peariote

[peariote]

hi guys random cowgirl!tashi blurb before i go to sleep zzZ

“What are you feedin’ that horse, Duncan?” She sighs. Your voice is a constant at every rodeo—but it seems it can’t be helped. Your father—your family’s farm, actually—is responsible for some of the best horses to ever hit the ring. Even hers. So she has to at least tolerate you and the wide set of your shoulders, slung in a buttoned flannel with your thumbs slipped easily into your jeans’ pockets. 

…so she spent a little too much time observing you. She’s just applying the same scrutinization she gives all her opponents. See how their weight settles, how they carry themselves… who might be a challenge and who she can roll over like a heavy tumbleweed. And you, with your crooked smile and steady weight, are quite the challenge. 

Respect, respect, respect. 

“What your daddy told me to.” She murmurs, gaze averted as she readjusts her darling’s bridle. Coco’s always been an unrestrained sort of horse, well behaved even out of all the gear. So she loosens the bridle, confident in her docility, and rubs her nose when she pushes into it. 

“Well.” You start, stepping up to offer your own hand to the beautiful roan mare. Irritatingly, her loyal companion doesn’t catch her animosity and has no problem pushing into your palm. It doesn’t matter that you were there at her birth, guiding her into the world. She’s the one who takes care of her. “My daddy’s a smart man when it comes to horses.”

Her irritation must reflect on her face—she’s never been one to constrain her emotions, but she’s still slightly put off that you recognize it. You chuckle and almost reach a thumb out, as if a mother instinctively cleaning a smudge of dirt off of their child’s cheek. Smartly, your hand stays out of her reach—she’s cut extremities off before, her pistol an ever-looming threat. At least to creeps. 

“You don’t like me very much, do you, Miss Duncan?” 

“Not necessarily.” 

“At least let me buy you a drink.”

Well. How much could one drink hurt?

Inevitably, a whole lot. Especially when one drink spirals into three, five, seven. She wakes to berating sun through unfamiliar curtains, assumes it’s the ache of the hangover blooming over her collarbones and down between her thighs. Until she glances, blearily, and realizes bruises pepper darkly across quite a lot of skin, and that the ache in her head and the soreness of her thighs are unrelated—except for that singular thread of you, so deep in sleep next to her you could be mistaken for a bear. 

Shit.

She bustles into her jeans and tugs on her jacket, dressing sporadically as she finds the chucked articles. You stir, yet she pays you no mind. Not until you speak.

“W-h’what?” You groan, throwing a bare arm over your eyes. Your bicep throbs with a bite mark, and she’s grateful you can’t spy her resulting flush. 

“I’m leaving.” You hum, as if it’s inconsequential, peeking an eye out to gaze at her.

“Alrighty then. Bye, Duncan. See you later.” 

You think you hear insufferable tease, an under-the-breath murmur that’s a bit too loud as she storms out. Chuckling, you turn towards the window—quickly distracted by the gleam of gold left on your bedside. She forgot one of her rings. 

It rolls, cool and warm jointly, between your fingers. Instead of chasing her past the already-slammed door you quietly undo the clasp of your necklace, slip the ring onto it, and watch as she storms, sun-gleaming and beautiful, away from your house. 

Next time, perhaps.

[peariote]

if you see me getting manipulated by a brown eyed schizophrenic cult leader leave me alone i’m exactly where i want to be.

[peariote]

It would be totally awesome to see some Cowgirl!Tashi x reader…. Or something.

cracking open the google docs just for you…

[peariote]

seeing people talk about cowgirl!tashi and i’m like hey… pspspspspspsps

[peariote]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE MARI FIC AGAIN!!! I ABSOLUTELY ADORED IT!!!

I really needed it right now🥲

of course! I loved writing for her and it’s nice to branch out into other fandoms. I really wanted to start writing for Yellowjackets, so your request came at a great time!

