#I may end up taking a year off publishing any of my writing

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨

You’re awesome 🥰💞

Blood Was Its Avatar

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.

A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually. 

They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body. 

You pretended to be dead. 

Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky. 

You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.

“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.

Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.

As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.

“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly. 

“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands. 

Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it. 

You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead—your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.

Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.” 

“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up. 

A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening. 

Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.

“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”

You sarcastically put a hand to your chest. 

“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”

“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.  

“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort. 

A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.

“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.” 

You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.

“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.

“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character. 

On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it. 

But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.

Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up. 

You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood. 

“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?” 

The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull. 

Missions were rarely a failure. 

Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.” 

He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.

“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?” 

“None. Just us.” 

“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”

“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.

“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”

“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.” 

“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway. 

Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it. 

You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it. 

In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation. 

Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room. 

Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly. 

Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off. 

—

You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.

Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin. 

Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction. 

“No bullet fragments—lucky you.” 

Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue. 

The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in. 

Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.

It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight. 

Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends. 

Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore. 

Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”

“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him.  “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh. 

His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.

You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.

But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why. 

You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.

“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden. 

You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions. 

Mute to the fact that you’d liked them. 

Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.

“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too. 

Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue. 

“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch. 

Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.

Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined. 

But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you. 

Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like. 

His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse. 

This couldn’t continue. 

Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side. 

“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.” 

Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air. 

You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met. 

Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires. 

Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?” 

“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?” 

Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.

A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up. 

Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.” 

He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth. 

The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas. 

When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless. 

He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.

Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.

Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.

—

When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds. 

Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up. 

If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though. 

On the second week, it got easier. 

You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area. 

Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over. 

Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table. 

The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…

Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally. 

He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails. 

Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind. 

The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you. 

You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…

“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces. 

Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.

“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair. 

The room returns to strained silence. You huff.

“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.

The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse. 

All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up... 

Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring. 

“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!” 

His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.

You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp. 

“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor. 

Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.

The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers. 

You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated. 

“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug. 

“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly. 

You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.

Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air. 

“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure. 

“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.” 

Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly. 

“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward. 

Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game. 

After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.

You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching. 

“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet. 

Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.

The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.

He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table. 

You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.

“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.

“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?” 

“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.” 

A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”

Hard lips slam into yours.

Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.

Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you. 

He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss. 

Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.

His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.” 

Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it. 

As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking. 

There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”

Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second. 

“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant’s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.

Ghost had tattoos. 

When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”

You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat. 

The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages. 

Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out. 

“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.” 

“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?” 

Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room. 

You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out. 

Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently. 

“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.” 

He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation. 

“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.” 

Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back. 

Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat. 

He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.

“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney. 

Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly. 

Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.

“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful. 

Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand. 

Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing. 

“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.” 

Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair. 

“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back. 

Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine. 

“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts. 

Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high. 

Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river. 

Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask. 

There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare. 

The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it. 

Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh. 

Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge. 

“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already. 

Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk. 

“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…” 

Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be. 

“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.” 

Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip. 

“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able. 

Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.

“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”

Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second. 

Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table. 

His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion. 

“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?” 

He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer. 

Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix. 

You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob. 

“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.” 

The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality. 

“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don’t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”

Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.

“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer. 

“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.” 

His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own. 

Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies. 

Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep. 

“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”

Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.” 

Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though. 

His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect. 

As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt. 

“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you. 

Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back. 

“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw. 

Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms. 

Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile. 

He watches blankly.

“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.” 

“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting. 

“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial. 

“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.

“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action. 

Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot. 

You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.

“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad. 

“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you. 

The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute. 

“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.

“In the fucking meeting room?!”

TAGS:

@emerald-valkyrie , @anna-banana27 , @blueoorchid , @cryingnotcrying , @writeforfandoms , @homicidal-slvt , @jade-jax , @frazie99 , @elmoees , @littlemisstrouble , @alpineswinter , @phoenixhalliwell , @idocarealot , @lavalleon , @facelessmemories , @h-leigh, @20forty9 , @glitter-anon-asks , @emily-who-killed-a-man , @neelehksttr, @aeneanc , @escapefromrealitysm , @i-d-1-0-t , @pparcxysm , @hawkscanendme , @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney , @sanfransolomitatm , @maelstrom007 , @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet , @pheobees , @glitterypirateduck , @uselsshuman , @fan-of-encouragement , @halfmoth-halfman , @ghostlythunderbird , @I-inkage, @pukbadger , @kopatych11 , @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop , @knightofsexyness , @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons , @330bpm-whiplash , @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu , @tiredmetalenthusiast

[tkingfisher]

So I write all sorts of things (fiction, fanfic, screenplays) and my mind is cluttered garden of flowers and weeds and shiny ideas, and I'm wondering how to form a writing practice to clear it into tidy rows? Is it possible to shepherd untamed ideas into order?

How do you manage all your wonderful worlds, characters and inspiration and not feel haunted by the story bits and pieces in your head? Any practical tips beyond dark magic?

Thank you, you are such a constant inspiration for me, both prose and just your presence. <3

*laugh* Oh god, Nonny, if I ever find out, I’ll tell you! When you read books, you’re getting the Instagram-filtered view of a writer’s brain, all the flowers that grew out of the compost heap, carefully composed and shot in optimal lighting. The real inside of my skull is a magpie nest of Neat Shit I Read/Saw/Thought Up While Lying Awake At 2 AM. There are characters and ideas in there that I’ve been trying to get into a manuscript since I was twelve and typing on an Amiga 500.

But, that said…really, I think it’s okay. Creativity is inherently untidy. The compost heap can be corralled into a very pretty box made of sustainably harvested materials, hand-stained by traditional artisans being paid a living wage by an employee-owned company, but as soon as you lift the lid, it’s all worms and coffee grounds and old potting soil and cow shit and the vegetables you swore you were gonna eat this time before they went bad. That’s what compost is.

Nevertheless, having been in the business for…uh…fifteen years now? (@dduane is snickering at me, I can feel it) and having written nearly forty books, I can offer three bits of something less than advice. It’s what I do. It may not work for anyone else, but it’s what I do.

Un-Advice The First: If you get a shiny idea and you are super excited by it? Go ahead and chase it. Pull up a new page in Word or whatever and slap down a couple thousand words while it’s exciting. I know that this absolutely flies in the face of common wisdom, but quite frankly, my enthusiasm is a much rarer commodity than my time, so if I’m excited about something, I write it down until I’ve taken the edge off.

Then I usually save it into a big folder called “Fragments” and go back to work on whatever I’ve got a deadline on. (Usually. Sometimes the edge doesn’t wear off, and I wind up with another book. Which, y’know, darn.)

There are vast numbers of people who will tell you that a shiny idea is a sign that something is wrong with your current project and the solution is to knuckle down and work! through! it! And those people are probably right for them, and I trust they know how their own brains work. Me, though, I got ADHD like a bat has wings. My hard drive is a vast swamp of story beginnings, neat ideas, random scenes. And that’s okay because I still get books finished.

In fact, it’s better than okay. Not that long ago, my agent sent a novella to a publisher and they said “We’ll take that novella and three more novels. What’ve you got?” And I ended up plundering my hard drive and sending the editor a good dozen random beginnings until we found one that we both liked, and then I wrote the rest of that book. And then another one. If I hadn’t had all those fragments lying around, though, it would have been a miserable experience of writing book pitches and trying to think of stuff I could get excited about. (This may not be how some editors work, but it’s how my editor and I work, anyhow.)

Un-Advice The Second: Trust that everything will find a home eventually.

This one is easy to say and hard to do because sometimes you get that overload that if you’re writing the book about, say, werebear nuns, you aren’t writing the one about the alien crustaceans. Or worse, you feel guilty. If you don’t use that one cool thing, was all that time you spent on it wasted?

Breathe. Be easy. Every single cool thing does not need to go into a single book. There is no sell-by date on the neat character. You will probably write many books in your life and all those random characters will find a home. (Seriously, the werebear nuns were lurking for like a decade.)

For me, at least, when I find the spot where something fits, it often snaps into place like a Lego. Easton’s backstory as a soldier from a society where soldiers were a third sex had been kicking around in my head for a few years, derived from about three different sources, and then I wrote the opening to What Moves The Dead and all of a sudden Easton was there and alive and they had strong opinions about everything and I had ten thousand words practically before I turned around.

You can also stave off guilt by writing some of your ideas in as highly personal Easter Eggs. A couple of my books have references to a white deer woman, a heroic deed done by a saint and the ghost of a bird, and a woman with dozens of hummingbirds on tiny jeweled leashes. Those are all characters and stories I’ve had vague notions about, but haven’t managed to work in anywhere or learn much more about. Still, the passing reference is enough to make me feel like I haven’t abandoned them.

(The advantage to this is that once you DO write those in, the readers are all “oh my god, she foreshadowed this a decade ago, she must have planned this all out in advance!” Then you look really clever and well-organized and no one has to know that you have no idea what you’re doing.)

Un-Advice The Third: Write the kitchen sink book.

At one point, I had so many stray ideas that hadn’t gotten into a book yet—the tree of frogs, the dog-soldiers, the stained glass saint, the albatross and the shadow of the sun, and also I wanted to write something with Baba Yaga—that I hauled off and wrote a book where I just put in everything and the kitchen sink. It’s called Summer in Orcus. There are bits in there that I had been cooking in the mental compost heap for decades, but that weren’t enough on their own to sustain a whole book. The phrase “antelope women are not to be trusted” showed up in my head some time in college. It’s a fun little book and I’m proud of it, but it’s very much a patchwork quilt of weirdness. But it’s also written so that if later on, an antelope woman shows up in another book in another context, that just adds to their mythology, it doesn’t break canon or whatever.

