Tamlin may be toxic, but... book 1 Tamlin is>>>

So much waisted potential 😔

[ladypensivewrites]

I already read ACOTAR but I got the dramatized audio book and the scene were the Children of the Blessed argue with Nesta made me think about the "do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ" meme. Nesta was so ready to throw hands.

[ladypensivewrites]

Celaena was such a mood the whole book. I love her 😂