[peariote]

HI AGAIN!!!

another request if you don't mind:p specifically mari again oops I love her lmao

precrash? or maybe no crash idk. they've been dating for about a year now (maybe Danny happened long before them lmao).

r is like complete opposite of mari in like every way. she's shy and stuff (and shorter if u ever add details like that idk but its good for cuddles and hugs because r likes that crap :p). the team doesn't know about them because r didn't want to tell anyone (she's not on the team and she doesnt know them that well). so mari didn't tell them but after a while she does brag about being in a relationship and they just keep calling bs.

eventually they see them together (r doesn't care about telling them anymore but mari wanted to keep messing with them)

ok that's all I got

THANK YOU AGAIN!!!!!!!! the small (but slowly and ever growing) mari fandom thanks you😞🙏

oh yes more mari x reader !! thank you for requesting <3

"You guys would love my girlfriend." The whole team groans, lockers slamming and conversations puttering out at Mari's familiar echoing.

"Mari. Stop telling people you have a girlfriend." Shauna's most fed up with it; she's bent over, head in hands, like someone died. Her dramatic groans make snickers erupt, Lottie ruffling Shauna's dark, messily-ponytailed hair as she slides past towards the door. "Yeah, Mari. We know you're salty about Danny, but Jesus Christ, it's been a year." The tall girl snickers, grin crooked as she slips out of the locker room towards the field. Mari scoffs, eyes almost rolling white in her annoyance. It's not the first time Danny's been brought up—it's basically their go-to. Losing an argument against her? She's wholly prepared for Danny's name to drop. She gets in a particularly good barb? Your ex-boyfriend broke up with you for his own cousin. It's enough to set her teeth on edge—especially when that dweeb doesn't even occupy an inch of her brain space anymore. Him and his incestual tendencies can give his kids genetic diseases for all she cares. She's got you. Sweet, perfect you.

How she so wishes she could shoot back with your name or shove the sweet polaroid she keeps you the two of you in their faces. But instead she just groans a what-ever, laces up her cleats tight and plays a little too hard. (So what if she barreled over a freshman? They need to get tough.)

She’s found that the faster she moves, passes, destroys the other team, the faster she can get back to you. Her rapid improvement is putting her in contention for a varsity spot, she’s heard, but all that work comes from a desire to see you. The harder she practices, the less time she has to think about how much longer there is, the faster practice goes. She’s got it down to a science.

Her desperation to see you isn’t truly unfounded. She barely sees you at all during the day, just for English—where she can barely even cough without the teacher writing her up—and lunch—loud, oppressive lunch that always makes you hole up like a turtle. A cute turtle, but still a turtle. It’s hard to get conversation when all her friends crowd, so she settles for half-an-hour of hand-holding and daydreaming about after practice.

So as soon as practice ends she’s out. Her excuse, the one she started long before you started dating, is that her parents are super strict. No one would expect the stern-faced Mr. Ibarra to be an absolute teddy bear—especially for his daughter—so it works out. She doesn’t even bother to shower, just hops in her car and peels off towards your house.

She always, always comes through your window. Even though she has a key to your front door she’s insistent on climbing up the tree like some kind of Romeo. You worry about her falling and spraining an ankle, but leave the window unlocked regardless.

She pushes open the glass, crawls through. Flops on you, all sweaty and gross and dirty from the field, right onto your clean sheets.

“Gross, Mar.” You scoff, half-asleep and barely conscious at her routine arrival. It makes her pout, hard.

“You’re not even happy that I’m here? You’re terrible.” She pokes your cheek until you peek open an eye, and then tips her head.

You groan and shift as she wants you to, letting her sweaty ass bundle you to her chest. You curl easily into her, nose nuzzling at her damp collar.

“Asshole.” You murmur.

“Princess.” She retorts.

Rolling your eyes, you go quiet. You’re not sure how to breach the subject—the discussion about going public. Mari’s never expressed the desire, but she’s never kept you much of a secret anyway, even with your pleas to keep it under wraps.

You sigh, and then speak.

“Mar.”

“Princess.” She scoffs, half-amused.

“Be serious!” Laughing now, you hit her on the shoulder, bringing a faux wince and another pout. “I… well. I think it would be good if we went a bit more public.”