(Pretty sure I’m not the only one who has done this, either. China Mieville has said that he wrote Perdido Street Station because what he really enjoyed was writing all the weird monsters.)

So yeah, that’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Some days I just tell all the fragments and ideas that I promise that I’ll get them a home eventually but I need to write this thing here now. Sometimes I throw down enough words to get the story stabilized and then I’m okay to move on. Sometimes I write multiple books simultaneously.

Any method you use to write the book, so long as it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else, is a perfectly valid method. If anyone tells you different, you send them to me.

(…god, I hope that was the question you were actually asking, Nonny, and that I didn’t go off on a completely different tangent when you just wanted to know how I keep track of a plot or something.)

[howtofightwrite]

Was reading through your torture tag and noticed a lot of stuff that was being said seemed to contradict things that were said on the scripttorture blog... do you have any suggestions on how to clear things up? Im not sure which things to trust

And you're asking us, because they've posted once in the last two years?

I'll admit, I have a fairly low opinion of them, and that's not directly their fault. For years, one of their fans, would regularly send some pretty incendiary asks our way. In fact, some of the less hostile ones were answered, and may be the posts you were looking at. Understandably, the ones simply accusing us of being torture apologists, demanding we redirect all our asks to their blog, or insisted that we should sit down and shut up, did not make the cut. With that in mind, please understand, I'm not going to go digging through their blog to refresh my memory, so some of this might be slightly skewed by the aforementioned deranged fan.

Look for the blog that does not constantly contradict or misrepresent their authoritative sources. Which is to say, if you actually pay attention to Shane O'Mara's work, it's basically what we've been saying all along.

If you're unfamiliar, O'Mara is a Neurologist who was (last I time I checked) working at Trinity College Dublin. He published a, frankly fascinating piece, called, Why Torture Doesn't Work, in which, he set about trying to answer why torture is an ineffective tool for intelligence gathering. O'Mara also had the misfortune of being the only expert who said anything close to the perspective Scripttorture wanted on torture.

An open secret about torture is that it is completely worthless for getting accurate information. This has been widely understood for centuries, if not millennia. O'Mara's question was, “why?”

It turns out, that the neurochemical trauma associated with torture, seriously interferes with your ability to accurately access information. For example: If you're being tortured, you can't tell your torturer where you planted the ticking bomb, because your brain literally can't access those memories.

Torture is evil. Yeah. No shit.

And, this is where ScriptTorture stops. “Torture is bad,” and Jack Bauer is an incredibly unrealistic fantasy, end of story.

Except, this is not the end of this.

Now, generally speaking, I don't blame anyone who wants to get off the ride here. Torture is an unpleasant subject, and wanting to stop at, “oh, it's evil,” is entirely reasonable... unless you want to write on the subject, or if you do political analysis and need to understand why people break out the torture implements.

More than that, this is where my academic background in political science actually comes into play. I'm not saying this as an Eagle Scout who had a couple overly enthusiastic hand to hand instructors when I was a kid. This is (part of) what I studied in college, and I have kept an eye on it since then.

If torture didn't work, you wouldn't see state-sponsored torture pop up repeatedly throughout history. It would not be one of the favorite tools of dictators and despots. However, because it does, and it is, simply saying, “it doesn't work,” isn't instructive or meaningful because it's clearly untrue. Someone is finding value in this, so it becomes important to understand what they are doing, and why they are doing it.

When you torture someone, the information they provide is basically madlibs of whatever leaked through their brain. They want the pain and stress to stop, and they'll say anything they can to make that happen. That often takes the form of what they think their torturer wants to hear. O'Mara's research does explain why they don't simply cough up the truth.

So, why do it?

Torture is a very labor intensive process. You (as an individual) can't, realistically, torture multiple victims at a time, and it is a very drawn out process. Some elements can be automated, your torturer doesn't need to be present at every moment, but they're going to spend hours, if not days, working on one victim. Worse, this is actually a technical profession. It's not like you can just pull in anyone off the street and get the results you want. (Though, technically, this doesn't seem to be as true, however, amateurs do have a shocking capacity to screw up torture. So, the point remains valid.)

The value of torture has almost nothing to do with the victim. It's about the message it sends to everyone else.

Torture is about mass coercion of the population. When you are the state (meaning, the government), and you torture someone, you are telling your citizens that you are willing to do the same to them, if they oppose you.

State-sponsored torture is specifically a tool to suppress political engagement. It is, quite literally, state-sponsored, domestic terrorism.

This even holds true in cases where the state employs torture to extract confessions from criminal suspects. The message sent into the general population is that dissent of any kind will not be tolerated, and that the state has the willingness and power to turn these tools on you if you draw their ire.

I get that this is outside of ScriptTorture's area of expertise, and in fairness, I probably would not have studied this with any intensity, if I hadn't taken multiple classes on revolutionary theory.

Torture from private organizations (which is to say, organized crime, and religious institutions, though cults and some other groups might fit this description as well), follows roughly similar patterns. These tend to do the same things, discouraging dissent, and establishing the organization as having power over the population (or community.) (The technical term would be to “establish capacity.” Which is to say, the organization's capacity to enforce its will. The same term applies to states, though in those cases, the state's capacity is often overestimated by its population. It's only when it starts to falter, for example through military defeats or serious civil unrest, that they really need the capacity boosting part of this equation.)

Zealotry or stupidity can create situations where you have a torturer (or, more likely, someone in a position of power ordering the torture) who believes that it is effectively compelling the truth from the victim. This (or amateurs) can easily lead into a distinct problem, which is that all of this has diminishing returns. Torture one person, and you send a loud, clear message. Torture ten, and all you've added to it is that you're willing to keep going. However, as you start stacking up the victims, you do start sending a new message to your enemies, that being, you're going to get to them sooner or later so it's in their best interest to respond now, mobilize and retaliate proactively, before you get to them. This means that a state which leans heavily on torture can easily instigate the civil unrest that exposes their limited capacity leading to a political death spiral. Alternately, if the state does have the capacity to put down the resulting unrest, it further reinforces their position (which does happen with depressing frequency in the real world.)

You're also going to create new enemies in the friends, family, and loved ones, of the people you tortured. This means that any organization that relies on extensive use of torture will, eventually, start tying a noose around its own neck. (Granted, there are a lot of social dynamics that I'm skimming over here, so it's not exactly as simple as “if the state tortures lots of people, it will result in increasing unrest.”)

If you want a partial citation for the above, you can (ironically) find it in a podcast interview with Shane O'Mara, when he explained why torture has been employed repeatedly through history. (Specifically I think it was episode 15 of Your Welcome, by Michael Malice. Though, I'm not 100% sure off hand.) Though that doesn't cover some of the more in depth elements I just discussed. Some of this is coming from a textbook on revolutionary theory I can't locate (it disappeared in a move a few years back.) Though that was more interested in the general structure of a state destabilizing into internecine conflict. Ironically, my preferred citation on torture, Fear up Harsh by Tony Lagouranis is mostly uninformative in this case, because his experiences were on the ground, rather than from a structural understanding of what his job was really doing. However, he does illustrate my comment about amateurs making even more of a mess, both through personal experiences with a few, and also through the eventual trajectory of the invasion and occupation of Iraq.

But of course, torture is evil... again, no shit. Was that really a question? And, I'm apparently a torture apologist for having a structural understanding of why evil people do evil things. Cool. Evil people don't do evil things because they're evil, they do them because they gain some tangible benefit from those acts, and they do not care about the consequences to anyone else. If you ask someone, “why do people do this?” and their answer is, “it's simple; they're evil,” that person is lying. They may be lying to themselves, but they are lying to you.

Why do people use torture? It's a lot more complicated, and unpleasant, than you'd expect at a simple overview.

-Starke

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[huramuna]

beware the sapphire peak - chapter 1.

aemond targaryen x wife reader x alys rivers a period piece, set in 1902.

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wordcount: 2.6k

you're a young, american lady who is an aspiring author. you are wooed by a mysterious and charming savant from england. swept off your feet, you're whisked away to his family's ancient estate, Dragonstone Hall. but with all stories, secrets are hiding around every corner, and your suitor is no different. a crimson peak inspired mini series. (this will likely be about 3 parts)

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings!

content: smut, angst, gaslighting, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, alys in her girlboss gatekeep gaslight era, no use of y/n, afab reader, pre-established alysmond, this isn't going where you think it is (it might be), infidelity-ish, polyamory

to death we dance - salem's heir • the flower duet - sabine devieilhe & marianne crebassa

“You were nearly late, miss,” one of the butlers murmured in your ear. “The music’s just started.” 

“There is a quote about being fashionably late, isn’t there?” you mused, taking his gloved hand as he helped you up the steps. 

It was a banquet for your father’s business, a celebration of having struck gold (oil) and turning a huge profit. Or, in your words, an excuse for the high and mighty to get plastered and dance the night away. Your fist clenched upon the train of your dress– a lovely evening gown in eggshell white, with hand embroidered lilacs and lavender petals on it, spindling up your bodice like a trellis. Your usually somewhat unruly hair was tamed into a braided and pinned up-do, with an expensive broach poked into the bun of hair in the shape of a falling wisteria branch. 

Your father was the first to greet you, peeling away from the gaggle of portly oil barons. He kissed your cheek. “You look lovely tonight, my dear. A vision in purple, I must say.”