Mari goes silent, before a wide grin spreads. It’s spells trouble—big trouble—for you, and anyone else she intends to direct it at.

"Can we fuck with them, at least?"

So you help her do just that. You press lipstick-coated kisses (whether or not you wear it) just low enough so that when she changes into her jersey they'll be visible—bright red and prettily defined. She lets you (begs you) to press hickeys there as well, the skin of her collarbone molted purple and green.

Everyone starts asking who the fuck she got to agree to do that, and all she responds, smug grin splitting her face, is "oh, just my girlfriend,” met with many eye rolls.

At this point you’re getting restless—you’d already waited so long to build up the courage to ask her, and now she’s dragging it out because she wants her friends to suffer.

So, in a show of reckless bravery (though your hands still shake), you kiss her in the lunchroom. She’s unaware of you coming up behind her, even less aware of how her teammates’ gazes stray towards you.

The entire table goes silent as you shut her up yourself, tilting her head back to seal a kiss over the thin seam of her mouth. She smiles, all teeth, as she pulls back.

“Hey, princess.” She murmurs, soft as she scoots so you can sit next to her.

The entire table erupts.

[peariote]

I’m not someone who knows a lot about wrestling but your fic with Tashi was so well written, it was honestly beautiful. I feel like the ending tied it together so nicely. Like it was angsty but it also had such heartwarming moments and I think that’s a really beautiful thing.

You have a way with words :)

- 👁️

awe thank you <3 i just had the concept rattling around so i had to get it out of my head bc i love her sm...

[peariote]

thank you achilles luv u <3

favorite colour: it changes frequently... but it always comes back to green .

currently reading: the hobbit, a collection of lovecraft stories, bangkok 8, i'm glad my mom died, and i just started the poppy war (at my sister's insistence)

last song: double dare ya - bikini kill <3

last movie: um... maybe cmbyn? i don't really remember

last series: watched the last episode of the pitt with my mom last night.. so good omfg

sweet, savoury or salty: sweet !

craving: nothing really.. water rn. boba tomorrow. perhaps a bowl of rainbow sorbet. the possibilities are limitless

tea or coffee: tea ! my favorite is oolong or black tea, though jasmine is good as well

currently working on: a lot.. just posted a tashi duncan fic liek 10 minutes ago... working on a mari fic and some arcane fics and i should probably get to writing more wicked for my ao3. oh and also quinn fabray fic based on the giver by chappell roan . i have a lot to do

no pressure tags: @diyasgarden, @glassmermaids, @coolgrl111, @222col, @wwwvrly, @foralltheprettygirls .

Nine People I Want to Get to Know Better

Thanks for the tag @runnning-outof-time! Lovely to see you in my notifs again, darling K!

—

Favorite color: Black

Currently reading: I'm not. I've sold my soul to the creative muse and I'm currently tits deep in the writing game with a brand new original piece (first chapter HERE if anyone is interested!)

Last song: Dark Night of the Soul - Mayhem

Last movie: Overboard. Never seen it despite being a massive Goldie Hawn fan, but I'd definitely watch it again!

Last Series: The husband made me watch The Inbetweeners last night. It's so fucking cringe!!

Sweet, Savoury or Salty: Savoury, please!

Craving: Sleep

Tea or coffee: Coffee

Currently working on: As above, my new original piece, Sanctuary :)

—

Tagging: @mostly-marvel-musings @call-sign-shark @cillmequick @zablife @jvalentinesworld-cokes-hyna @jemmalynette @ginger-grimm @wonderlanddreamer @lovemissyhoneybee

[peariote]

ON YOUR KNEES.

summary; it's tashi duncan's first olympics, your second. she's there for tennis, you're there for wrestling. you never would have guessed you'd end up in the same place, again and again and again. 2.5k words. warnings; canon-typical injury (described, not just mentioned.) this is very badly cobbled together but bear with me guys it's a braindump with a shitty ending.

It seems set in stone that you’d end up here, despite it all. You never knew her before, and then suddenly she was there.

They’d wheeled you into the infirmary, fresh off the mat, and she was there. She stared at you as they transferred you, and watched with intensity as you winced. You couldn’t bend your knees, and bit your lip to hide a whimper when you tried. They’d told you they wouldn’t move and not to hurt yourself attempting it. You did so anyway. 

Hers was already wrapped in a suffocating coffin of gauze, making her left leg look much larger than the right. The straight set to her shoulders had only come about when you’d entered, spine upright. It’s utterly ruined by the pallid quality to her skin. In her eyes gleams recognition, and yours reflects right back. Who wouldn’t, even among such elite athletes? Adidas’s star girl, known for her relentless tennis and her dignified media presence, and the flag bearer on top of that. Tashi Duncan’s First Olympics was practically written in the stars. 

You moon over her as if you aren’t in the same boat. This might not be your first, but people expected it to be the continuation of a legacy. That you’d swoop in and win, taking home the gold once more. Sponsored and showered with equipment and sports drinks and money, you were a shoe-in.

And now you’re here, head swimming from the pain after your knees popped sickly and left you unable to stand, your support crumpling under you and your coach cradling you, dizzy, in her lap. Terribly ironic, really. You don’t know enough literature to find someone comparable. But you’re sure that someone, somewhere, had penned this. Perhaps with their knees aching as yours do. 

You’re fed two pills, small enough to swallow dry. You choke regardless, eyebrows knitting in anguish as your body squirms instinctively. They work quickly, the powdery-white pills—you're drowsy now. Perhaps they’re for the pain. Perhaps you're just too far away for it to matter anymore. 

You meet her eyes, watch how they flash in horror. They’re wide and frightened, as if knocked back into her own adrenaline seeing her suffering so violently reflected. Her injured leg draws up instinctively, painfully, as they swarm you—remembering what had happened not long before you arrived. 

You share with her that one last moment of pain. The wince on her face brings one onto your own, dragging you briefly back to your body. Not that there’s much time to experience it—you’re yanked under swiftly, lost before the spasm even registers. Your eyes shut in a blink, and don’t open again. Not for quite some time. 

For the first month after your surgery everything is… well. Not smooth sailing but… better. The pain relieves slowly, slipping away with each day of strengthening. Waking up tense and aching, something that used to make you lock up and panic, is now a routine that begets a grumble and a shifting towards the floor to do your stretches. Your mobility increases as the swelling falls, and eventually the crutches fall from your sides and never return. 

Your sessions with the physical therapist are weekly. Now, weeks after the procedure, they’re check-ins. How much pain are you in? Are your stretches still helping? The works. Usually the sessions are one-on-one, an hour dedicated to just you and their guiding hands. Today, it seems, that is not the case. They say the addition of another person “with an injury like your own” might “spur recovery through companionship.” You’re not quite sure what else they said: it was eight in the morning on a Sunday. Your body craved the sanctity of your bed and blankets and would not get with the program of being up and active. 

The U.S. Olympic Team, apparently, sends everyone to the same physical therapist. You know this not because of a teammate’s testimony but because of Tashi’s slow arrival. She emerges much like a star would, having the door opened for her with an indulgent smile. But as she steps into your view you’re hit with the reality of it all. Here, she’s not the perfect athlete, lithe and beautiful and charming. She’s barefaced, pain’s grimace etching new lines between her brows, hair whisping from its ponytail and clothes swallowing her. She looks less pallid than she did before, and she’s not mummified in gauze and bandages, but still she limps, the black knee brace obtrusively strapped onto the joint. 

In the weeks since you’ve seen her you think you’ve spared more time towards her injury than your own. You’ve watched the tape of that fateful day over and over, collecting angles and perspectives. They’re saved, hidden in a folder on your phone, needlessly paranoid that her media team might wipe them from the face of the internet. You find yourself curling in bed, overwhelmed by the hotly throbbing ligaments and the frigid ice pressed to them, watching the anguish on her face from the court, from the audience, twenty different looks until all angles are burned into your mind. It feels perverse and cruel to watch her, to make this immortalized version of her relive this moment continually, but the knowledge that you’re tethered by this same-day butchering eases the feeling into the Catholically-guilty corner of your heart that has long since been beaten down into (relative) submission.