You smiled back at him. “Yes, well, you all but wringed my arm to get me to attend– and you shall hold up your end of the bargain… right?” you hummed softly, batting your eyelashes. 

He let out a small sigh, nodding. “I will send your manuscript to the publisher– the editor in chief is here tonight, if you’d care to mingle. Amongst… many other eligible bachelors, I might add.” 

Your father had spent the better part of the last three years gently trying to pair you up with a suitor for marriage. He was a patient man, as he had droned on about so many times before, but his patience was waning. You were twenty-one years old, and apparently, that was a ghastly sight– to be twenty-one and unmarried with no promising prospects. 

Of course, you couldn’t care less. You were more focused on finishing your manuscript in that time– you had a knack for writing and reveled in works of fiction that tended to lean to the darker sides of things. It had finally reached a point you were somewhat happy with, and had convinced your father to chat up his well connected colleagues so you may be able to send the first draft to a publisher.

The price for that, however, was to entertain suitors. At a gala. Dressed and primped like a Thanksgiving turkey. It was all so dreary to you– the ladies stared at you and whispered, citing you as the dreary one. 

Breaking away from your father with a tiny smile, you began to mingle– as well as you could, anyhow. You were awkward and a bit sheltered and it showed. However, once you said who your father was, dollar signs would flash in the eyes of the men you were speaking with, and they would push forward in the conversation. You weren’t ugly by any means and could become a good wife to some young entrepreneur– but you didn’t want that.

You were about fed up with it all three hours later, your nails clinking against the glass of champagne you were nursing for the better part of thirty minutes. Your look of slight annoyance managed to stave off any other wanton suitors– until another man approached you. You had exchanged some glances with him during the night, but you didn’t recognize him. He was tall, exceedingly taller than any of the other men there. His blonde hair, so pale it was almost white in hue, was cinched at the nape of his neck in a clean ponytail, falling between his shoulder blades. He was in a custom-fitted three piece black and green suit– you could tell from how perfectly it was hugging him, in all the right places.

A familiar heat came to your cheeks as you watched him saunter over to you with an intent in his pale blue eyes– eye? One of them, you noted as he came closer, was slightly off-color from the other and moved a bit slower. Likely fake, you thought. The light casted over the planes of his face, chiseled as it was, illuminating the slightly raised, puckered skin near the fake eye in a distinctual scar. He looked just like the perfect inspiration for a protagonist in one of your novels– or mayhaps an antagonist. He seemed to skim the line between the two in appearance alone.

Curious.

“My lady,” he greeted as he finally broke the air of silence between you, his arms placed behind him in a very calculated manner. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” he asked then, a brow perked. His accent wasn’t American– that you knew for certain– likely something European. 

“As much as I can, sir,” you responded coolly, despite being caught slightly off guard by his sudden and overwhelming presence– a dark cloud in a perfectly tailored suit. “I hope that the…” you cleared your throat, trying to sound a little more confident than you likely were. “The… event is to your liking.” you mustered a smile, diverting your gaze to your champagne, hoping there may be the secrets to being a good conversationalist somewhere within the bubbles.

He chuckled, the sound low and husky. It caused a shiver to go up your spine. “The event is well and fine, my lady. Are you… the proprietor of the gala tonight? I wouldn’t expect a beautiful thing such as yourself to plan something like this.”

You glanced up at him beneath fettered lashes. He was complimenting you and insulting the party at the same time. “No– I am not. I’d never choose such… dreary musicians for an event like this. They’re playing for a wake rather than a party– that would be my father’s doing.” you slipped it into the conversation, that this was your father’s party, trying to gauge if this handsome stranger was after what all of the others were.

Surprisingly, his expression, smooth and cool with the barest hint of a smile perking at his naturally upturned lips, didn’t change. “Dreary,” he repeated, “Melancholic, gloomy, monotonous, vapid– all good words to describe the state of affairs.”

“You have quite the expansive vocabulary, Mister…” your voice trailed off, an inadvertent way to ask for his name.

“Targaryen– Aemond Targaryen. And you?” he reached his hand out to shake yours – how incredibly formal– as you returned your own name with a wide-eyed stare.

“Targaryen. As in… the ancient bloodline? Descended from dragons, close to royalty, Dragonstone estate Targaryen?” you asked, mouth slightly agape. From what you knew of them, they were as close to the height of English royalty, real royalty, as there was in the current year, 1902. Their wealth alone, minus all of the titles, made your father’s look like a pissant trust fund. 

“The very same. You’re familiar with my family?”

“Ehm– familiar, more so I’ve heard of you all. Your family’s name comes up quite often in my father’s social circles. And I am quite nosy.”

“And what do you think?”

“About… your family? Mr. Targaryen–” 

“Call me Aemond.”

“Aemond– I don’t really know much besides the height of your prestige– and your family’s estate, Dragonstone. My father brought me back some photographs of it from his trips over the pond. It’s quite beautiful.”

“Your father brought you pictures of our home?”

“N-not just yours! I collect photographs of old estates, mostly ones from Europe. I like to use them for inspiration for my… stories. I’m a writer– a novice, mostly.”

“A writer? Have you published anything I might know?” 

“Oh, God no–” you laughed, covering your face slightly with your hand. “I’ve not yet been published. I actually sent my manuscript to… or will be sending one to a publisher soon. Hopefully.”

“What do you like to write?” he asked then, leaning a bit closer to you as if he was actually enjoying conversing with you. “Romance? Children’s fables?” he teased softly, his one eye gleaming. He was quite handsome, you thought.

“I like horror– mysteries, gothic fiction. I’m quite enamored with the… macabre and weird,” you admit. “I hope that doesn’t frighten you.” 

Aemond grinned, his teeth shining, canines pronounced against his thin lips. “Oh, yes, it does frighten me. But, all good horror stories should frighten their readers, yes? I expect you’re a fan of Vampyre? Perhaps Dracula?” 

“Both are good. My favorite, however, is Frankenstein. Mary Shelley is a genius. The Castle of Otranto is also wonderful and the pioneer of the genre. I remember trying to read it when I was younger and being scared of the dark hallways at night. Later on in life, those dark hallways enthused me enough to write about them– hence my… fascination with old houses.”

“Old homes certainly do have their fair share of secrets, don’t they?” he paused, straightening his lapel slightly before leaning back in towards you. “And do you believe what they say? That Mary’s husband wrote it and published it under her name?”

Your brows knit together in slight irritation. “Of course not. Why would he need to do such a thing? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but men already have enough advantages as is– publishing under a woman’s name instead might be considered a disadvantage.”

“Will you be publishing under your own name?” 

You blinked, taking a sip from your champagne. It was something you considered and went back and forth upon. “I haven’t decided. I have a pseudonym ready just in case.”

“Do tell– so I know what name to look for on the shelves within a year.” 

God, was he ever charming– and without even trying, really. He was well-spoken with a voice that was soft and almost whispery. It made butterflies bubble in the pit of your stomach– now that was a feeling you weren’t familiar with. “Dorian Gray.”

“Cheeky woman.” he mused. “Fancy a dance, Miss Gray?”

“... I suppose I could be swayed.”

–

Your dance together, to say the least, was a success– it started month’s worth of courting after. Aemond took you on the most splendid nights out, wining and dining you like you were a gorgeous, interesting debutante. It was exhilarating to say the least and made you feel… truly wanted– especially since his family was exceedingly wealthy, your father’s wealth couldn’t have attracted him. 

He took you to the theater, out to wondrous restaurants, and bought you various gifts like jewelry, writing supplies and outfits to wear when you went out.

It all felt very much like a dream to you– something beyond your usual, weary routine that had hardly ever changed since your mother died when you were eight years old. You’d recused into yourself then, the dark hallways that scared you so fiercely just before her death now seemed welcoming. You thrived in the dark, like a moth. 

But now, you felt something more akin to a butterfly, bathing in the sun’s light. 

It wasn’t a great surprise when Aemond asked your father for his blessing to marry you. Your father, who had harped you for years to get married, was suddenly apprehensive. 

He pulled you aside, arm around you. “Do you like this boy, dear?”

“Y-yes, father– very much so.”

“I’ll be honest, sweetheart. I’m not exactly keen on letting my only daughter go off with… some man–” 

“He isn’t just some man, father! He’s a Targ–” 

“Don’t interrupt,” he chastised firmly. “I’ve had my people look into his family further– it’s a whole mess, issues with succession, backstabbing, incest, the whole nine yards,” he took a measured breath. “But I’ve heard nothing but good things about… Aemond. But… you’d be so far away. You’d be off living in the annals of England, a whole boat’s ride away.”

“This is what you wanted, father! For me to marry, for me to be happy! This is the happiest I’ve been in… so long. You must see that?”

The creases in your father’s forehead relaxed as he regarded you for a long moment, before turning to Aemond, who was waiting patiently off to the side. He let go of your shoulder and walked to your beau, staring at him sternly. “Will you treat her right? Give her everything she deserves and more?”

Aemond perked up slightly, rubbing the side of his forefinger with his thumb in a seemingly nervous gesture. “Of course, sir. I’ll give her everything I have and more. She will be regarded as a Lady– the Lady Targaryen of Dragonstone Hall, and she wouldn’t be treated with any less respect than a Lady deserves.”

Your father’s gaze narrowed, taking it all into careful thought. “... very well. You have my blessing, son. But, one whiff of even a tear from her eye on your account, and your nads are forfeit. I may not be as well-off as your family, but I’ve got a lot of friends in a lot of places.”

– 

The marriage was a quick affair, as your father, and now Aemond, knew you had no patience for pomp and frills. Aemond gave you a beautiful ring with an absolutely gigantic sapphire inlaid in the center, citing it as a family heirloom from centuries past. Your father saw you off onto the boat, bawling his eyes out. You’d never seen your father cry– not once. 

As husband and wife, you both agreed to wait to celebrate your wedding night until you arrived in England at his family’s estate to your marital bed.

The trip overall was a little under a week’s time upon a luxurious liner, where you both enjoyed champagne and each other’s company. You craved your husband, and he craved you in the same, but you each wished to keep your agreement intact. But it was increasingly hard, as you held one another close each night and his need for you was clearly pressed to your lower back.

Dragonstone Hall was a few hours' carriage ride north of the port and was nestled upon a high-ridged cliff. It was as gorgeous as the pictures had depicted, even moreso. It was ancient, imposing against the skyline and mingling to the clouds, where sea birds and ravens alike swirled above the towering watch towers that were supported by stone walls with vines grasping to them like lifelines. 

It was gorgeous, gothic and most definitely haunted– a perfect place for a woman of horror such as yourself. 

Aemond helped you out of the carriage, a hand placed upon your waist as he guided you beyond the gates. Your eyes were wide with wonder, taking in the scenery like a breath of fresh air. Tears threatened to spill over suddenly, as you were just overwhelmed with everything going on. You were married to someone you loved, who loved you– and were the Lady Targaryen of Dragonstone Hall. 

“Something wrong, my love?” Aemond whispered into your ear, his lips tickling your lobe.

“N-no– I’m just… very happy.”

He wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb, clearing your vision. You glanced up at one of the windows on the third story of the castle. Someone was staring back at you.

A lady. Her hair was red, her skin almost translucent. 

You must’ve been imagining it, surely. Looking to another window, another visage appeared.

Another– this time with dirty blonde hair, her blue eyes ghastly and bloodshot. She was practically see through. 

You pressed closer to Aemond, blinking profusely– it must’ve been the exhaustion from the nights on the boat catching up to you. Once you rubbed your eyes, you looked back; the figures were gone. 

As you approached the main door of the estate, another face caught your eye. 

Another woman– with dark hair and sullen, emerald eyes. They pierced through you like two heavy jewels, making goosebumps prickle atop your arms. She wasn’t ghastly or undeathly like the other two, and when you rubbed your eyes, she was still there.

She was still there, very much a living person in the flesh, with flowing blood and a beating heart. And she was beautiful.

[catt-nuevenor]

The Future

Time to establish what's going to happen from this point forwards.

The vast majority of you have been exceptionally patient this last year, and for that you have my deepest thanks. You've given me the time to not only write a book, but edit it, and send it off to literary agents, something I would have long given up on doing without the continued support of those who enjoy my writing.

Now that the book is off doing the rounds independently, it's time I got back to Myrk Mire.

Originally Myrk Mire was built in ChoiceScript, a scripting language created by the Choice of Games company. Choice of Games control what is done with their script, understandably, they own it. This does pose some restrictions. I can't, for example, release any paid material built using ChoiceScript unless it is directly through their publishing label. If I do publish under their label, I maintain IP or Intellectual Property Rights, however I also grant them the exclusive rights under perpetual license to publish the multiple choice game 'electronically'.

Source: Choice of Games.com

As you can see from the outline above, they do make exceptions for stories published in non-competing formats, and for sequels, prequels, and spin-offs. However, traditional publishing houses might require stricter control over IP, distribution, and exclusivity. It will only become more and more complicated as things progress, and being locked into a perpetual license agreement of any nature is not a decision to make lightly.

As some of you may be sensing from the tone of all this so far, I'm going to be moving Myrk Mire away from Choice of Games and ChoiceScript, and into a new medium/format.

After tinkering, and trialling with a few alternatives, I've decided to go with Renpy. Renpy, while largely used for visual novel style games and stories, provides a very workable framework for interactive fiction, and is an Open Source script, it isn't beholden to publishing contracts, licence cost, or exclusivity.

I'm not going to be diving into transferring Myrk Mire right away, it's a huge piece of writing, in an entirely different scripting language, and as previously stated, there are a lot of changes I want to implement with the cast. Instead, I'm creating a trial story: One Háḟest Day. My Patrons have been aware of all this for about a month or so, and have already seen some previews.

One Háḟest Day takes place in Aldmirham before the events of Myrk Mire, around the time the Main Character and the Wanderers first arrived in town. The reader will have the choice to follow one of the romanceable characters through a single day, with opportunities to explore their lives and relationships before the Main Character and Child come along. I hope it will provide a proving ground for the changes that previously caused debate, and an opportunity for people to try out the new format and interface.

My plan is to distribute One Háḟest Day through Itch.io, working with their early access framework and voluntary payments for such as soon as one of the character routes is ready to play from beginning to end, updating regularly with the other characters as they too are completed, and with additional features as required. Once the full game is complete, I will release a separate full build with a set minimum price that can be discussed with the community as we move forwards.

At the second, I'm aiming for a web hosted format and a desktop/laptop downloadable format, with phone compatibility to come later down the line once things are stable.

I will post production updates and info when I can to tumblr, though a lot of what I'm doing now is very python coding heavy, so perhaps not that interesting?

I've included some screenshots below of very early development, featuring a Character Log and Word Log that I hope will allow readers to more easily navigate the story. I'm toying with the idea of having a Mysteries Log as well that will keep track of snippets of information gleaned from each character's route, but that can be a tinkering feature for now.

Let me know your thoughts, concerns, or excitement, though do keep all messages objective and polite.

[doumadono]

Step into the sin bin! Sinful Sunday is a unique writing extravaganza on this blog, where I explore your every idea and curiosity about your beloved characters. Got a headcanon burning to be shared? Craving to explore a particular kink? Look no further, you're in the right spot! Send me an ask, and in return, you'll receive either a little blurb or set of headcanons! Share your thoughts anytime you fancy. Saturday morning is when the floodgates open, and the posts will come pouring in! 😉🔥

GENERAL RULES

for Sinful Sunday participation, kindly ensure you're 18 or older. Your safety matters, and I'll tag my content accordingly. Please respect this request and do your part

feel free to send your asks, thoughts, imaginations, or requests either anon or not

you're also welcome to share your own headcanons or imagines for the character of your choice! I'm eager to engage in conversations about them with you 😊

Sinful Sunday will last all through Sunday and will end Sunday night at midnight, 23:59 CET

any additional Sinful Sunday requests I receive afterward will be either reserved for the next Sunday or considered for a future request, depending on my current mood and availability

Sinful Sunday-specific tag for all asks, blurbs, and headcanons will be: #doumadonos sinful sunday 🔥

Sinful Sunday kicks off on the upcoming Sunday, September 10th!

SINFUL SUNDAY UPDATE AS OF 3/12/23

Firstly, on the Sundays of December 24th and 31st, I won't be posting anything for Sinful Sunday. Given that it's the Christmas season and I'll be with my family, I've decided that the last Sinful Sunday of the year 2023 will be on Sunday, the 17th.

Due to the high volume of requests every Sunday, it's become physically challenging to complete all of them in a single day. To address this, I'm implementing a new rule – I'll be posting approximately 5 pieces for every Sinful Sunday. Any requests remaining in my inbox will be automatically scheduled for the following weekend.

I'll be adjusting the priority for Sinful Sunday requests, giving top priority to those that come in off-anon. While anonymous questions are still welcomed, I'll be initially focusing on non-anonymous requests.

I'm aware many of you enjoy the Hantengu Clones, but I kindly request not to ask for similar scenarios with different clones once a scenario has already been published with one of them.

I'm open to delving into darker content, so feel free to share your more intense thoughts/thirsts with me without hesitation! 🔥

SINFUL SUNDAY UPDATE AS OF 31/12/23

In light of the recent poll results, I'm thrilled to share that Sinful Sunday is set to unfold bi-monthly, taking place every two weeks, starting January 14th, 2024

Any requests submitted from now on will be posted on the specified day (in the event of a substantial number of requests, they will be posted based on the order of reception in my inbox. Just a gentle reminder: I'm featuring only 4-5 pieces each Sunday!)

SINFUL SUNDAY UPDATE AS OF 15/02/24

As I'm heading to Japan on March 1st, there will be some changes to Sinful Sunday.

the upcoming Sinful Sunday by the end of February will be the last one before my Japan trip. Sinful Sunday will resume on April 27th, and I'll remind you about it in a post

SINFUL SUNDAY UPDATE AS OF 23/04/24 - TOTAL CHANGE IN FORMAT

due to the large number of 5k celebration requests, Sinful Sunday will be postponed to May 11th

I've decided to change things up for this recurring event. Since Sinful Sunday happens every two weeks, in the first week - I'll collect your requests. Then, a week before the event - I'll post a poll with all the submitted requests, so you can vote for your favourites. I think this will be the healthiest approach, especially since the last few Sinful Sundays have been overwhelming due to the influx of requests in a single day

the two works with the most votes will be posted every Sinful Sunday

all unused requests will either be deleted or saved for separate stories (only if I really like specific requests)

repeated or similar requests to stories I've already posted will be deleted

you can submit requests for Sunful Sunday starting now, and the first poll will be posted on May 4th

fandoms I write for: My Hero Academia, Demon Slayer, Honkai Star Rail, Genshin Impact, Jujutsu Kaisen, Wind Breaker, Bucchigiri!?, Obey Me, Haikyuu

[writingquestionsanswered]

hii ! even though i write fanfics and don't plan to stop, i would like to write a book one day. now i know the writing style differs from professional published books, but i don't really read much or know how to tell what makes a book good, so i was wondering if you could recommend books to read with prose, pacing, etc that as a writer you find would help "defanficise" me? maybe any book would work and this is a stupid question but i thought i'd ask😅

Fan-Fiction Writer Transitioning to Original Fiction

So, some quick things to start off...