Seeing her in person, seeing her walk after weeks of watching her lay on your little screen (tinny speakers muted because hearing her scream was nauseating enough the first time and you’re not that dedicated to your own emotional self-destruction) is overwhelming. You falter, almost falling off the yoga ball they’d carefully planted you on to make your recovery exercises a bit more strenuous. You’re wide-eyed, feeling young and parasocial in a way you hadn’t since you’d left your fangirl days behind.

The quick plant of your foot and the gentle hiss of pain that follows pulls her gaze to you. Instinctively they narrow, and your heart picks up like a startled rabbit’s. Then they soften, her mouth stretching with humor, and you can’t help but smile back. She’s not much younger than you, only a few years, but still she has that unrelenting drive to connect that comes with being juvenile and malleable. Yours, that you thought was stamped out, flairs. 

Two weeks later, they decide to merge your sessions, including her in your recovery. The cynical part of you sneers, thinking it a shady way for the committee to save money and mourning the privacy you had to hurt. The other part of you, the one high on a new friendship, cheers. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tashi seeps into your life and sinks into every part of it. She takes you out to coffee and tea, slides annotated books across the plyo boxes with a conspiratorial wink. You learn she pushes and pushes and pushes until you snap, and then pulls back from you like a wounded animal before you soften and she tries again—getting closer and closer every time. Observing her youthfulness, the warm determination she applies to everything, is inspiring to yourself—feeling old despite the fact that she’s only a few years younger than your ancient twenty-four. 

She catches you unaware one night, showing up after you were already softened and wound down. Her plea for you to come out to the club turned into a movie night, her face glittered purple but her body swamped in your spare Team USA hoodie and a pair of sweats. She snuggles deep into your side, not paying attention to the beautiful film on the screen. It’s some old Armenian movie, tasteful visuals abundant and red everpresent. Still, she’s more focused on how it reflects over the curve of your cheek. 

“Hey.” She huffs, obviously attempting to be cool, even with the way she nuzzles into your neck. It says pay attention to me, the burn of her eyes into your skin something overwhelming. 

“Hey.” 

She squirms closer, throwing herself over your lap and blocking your view. 

“What are you doing?” She murmurs, as if she wasn’t the one moving. 

“What are you doing?” You laugh, curling your warm hands over her hips. She tenses, seared through the fabric, glaring at you until you falter and smile awkwardly. “What?”

Your recovery is hard, grueling, but it picks up quickly. The mending ligaments, surgically surtured, slowly support more weight with every session and all exercises. The meandering recovery is a gift, at least to you—after running at full, even on an empty tank, for years, the opportunity for a long rest is something to be cherished. Your team talks eagerly about when you can return to the sport. All you feel, despite this being your life’s dedication, is dread.

She asks you about it, some wine-soaked night on your balcony, when your guard was ruined by fuzzy laughter and the press of her against your arm. You’d completely forgotten that she’s nosy, and obviously she listened in on the phone call you took earlier. It’s not a betrayal—not really. You’ve both shared passwords, drunken kisses, and showers. Small taxis and drinks at the club and the lounge chair you’re currently smushed into. It’s encompassing and reciprocal—her business is your business is her business. 

Still, it’s sobering. It wasn’t truly a reality, just a lingering suggestion, until she pushed with moony eyes, drunken and eager and slightly envious. Your breath is choked as you respond. 

“...I’m not sure I want to, Tash.”

She’s quiet the rest of the night, quiet as you lay in bed together. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Pensive, contemplative, tight. She doesn’t leave, but something in her has departed—floated away, higher and higher, a spiraling worry you see between her brows. 

You pull her down with chocolate, breakfast served steaming. It lays, a sweet-bitter smear over and in the fluffy pancakes, and in the iced mocha you present. She eats and drinks and calms, head heavy enough with it that you can take her in your lap, back to chest. 

“What’s up, Tashi?” You murmur. Tucking into her neck, she shudders at the brush of your breath. Your arms flex, wide and strong around her stomach. Engulfing, just slightly. “You’re too quiet.”

She sits, ponders, chin against her chest. Letting her keep her silence for just a few minutes more, you wait, warm against her back with your hair tickling her neck. 

“It’s just—” she cuts off with a sigh. The sound settles heavy on your heart. “—you could go back. Your injuries are healing better than mine is. Why don’t you want to keep going?” 

You don’t exactly have an answer. Wrestling was—is—the love of your life. You’re unsure when that faltered, when the practices you once relished in became a chore and your enthusiasm became sluggish. 

“I… really don’t know.” You murmur into her shoulder, smelling the sunshine of her skin and your body wash overtop of it. 

She stiffens in agitation, the non answer unsatisfying. “Well, why not?” You stiffen as well, a reflex, and then force your shoulders to fall. This isn’t a match—there’s no rising wave of offense for you to meet or redirect. Just Tashi, warm and willowy in your lap, wrapped in your worn hoodie and smelling of shea butter. 

You breathe out, and she shudders at the air’s caress. 

“Because I’m really tired, Tash.” Your voice is soft. It’s a confession, one you’ve never told to anyone else. “And I don’t know if I’d love it as much if I tried again.”

You feel her weight shift, and for a single, terrifying moment, you think she’ll get off. Instead she turns, wraps her legs around your waist and nuzzles into your neck. She inhales shamelessly, and for a moment you wonder if she’s just as addicted. 

No response to your words come, just a kiss to your collar. Your arms tighten, and she sighs. 

“Just… try.” She whispers. “Please.”

“...okay.” You murmur, a promise. She kisses you again, now mouth-to-mouth, swallowing that confirmation, the gasp you inhale wholly from her lungs. 

When you get back to practicing, slowly rediscovering the love of your life, she comes with you. She sits on a plyo box and watches you drill slowly, first by yourself, then with a partner. 

You notice how she squirms when you’re working with someone else—the easy clap of your hands against their shoulders, thighs, anywhere, is overwhelming. One day, instead of calling anyone who lingers on the mat, you gesture at her with two fingers. 

“C’mon, babe.” 

She’s hesitant—obviously. In tennis, the connection is less physical and more mental. There’s no touching, not until the end, and that is just a bare clasp of the hands. The clasp of the hands, for you, starts it, the overwhelming physicality and intimacy of being intertwined with another person, slinging them around and being thrown back. 

But she slides off, takes your hand, and replicates the stance you show her. It’s quite similar to the one she always knew, so she slips into it like water. 

You take her slow, and then intensify. By the end of the hour she’s flushed but giddy. Drilling pushed aside she scraps with you, the open ease of it—no winning, no losing—so unfamiliar. 

You’re fluid as you lock under her arms. Her spine straightens with yours, and bows as you drop—strong arms locked tight around her waist. Your knee presses into the back of her braced one, and she flails in panic—

You lower her. She doesn’t drop, nothing to support her. Her leg doesn’t crumple under her, your knee there to hold her as you guide her over your thigh and down, back to the mat. It’s no quick slam. She feels—well. Light. The ease at which you lower her should be embarrassing, but it just feels like that fairytale catch a much younger her dreamed of. A prince, haloed by light—no matter how fluorescent—here to keep her safe. 

She flushes as you laugh, half-worried by the startled look on your face. “Hey, you okay, Tash? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” You murmur, soft and low. 

She leans up to kiss you, pushing hard enough to put you on your back. The cooing of your teammates fades out as her hands box your ears and she settles to devour you. You exhale and she inhales, only pulling back when all of the air between you has totally depleted. 

“What was that for?” You huff, skating your nails over her cheek. Her lips twitch, betraying her, and she finds she doesn’t have an answer. 

“Just because.” She settles down, pushing her legs blissfully straight. Her knee creaks softly, but there’s no twinge of pain. Not anymore. Just an ache, beating in tandem with your heart against her cheek.