Merriam-Webster defines novels--what you're referring to as "professional published books"--as "invented prose narrative that is usually long and complex and deals especially with human experience through a usually connected sequence of events."

The only real difference between fan-fiction and novels is that the subject matter is borrowed partly or fully from existing narrative material (aka "canon"), but when you write fan-fiction, you're still using prose narrative that (typically) deals with human experience through a connected sequence of events.

My point is, if you write fan-fiction, you already have most of the skills you'll need to write original fiction, including novels. It just takes some time and practice to learn how to invent your own characters, worlds, and plots.

As far as what books to read, every reader has their own preferences for the kinds of stories that interest them. It's very difficult to recommend books to a total stranger because just because I like a book doesn't mean you will. But what I can tell you is all novels contain "prose, pacing, etc." so you can go to the library and choose literally any novel that sounds appealing to you, and you're off to a good start.

In other words, read the books that sound interesting to you. Try books in a variety of genres by a variety of authors. See what genres you're drawn to the most... that may be a genre you'll end up writing in. If you have a genre interest now because of the fan-fiction you enjoy writing, try Googling "best [genre] books" only where it says "genre" put in the genre in question. Like "best sci-fi novels" or "best fantasy novels." That will help you find lists of book titles and summaries to read through so you can start to put together a "to be read" list.

Have fun with your reading and writing adventure!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[kaylasficrecs]

swans dancing by the tides | nikolai lantsov

you were supposed to be royal acquaintances, helping each other learn other nations better, but maybe you ended up just being kids who didn’t care for each other at all, at first...

au where none of the darkling stuff happened. grisha may still exist but are not important to this story. this is kind of a mix between book and show nikolai, so just bear with me. 

note: sorry the request took so long to write, but i’ll be honest, i don’t typically write fics, i recommend them. so here is my first ever published writing on tumblr! i ended up taking some liberties with the storyline, but i was inspired by the request because it reminded me so much of the swan princess. so i hope you enjoy!

tw: talks of violence and death

wc: 4.8k

Age 21

Nikolai Lantsov really should have seen it coming. 

For wasn’t it the classic trope of pulling a girl’s ponytail on the playground to get her to chase you? To get her attention, only on you? Playing small tricks to see you. 

At 21, you seemed to be as beautiful as ever. Not that you were never beautiful, but you had finally found a place in court, settled into your personality. Your kindness and stubbornness oppose each other wonderfully. Being social enough to appease your father, but sipping your drink in different corners for most of the night. You had settled into yourself, and Nikolai hated that he let you get away. 

Age 5

Nikolai was too young to know that he met his future love when he was young. All he remembers from that summer was loving the sea, tasting the salt on his tongue, and wanting to order the crew to just keep sailing, and keep his young dreams true. Little kids don’t remember first glances, side-eyes, and names. Just the moments he spent on the Wandering Isle happily rolling around in a war-free zone with a young girl. Y/h/c hair blowing in the breeze. And your laugh, that is one thing Nikolai can never get out of his mind, memorized it that summer. Oh, how it would be the most annoying sound for years to come. 

Age 11

You had never understood why your father needed to show you the different countries around the True Sea. Sure you loved being out on the ocean (even though the thought of drowning terrified you); you recognized that it brought you closer to your dead mother, and realized that your father felt the same. But you would have been perfectly content still in your little country house during the summer months away from the castle on the Wandering Isle. The coastal home that you yearned for was now sitting in dust, sailing to leave it behind to spend two months in some stuffy castle with people you don’t know, just to keep royal alliances tight. 

You supposed you remembered the young, blond-haired prince from once upon a time. At least you were supposed to remember, but something needed to be more familiar about the royal. Except maybe his eyes, you could briefly remember the coloring clashing against green hills and blue skies. They had shown a golden brown that day. You spoke no words, only polite greetings when getting off the carriage. You didn’t want to be here, you wanted to be back home, or at least out on the sea. You were primarily shy to your hosts, wanting to slink away to the guest room for a little bit before exploring, hoping to find the library you’ve heard so much about, then in turn, a good reading spot, away from any prying eyes. 

As it turned out, the library was right down the hall from your room. So, your wish had come true, sneaking off to the library every night was going to be a piece of cake. Settling down in a chair near a light in there, you eventually heard two voices after a while of reading. 

“You sure we should be doing this?”

“Come on! She’s here for a little while, she should know what she’s getting into just by being here.” 

You peeked around the big wooden door to see two heads of short-cut hair outside a bedroom door. Your bedroom door. It was too dimly lit for you to see what they were doing properly, but you would rather not find out later. 

“Would you mind telling me why I happen to be getting myself into something?” you said at the two boys. 

They froze before turning around. One happened to be your gracious host, Prince Nikolai, the other was unfamiliar. “Well, we just thought that we should be the ones to initiate you into Ravkan customs, seeing as you’ll be here for a while,” the blond said. 

“Ravkan customs? That happens at 1:00 in the morning?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Yep.” 

“Well, seeing as I’m not even in my room and caught you two, you could just tell me so I’m not surprised when I wake up.”

“Oh no. You’re going to want to experience this one. It’s only for royalty so we must continue,” Nikolai decided to up the ante, he needed to prank her now so he wasn’t forced to hang out with her for two months. He already has to deal with Vasily, he didn’t need another snitch, and this one will shut her right up. 

“Well, I guess that’s okay, could I please get to my bed though? And please don’t make too much noise. This is an adjoining room with my father’s.” 

“Of course! Goodnight, princess.” 

And of course, getting glue all over your face in the morning was just the first prank of many. All summer you tolerated Nikolai and Dominik’s pranks, never being able to quite outsmart them. Those mischievous eyes would haunt you for the year. Until you would see them every summer. 

Age 15

Nikolai had been waiting to be out on the sea. Everything back at the Grand Palace was shit and he needed to get away. Even if that meant sailing to where you were. You had been in Ravka every summer now, for around two months each time. The first two were spent trying to get along with Nikolai and Dominik, yearning for any kind of friendship. Then, for the last two years, you had gone on ignoring them. Rather, you spent time walking around gardens, trying to help out the less privileged in Os Alta, and reading. Most of the time when Nikolai saw you last year, your head was stuck in a book. He was not looking forward to just being ignored by you, in a foreign place no less. 

When he got to the Wandering Isle, he did not expect to be greeted by you. Undoubtedly the king at the very least, but no, it was just you. 

“y/n?” Nikolai said. “What? No royal greeting and red carpet to greet me?” 

“Let’s just get this over with,” y/n stated, walking briskly toward the carriage. Nikolai frowned, did you really not care for him in the slightest? 

You pointed out different landmarks and special shops from the window, giving waves to those who caught that their princess was in the vehicle. Once you got to the palace, you left some maids to show him to his rooms. And that was the most he heard from you for a lot of the trip. Of course, you made polite conversation at breakfast and dinner when he saw you and your father, but that was all. He would take trips to the coast alone, exploring the island. Though he knew you weren’t necessarily a friend, he was hoping to at least spend time with you. Not just going out to the ocean alone, or chatting to the king about royal policies and whatnot. 

Eventually, he found your secret hiding place on a beach close to the castle with only two weeks left in his trip. You were so immersed in reading, that you didn’t notice him walking up. Nikolai took some time to observe you a little. He hadn’t taken note of how much you had grown, seeming to look less like the little girl that he would prank, and more like… 

Well more like something.

“What the hell are you doing here?” y/n had finally noticed the crown prince standing. 

“Didn’t know princesses were capable of that language.”

Y/n signed, “Look. I’ve left you to your own devices all summer, could you please leave me alone to mine? I’ve stayed out of your way so I wouldn’t bother you, and you wouldn’t bother m-”

“Wait. You think you bother me?”

“Isn’t that why you and Dominik used to prank me all the time?”

“Well… a bit, but no! Of course not! You were just an easy target and I was more immature back then.”

“Wow, Nikolai.” He took note of the way she said his name, for the first time ever if he recalled correctly. “An easy target. Okay, well then. Let’s just call this a bit of a truce and you can leave me here to read to make up for it.” Y/n turned back to her book, seemingly done with him. 

“Don’t you want to get to know each other better? Can’t you see where this is leading?” Nikolai was a little exasperated at this point. He had never really liked her, but something was going to happen between them, forced together or not, he would like to know something about the y/h/c girl. Besides, his name sounded nice rolling off her tongue…

“I try not to overthink about that.” She was speechless for a time, trying to come up with an excuse to continue to ignore one another. She finally said, “There are plenty of royal couples you don’t speak to each other while together. I’m sure you and I could manage that.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes, he suddenly remembered why he disliked her so much, those eyes transfixed on him. He bowed to her, “If that is what you wish, your highness,” and strolled off back to the palace to find something to slash with a blade. 

But he came back the next day, to find her sitting in the same spot, reading a different book this time. 

“Wh-”

“Ah, ah, ah. I am here to read by the beach and enjoy the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.” Y/n looked at him aghast. She tried to protest him again, but he just shushed her. Actually shushed her! Y/n didn’t want to deal with the pain an argument would cause, so she just read. 