© peariote.

[peariote]

lady of the lake!regulus and king arthur!james..

my sister told me to post this even though this is like nothing else i post

[peariote]

I’m currently working on one of my first fics, and also mostly just one part of an original story so I’m debating if I should post it when I’m done since it won’t be like in any specific fandom. Or maybe I’ll wait until I have a few parts written out and post some actual fanfics in the meantime to get a little bit of traction??

- 👁️

honestly i’d wait maybe? if traction’s what you’re looking for it is good to build up a consistent (if small) fanbase. i’ve seen hundreds of people integrated into new fandoms just because the person writing it was into it. obviously it might not be at that scale but if people are interested in your fanfiction, they’ll probably be interested in whatever else you do!

[peariote]

kieraaaaa for the ask game 11. a WIP you’d like to finish someday

oh i have so many WIPs it’s bad

but probably my tashi fic rn where she and reader both get injured competing at the Olympics and then end up at the same physio :D

[peariote]

omg this sounds so good

okay fun fact about me… i’m such a big reader and i’ve always been. i devoured junie b. jones in preschool and would read past my bedtime in my ikea flower wall lights. then in middle school, when i discovered ao3, i would read until midnight every night. it’s odd to say but i think it’s one of my best skills(?)

Trust by Hernan Diaz

You have such a brilliant way of processing things Kiera. It feels like watching someone peel back layers slowly with such delicate care. And that is truly the entire format of this book. A simple premise, exploring the dynamics of power and intimacy through the relationship of a financer and his wife in the 1920s, but the way it plays with style keeps you on your toes. You think you know how things play out only to see everything change and have you questioning what you thought you know.

The mystery and characters feel so alive, brought together by the different forms of media the book uses (a novel with a novel, memories, the character's half-written memoir, and another's journal) that it starts to feel like they're alive themselves. Every aspect of it is so detailed to the way your mind feels to me, and I think you would absolutely devour the way book plays with writing style to leave you unsure where to stand.

[peariote]

Hey Kiera!! How about ask question number 8! These are always so fun to see people’s answers.

- 👁️

well, i’m currently writing the sequel to death’s sweetheart if that counts!!

[peariote]

kieraaaaa!! for the ask game, number 2! who is a character who's POV you're currently exploring?

ooh… i don’t really write a lot of character!perspective works but i’ve been thinking about writing something from dragon!tashi’s perspective. but if we’re talking about my ao3 works i’ve been exploring elphaba thropp, (and these are just ideas swirling around) equestrian!caitlyn kiramman, and an au jackie taylor!!

[peariote]

kiera my love my wife my wonderful.... your turn for your preferred font question !!!

okay so i’m very basic… i just use the default arial 😭😭 idk i’ve never felt a drive to change it…

[peariote]

✍️ more fic writer asks!

reblog & your followers can send asks with the questions they’d like you to answer!

the last sentence you wrote

a character whose POV you’re currently exploring

how you feel about your current WIP

a story idea you haven’t written yet

first sentence of the fifth paragraph of an unpublished WIP

the word that appears the most in your current draft (wordcounter.net can tell you)

your preferred writing fonts

if you had to write a sequel to a fic, you’d write one for…

start to finish, how long did it take you to write the last fic you posted?

what is the longest amount of time you’ve let a draft rest before you finished it?

a WIP you’d like to finish someday

a trope you’re really into right now

a fandom you’re thinking about writing for

where do you get your inspiration?

favorite weather for writing

favorite place to write

talk about your writing and editing process

if you keep them, share a deleted sentence or paragraph from a published fic

the most interesting topic you’ve researched for a fic

in what year did you publish your first fic?

when did you publish your most recent fic?

do you ever worry about public reaction to what you’re writing? how do you get past that?

pick three keywords that describe your writing

how do you recharge when you’re not feeling creative?

besides writing, what are your other hobbies?

are you able to write with other people around?

your favorite part of the writing process

your least favorite part of the writing process

how easy is it for you to come up with titles?

share a fic you’re especially proud of