This carried on for a few days, Nikolai coming and sitting with y/n to read in the afternoon until they would both have to attend dinner with the king. On day five of their reading escapades, y/n asked what he was reading, having never seen that book before. 

“Well, it’s a tale of danger and romance and handsome men like me.”

Y/n couldn’t help but let out a little giggle before asking, “Where did you even find that?” 

“I asked the bookkeeper down in town about the books you liked.” 

She looked at him a bit funny, wondering how he would ever think to go about that; reading a book just for attention must be the poly at foot. But it worked because she suddenly recognized the title and knew it had been one of her favorites. 

They talked through dinner that night about the novel, giving her over-protective father a bit of a fright, but easing his worry when he noticed his daughter had come back with Prince Nikolai. This kept going for the remainder of Nikolai’s stay, reading and talking, eventually more than just books were talked about. He now knows your favorite foods, novels, places, and more. 

Like how he arrived, you were the only one to escort him back to his ship. This time, you took your time walking through the village. Just chatting occasionally, but you both mostly just enjoyed the comfortable silence, trying to soak up each other's presence. 

“You know I still hate you right?” Y/n finally spoke as they reached the docks. 

“Of course princess, I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Nikolai said with a sly smile. 

“But you promise to write though?” Looking back, that’s when Nikolai knew he was done for. Y/n looked at him with her beautiful eyes, reflecting a bit of the sea in the orbs. “About books that you’ve read that you recommend for me okay.” 

More sincerely, less with that teasing voice of his, “Yes. Of course princess.” 

Age 17

Y/n was too stubborn to say that she was excited to see Nikolai again. Because she didn’t even really like him. Right? 

You had kept writing letters back and forth for the better part of more than a year. You hadn’t gotten any back recently, so you were excited to see him. Maybe? 

To be fair, mostly you were going to make sure he was okay after doing his military service. You knew he had lost Dominik during that time, and you just wanted to hug him. Strangely enough? A hug? You must be losing your mind, but you couldn’t help your breathing from stuttering when you saw the cost of Ravka. 

You were supposed to wait for a ride from the Prince himself in Os Kervo, but he didn’t show. You had been waiting in a cafe for hours, not far from the docks when it finally reached nightfall. You and your guards had to book lodgings for the night, you would worry about Nikolai tomorrow. 

Well, he ended up never coming and word from the Grand Palace just said that he was out, seemingly not knowing where their own son was. As you turned back to go home, you sent out wishes of good health and safety to wherever Nikolai was. 

Age 18

Nikolai had found peace at sea. Finally finding himself in waves of blue and green, chasing adventure. 

He found where he belonged. A bastard prince at sea, not in a land where he felt unwelcome. 

When his face was changed by Tolya the first time, he let himself forget the ‘prince life’ for a little while. Helping fight the dangerous and untamed pirates on a ship of his own. He loved the feeling of salt on his tongue and a swaying ship beneath his boots. Never once trying to think about how the ocean would reflect in your eyes. 

Age 21

You could finally see why your father sailed with you when you were young. Though it helped to meet other dignitaries and make sure people still knew that the Wandering Isle was still a power in this world surrounding the sea. And of course, he told everyone his daughter wanted to see the world, setting out into the blue for the sake of you. 

Now, you could see that he just wanted to get away. Yes, spend time with you. But there was something about being on a boat, away from the responsibility and regulations of being a ruler of a country.

Especially when you were doing it all alone. 

You took the longest breath you’ve been allowed since your father died. Let yourself take a moment just for you, opening your mind. The wind and fresh air brought a smile to your face. Though, you were sailing towards a place you were dreading. 

You were back in the Grand Place for the first time in years, though it felt lifetimes away from you. Queen Y/n was invited this time as an official guest, part of an assembly at the palace for who knows what. 

You didn’t like thinking about Ravka. You had sent a few letters to Nikolai after you had gone back to the Wandering Isle at the age of 18, but when he didn’t reply to the last three, you never bothered sending a fourth. You had kept busy though, both on purpose and not. Your father’s death had been a bit of a shock last year and you were thrust into the role of leading a nation.

But you tried your hardest to handle it with grace. Most things had gone well, you had kept your country steady while making hard decisions and balancing all the misogyny with being a queen ruling alone. The only side-effect had been a few panic attacks here and there, but otherwise, you were okay. Doing really well in fact, at least that's what you told everyone at the gathering.

Your gown was modest and blue with some cream-colored accents; not trying to attract any unwanted attention but still trying to represent your country. You mostly kept to yourself throughout the festivities with a drink in your hand. You quickly assessed that this was mostly a social event, a secret meeting between royals and diplomats, you still weren’t quite sure why you had even been invited. 

That was until you caught a pair of hazel eyes that haunt you when you think about the seaside reading spot, grassy hills, and curving letters. 

Nikolai stared at you for what felt like minutes, though it was a quick few seconds till you dashed out of the room. The Prince tried to follow but was swept up by others. 

You couldn’t quite believe that he was back. Alive and well from the looks of it. And of course, at that moment you remembered what day it was, his 22nd birthday. 

In all of the chaos of leading a country, you forgot that it had been fast approaching. When you received the invite for the party, you listened to one of your advisors when they said that it would be good for you to make connections. So you left. Mainly you just needed to be out on the ocean once again, feeling your mother’s voice whisper to you in the winds off the waves. 

Now, as you stood outside the Grand Palace, you were begging your body not to break down. It was all too much between the travel, social interaction, and seeing Nikolai for the first time in six years. With the ringing in your ears and your breathing not being able to go back to a regular pace, you never heard his boots coming up right behind you. 

“Y/n?” Nikolai called as he saw you standing in the middle of the courtyard. “Look, I’m sorry I wa- are you alright?”

You could briefly hear someone in the background, and as you prayed that it wasn’t him, you started to hyperventilate even faster. 

Nikolai rushed over to you the minute he heard your breathing pick up again. This time standing in front of you he asked, “Y/n, darling, are you okay?” 

Your vision was starting to go spotty, and you could briefly hear the person in front of you ask if you were okay, so you shook your head. 

“Okay, okay. It’s alright sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay,” Nikolai wrapped his arms around your shaking frame. 

When he hugged you, you initially started to cry harder, you couldn’t deal with him. But the longer he just held you outside in the cool air of Os Alta at night, the more you felt a sense of peace. You must have stayed in his hold for 20 minutes while he was rocking you back and forth and whispering phrases of comfort, “Listen to my heartbeat, you’re okay. You’re just outside the palace with me. Everything is alright.”

When everything had finally calmed down, only did he let you off his chest, still keeping his arms partly wrapped around you, “Darling, are you doing alright?” 

You didn’t know when he had started to refer to you as darling (you might have recalled it from a few of his letters), but that made you catch up with reality as you took a breath, “Alright? That’s all you have to ask me right now!” You pushed away from him, “I don’t see you for six years and that’s how you speak to me! I’m not your darling right now Nikolai!”

“Alright, alright.”

“If you say alright one more time…”

“Okay. Look. I’m sorry, a lot of shit has happen-”

“You’ve had a lot of shit happen. God Nik, I forgot how self-centered you can be. You make me want to slap you.”

“Then go ahead! I know I deserve it Y/n. I know. I do. But I just needed to invite you here. See if you would show.”

“Why? Why did you call for me now? You haven’t bothered in the past few years.”

“Because I miss you, okay! I miss you. I miss your writing and our talks about literature. I miss seeing your face and hearing your laughter. I miss your stubborn ass. Your beautiful and shy mind… but mostly I just needed to see your eyes. The eyes that hold the night sky for me. The eyes that I see when I look out onto the ocean. The ones I wished I hadn’t let get so far away.” He reached for you, cupping your face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs along your cheeks to wipe away tears, even if it was the only time he ever got to do so. Then he spoke words that you were afraid of hearing, “Stay. Please, let me make it up to you. Please just stay.”

You finally looked into his captivating, mischievous hazel eyes, yearning to give the answer he craved, the answer you wanted to say at the tip of your tongue.

But sadly, something else fell off your lips, “I can’t Nik,” you sobbed and his face fell, eyes losing hope. “I have a kingdom to rule now. I can’t just stay in Ravka and leave everyone behind. I was supposed to be making alliances tonight, I thought this was just a networking thing. I forgot it was your birthday,” he smiled a bit at that, he supposed it was warranted. “God I wish I could,” your lips trembled as you said the last part, “but I have to leave you here. I need to go home.” 

Nikolai took a stuttering breath, knowing he couldn’t change your mind, his stubborn girl. “Well then, is it too much to ask for just tonight then?”

You smiled a little, “And ditch your own party, Nikolai? I could never ask that.”

“I’m not asking, I’m offering” 

The smile that he spent so long dreaming of finally broke across your face, “Okay then, my prince, what shall we do for the night?”

“I can think of a few things.” You gave an eye roll at that. 

Nikolai and Y/n had spent the whole night raiding the kitchen and building a fort in his bedroom, talking the night away, sharing grief and sorrows as well as joyous moments. She ended up falling asleep on his shoulder at some point, and him not long after. 

Awaking in the morning was torture, meaning their night had come to a close. They could no longer just be friends under a blanket fort, instead a queen going back to her nation and a prince returning to duty for the first time in years. They didn’t talk much that morning, as he saw her off to her ship. Y/n couldn’t bear to hug him, for she might never let go. So Nikolai did the most charming thing he could muster without breaking down. “Till we meet again, princess,” lifting and kissing the back of her hand as he bowed a little. The gesture made her giggle and tears to well up yet again. 

He would keep that sound locked away for as long as he could. 

“I’m a queen now Nik, come on.” 

“I know. But I thought if I annoyed you a little before you left, you wouldn’t miss me as much,” mustering his best smile at the moment for her. 

He almost didn’t hear the next word y/n mumbled, but he would be forever grateful that he could, “Impossible.”

“Goodbye Nikolai.”

“Goodbye, my darling.” 

Age 23

Nikolai had kept busy with royal duties this time, instead of sailing away his grief and trauma. He knew the ocean made him think of her and he couldn’t have that, not when he was trying to prepare to rule a country.

His father had taken ill and wasn’t looking any better in weeks since it started. And Vasily was… well Vasily, in no shape to rule Ravka. 

So Nikolai was trying his best. Key word trying. 

The days were getting so long until a butler walked into his study one day, “Can you not see I’m busy with stuff right now.”

“Yes. I know sir. But you had informed me to alert you in any news or business related to the kingdom of the Wandering Isle.”

“Yes?” Nikolai suddenly sounded more hopeful.

“Well, one of the maids was cleaning and found this stash of unopened letters from what would be the future Queen Y/n Y/l/n. I thought this might be of interest.”

“Leave.”

“I beg your pardon, your highness?”

“Leave the letters and get out. Please,” He knew he was being rude, but he couldn’t possibly care at the moment. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled as the servant walked out. Nikolai had stood from his desk, looking at the bundle of letters. He heard the door shut as he looked upon the familiar hand script scrawled across the front, reading his name. There were at least eight letters that you had sent to the palace while he was off being Sturmhond. He sat in a chair by the fireplace to settle down as read words from the person he missed the most, whose eyes he yearned to see.

Y/n was so present in the letters, your tone and stubbornness coming out in each line. But they got a little sadder as he read through them; you were wondering why he hadn’t replied in a while. Concern spread out in your words, just hoping that he was okay. His emotions were thin as he picked up the last letter, scared of how it would make him feel. But he had to push through, he needed to feel a bit guilty about how he left you alone. 

Nikolai,

I think this is going to be my last letter. You haven’t written back in almost a year. 

I wrote a letter to your parents, again, recently. They don’t know where you are either, and I know they're worried. So, if this ever reaches you Nik, please let them know you’re okay. And selfishly, I need to know that you're doing alright too. Just a simple note or a sign, I just need to know that you are okay.

Please.

I just. I need you right now Nik. I need your words. It’s just so much right now. I know I haven’t mentioned this in my past letters because I didn’t want to worry you, but my dad passed away. I haven’t really had time to process it and now I have to run a country all by myself. I could just really use some classic words of wisdom from you, some comfort if you could spare that. 

But mostly I just need you. Your eyes and golden hair. Your stupid jokes and even more stupid pranks (they truly are the worst love). I need your hugs and your musky scent around me. When I’m too overwhelmed, I try to think of your eyes. The hazel color brings a lot of comfort, they make me think of summers with my father and you. 

I reread your letters a lot, I don’t know if you read mine at all. We’ve sent each other over 50 letters each over the years, did you know that? I read one every night to keep good dreams in my mind before I drift off. Do you do the same? I guess I might never know. 

As I said before, this is my last letter, I have other things to focus on and I can’t think about you too much right now. I just can’t. I hope you understand. And I hope you’re okay. 

I miss you. I could use your charm and humor right now. But you’re probably off doing important, yet adventurous things. The ones you always read about. 

I wish for you to one day find what you’re searching for Nik. 

Love, Y/n

God, he couldn’t keep the tears in no matter how much he tried. He truly did not deserve her. 

But if there was one thing that this letter confirmed is that they’ll always need each other, that she loves him the same as he loves her.

And he was for sure not going to let her go again, as he got ready in boots and an all too familiar privateer coat. 

©kaylasficrecs 2023

thx for reading <3

[starscribes]

StarScribes Introduction

About Me

Star (she/her)

Married

Middle School Teacher

I have a lot of responsibilities and don't get much time to myself but when I do I spend that time watching TV, writing, reading, playing D&D, playing video games (the Sims 4), and spending casual time with my family

US located

I used to be @houndsofcorduff but then I disappeared and started a simblr blog and now it's time to get on writeblr again

Writing

Mostly fantasy of varying levels, although I have dabbled in science fiction (I like to watch sci-fi more than write it - that's where my name came from actually, the Stargate franchise)

My favorite author is Brandon Sanderson

No, I don't think I'll ever publish anything, just scribe vibing

I love worldbuilding, magic system building, monster building, etc

Warning: I rarely finish anything I start

Blog

Ask game, tag game, ask, etc friendly

Reblogging stuff I like about writing

Posting snippets of my own writing

Participating in Nanowrimo (buddy me: stargatetribe)

Main/Simblr: @starandsims

Thanks for visiting and learning about me!

WIPs under the cut

Current WIP

Crescent Unbound - A stand-alone fantasy novel following Astrid Vale, a girl left orphaned by the last battle between good and evil. 20 years later she awakens an artifact with great power, it whispers of the return of evil. She must return it to the Chosen One so that it can be used to banish evil once again, but the quest is not as easy as it may seem.

Main Series: The Destiny Chronicles

Overall Synopsis: A generational series that follows a variety of supernatural beings: The Devlins (monster hunters); Seers (see the future), Sandmen (travel/control dreams), Mages (control a variety of magics), Cruth (control elements), and hybrids. Follows certain individuals chosen by Destiny to stop a great evil, and involves a lot of crossover until the end when everyone meets up for the big bad battle.

Book One: Retrospection - 1976 Earth - Russell Walker is a 16-year-old Seer dating Alexis Devlin a 16-year-old monster hunter. When she reveals his identity as a Seer and subsequently explains he's being hunted by a Seer-eating monster, they run away together - unfortunately not to fall in love but rather to save his life.

Book Two: Otherworld - 2007 Otherworld - Maxine Devlin was born into a family of monster hunters, but after 17 years she still hasn’t been allowed to fulfill that role. She has read every journal her ancestors have written and knows everything there is to know about monsters…or so she thinks. After her uncle and cousin go missing, she takes it upon herself to investigate and find them. Very quickly she finds herself in over her head as she travels to a dimension called Otherworld, where she discovers there is much more to magic than she once assumed.

Book Three: Shades of Night - 2010 Shadow - Sebastian Devlin has been to other dimensions before - technically just the one other than the one he was born in. That doesn't make it any easier though when he's dragged through a portal by the monster he's hunting. On his own this time, he'll have to find a way home, if that's even possible. Before he can do that though, he'll have to solve this new dimensions monster problem.

Book Four: Lost in Atlantis - 2011 Atlantis - The Devlin family is back together on a special mission to search the dimension of Atlantis for a particularly dangerous monster - the one that's been hunting Sebastian. The dimension of Atlantis has been abandoned for centuries, but almost immediately they find a single survivor, an impossible face from the past.

Book Five: Vengeance at the Door - 2013 Earth - Sebastian Devlin the monster hunter has become the hunted, chased across multiple states and dimensions by a horrifying visage either of his imagination or reality. Now in Boston, he's just trying to live off the radar of any monster or creature. As the patients at the mental hospital where he works begin to see the same visages he's been seeing, does he run again? Or get himself slaughtered?

Book Six: Heartwood - 2015 Shadow - Janina Heartwood is a good little sister, she picks food off of her brother's plate, puts leaves in his hair, sticks up for him, and trusts him to the edge of the world. After a mysterious man reveals that her brother, Jake, is adopted and descended from a line of monster hunters called the Devlins, she follows him to another dimension to protect him. Now she, Jake, and her boyfriend, Ethan, find themselves trying to destroy an evil entity known as the Sluagh. Janina fights shapeshifters, gremlins, pirates, and more to protect her brother, but will it be enough?

Book Seven: Bring Me a Dream - 2015 Earth - Reynolds McNeil is a Sandman slowly turning into a Nightmare just trying to live out his final few months keeping his friends out of trouble and protecting his little sister from his scary world. Instead, he gets kidnapped and taken to an underground fight ring for augmented humans like himself.

Book Eight: Dream Treader - 2016 Unnamed Dimension - Rescued at the last second by their thought-to-be dead brother, Reynolds and Louie discover there's a lot more to their strange powers than they thought. Things continue to get complicated as they are hunted by a different kind of enemy determined to rid the world of Destiny's chosen - them and their friends.

Book Nine: Moonlight Dreams - 2017 multiple dimensions - Still on the run but now without their leader, Reynolds and his friends try to learn everything they can about why they're being hunted. In the process they rescue their leader, who now must accept that it's time to start the endgame and bring together all of Destiny's chosen before they're hunted down.

Book Ten: Among Infinities - 2017 Isfyd - Carson has lived his entire life in the middle of a Civil War, and most of that was on the wrong side. Although he's on the right side now there are few who believe he's anything other than a spy. When Carson discovers there is a real spy out there he must discover the spy's identity before he's found guilty himself.

Book Eleven: Diplopia - 2018 Isfyd - Carson, now a prisoner of his mother and in the process of resisting her brainwashing, discovers this isn't the first time she's brainwashed him or erased his memories. Exploring his memories and his old home reveals answers and more questions.

Book Twelve: Splintered Crown - 2019 Earth- Freshly rescued, Carson and his friends flee to Earth to find the one thing that can stop his mother and her army - a girl with no idea who she is or how to use her powers, and absolutely no interest in joining their rebellion.

Book Thirteen: Destiny - 2020 Earth - Earth is invaded by soldiers from Isfyd, it will take all of Destiny's chosen to defeat the great evil they've been waiting for. The Devlins, the McNeils, the Moons, and Carson and his friends are the only chance this dimension has. It's looking increasingly like it won't be enough.

Other WIPs

Hounds of Corduff - 1800s Isfyd - A four-book series following the three Cruth apprentices of Corduff as they battle with and against each other in the middle of propaganda and other lies forcing them each further away from the truth.

The Elder Mage - 1976 - 2015 Various dimensions - a series of short stories following Denham Moon, who some would call Earth's most powerful mage. He's been entrusted with bringing together Destiny's chosen at the appropriate time, but he's mostly just procrastinating since he's pretty sure he won't make it through that appropriate time.

Old Gods - a 9-book series following Em'het, a curious and multi-talented boy with great magics who fights the gods to save his family, but after several years of doing the same thing over and over again he wonders if there's a point to any of it if the gods he faces just keep getting stronger and smarter.

Prince of Fireflies - a TV series that follows teenage twins Charlie and Riley as they attempt to keep their younger brother Liam out of trouble with his mysterious light powers. They're mostly unsuccessful.

The Peculiar Adventures of Michael Mallory - an unnumbered book series that follows 9-year-old Michael Mallory after he sneaks aboard his older brother's spaceship. While in the process of trying to return Michael, Nicholas Mallory and his crew are attacked and forced to hyperjump without their navigation machines online. Now they're lost in space, who knows how far from home, and somehow raising a 9-year-old.

The Disappearing Place - just one book - 12-year-old Martin Ramsey has a bad habit of disappearing, blinking in and out of existence seemingly at random. His brother Bartholomew tries to help but ends up making things worse when he starts disappearing too. In a wacky time-traveling dilemma the brothers have to figure out what is happening and why to try and get back home, while continually randomly jumping in and out of time and space.

[jacqcrisis]

Alright, stupid scene idea about my dragonborn man that I have that I'm going to put under a readmore since its about Ronan's anatomy and its long:

Actually first, context 1: I hate the dragonborn genitals in game. They suck. They're goofy. I know in lore, dragonborns are technically mammalian, but they also lay eggs and shit, so I'm ignoring human cock and balls much like im ignoring the fact that in game, I cant give my dragon man a strongman chubby bod. For any writing purposes, Ronan has hemipenes and they are inside of him until they aren't.

Context 2: in lore, it seems like by the time BG3 happens, dragonborn have only been around for like...100 years. They are still a pretty new thing to the planet of Toril, and especially to the continent of Faerun, where the game takes place. Not new enough that in a cultural hotbed like Baldurs Gate that you'd be shocked to see a humanoid lizard, but still fresh enough they're still weird and their anatomy isn't common knowledge outside of rumors, erotica stories, and still as of yet published scientific journals.

ANYWAYS

The dumb idea is that since Ronan's a clean boy, in Act 1, first few nights camping together, it becomes pretty clear he doesn't have much shame around his body or who sees it as he strips down near the water to clean off. He's just going to do the thing, people watching be damned, and thankfully the new company he's been keeping all politely look the other way.

Except Gale, who establishes a habit on night one of talking Ronan’s earholes off while he’s washing up. Why is he doing it? What is he up to? What are they talking about?

All questions had by one paranoid member of the party who decides to come over on night three of this to see what’s going on. Gale’s sitting on a rock, nearly falls off it when Astarion makes his appearance. He’s a little pink in the ears, sheepish and stumbling over his words when he explains they were discussing the merits of taking a deal with a cambion like Raphael.

Ronan grunts, back to them, water above his hips and clearly finishing up his washing as Astarion makes pointed comment about how this seems like an interesting occasion to have such a conversation with someone. Gale stutters out weakly that it's not like they’re doing anything else and that its just an efficient use of their time. It starts a small back and forth about Gale's real intentions that Gale is extremely losing but that argument ends rather quickly as Ronan walks out the water, nude and clearly ignoring them while he reaches for his clothes and some dry rags he left near where Gale was sitting, presumably before he was sitting there.

Astarion's mouth clamps firmly shut as he sees a strange lack of…anything discernible between the cleric’s legs. There was already an idea in his mind of who he could seduce in the camp to secure his safety here and part of this charade was to discover what he may have to work in order to do so. But now…

Gale doesn't seem bothered. In fact, he's only gotten redder as he hands Ronan a cloth to wipe down with and continues their conversation from where Astarion interrupted it. Astarion leaves them to it, high tailing it to the rest of the party eating, where he immediately starts asking if anyone's noticed anything strange about Ronan.

Everyone has.

It starts a heated debate. What's going on down there? There's no penis. No vagina. Just a bulge under some wrinkles. How do dragonborns become dragon…borned?

It's mostly between Astarion, Wyll, and Lae'zel as Shadowheart is present but silent and making a sour face about the whole thing. It isn't until Lae'zel suggests, gleefully, Ronan is perhaps a eunuch or maybe castrated for some crime in his past and Wyll wonders if perhaps this is part of being a worshiper of the platinum dragon that Shadowheart speaks up. She snaps that no, that has nothing to do with Bahamut as far as she knows and also this is a very childish and unnecessary discussion to be having about one of their group.

Until Astarion interrupts to ask in a small panic if this is part of having the tadpole in their brains and what if he's slowly starting to turn into one of those things, and that gets Shadowheart’s full, horrified participation. The conversation turns to that; what if this will happen to all of them and is that actually what's happening? Should they be worried? Wouldn't it look…smoother?

Gale parts with Ronan as the dragonborn is now dress and intends to journal, Gale getting shooed with a glare and yet there's a skip in his step during his short trek back to the party, where he is immediately subsumed into the conversation. This makes him giddy as all hell when he realizes what the topic of conversation is and he’s quick to dismiss the more outlandish notions, his too many hours reading ahem non-academic works on the anatomy of various non-humanoid races lending confidence to his lessons on how how their cleric’s whole business probably works. Which is all well and good, until, in the midst of his excited explanation, he lets slip that there is a rumor he’s read, never confirmed of course, heavens forbid he ever ask anyone something like this, that male dragonborns could, perhaps, have a second appendage tucked away.

And then all hell break’s loose again, Wyll standing up and stating he’s going to go do anything else while the other four continue a heated argument about that. Across the camp, with a light spell and his journal in hand, Ronan steadfastly ignores the conversation he’s been catching snippets of. It's not the first time a company he’s joined has taken special interest in parts of him and, if he lives through all this, it probably won’t be the last.

If any of them get the pleasure of finding out, then they should feel so honored.

[io-lu-art]

just a looong ramble analysing and rethinking Rey's character and turning whatever conclusions I get to into my headcanon without changing any plot points in TFA because I don't have the energy for that....

First things first. With everything I write here and publish on my blog from now on I refuse to believe that TROS ever existed. Everyone is free to have their personal opinions as long as they don't harass or hate on anyone, and this is mine. Almost every choice in that movie has left me scarred, even up til now, 4 years after its release. I thought I can ignore it, like any other healthy human being, but - oh boy, I cannot. If you are interested in reading another ramble on that, here's the post.

Since I am writing my own take on what could happen after TLJ (you may call it a fanfiction, I'm gonna call it a fanscript since that's gonna be its format), this post serves the purpose of getting my head clear around what's the deal with Rey, analysing, and lying down a solid foundation for my WIP. The story I'm writing has barely reached the end of Act I (out of III) at the moment I am composing this commentary, and I constantly notice that I get stuck with Rey's character every time I have to think about her for different reasons I will address down below.

I will make some rewrites as I see fit and necessary along the way for her character to make sense to me. All rewrites are in Tumblr's

chat style

This post will be linked to my AO3 fancifction as a reference for people to understand how I treat her character as soon as that one will be finished... *clears her throat* ...ANYWAY-

Let's have a look at Rey, shall we?

Rey's introduction.

When we first meet Rey, there is already a lot we get to learn about her. She's a scavenger. On a pretty much deserted desert planet. Water and food are scarce. She gathers parts during the day to sell them in exchange for food rations.

She has no friends, no family. She's lonely. And has been for quite a while. And yet, though hard, it looks like a pretty peaceful and stable life. If it were significantly different, we would have gotten introduction scenes of her battling some gangs or other scavengers for parts or something. But instead we were provided with beautiful, peaceful cinematography and John Williams' incredible score.

She manages. She manages because she has to and has never known to do otherwise. This on its own is already a very solid introduction. And it becomes even more powerful as we are provided with additional context later on, as she tells BB-8 that she's waiting for her family.

We know who she is, what she does and what she wants. No more questions, right?

Well, this is where it gets confusing, at least for me: there's one shot in Rey's introduction which always leaves me puzzled about her actual wants. It's the moment she puts on the rebel pilot helmet.

Maybe I am reading too much into it, but it feels like it kinda wants to draw parallels to Luke Skywalker in ANH? What exactly is the purpose of this shot? Is she putting on the helmet just for fun? Is it to show that she is still a kid inside? She seems to enjoy herself. Is it to show us that she maybe wants to be a pilot...? The gesture on its own is too little information to imply that, let alone that she already is a very skilled one, so probably no. Then, is it, perhaps, to show us that she dreams of more? Like Luke, who wanted to get off the planet that is "farthest away from the bright center of the universe"?

The interpretations, especially when looking at it in context to the rest of the movie could go on and on and on.

Quick detour.

The reason it works so well with Luke's character is because from the very beginning, with everything he does and says, it is perfectly clear that he doesn't want to stay on Tatooine. It's his only want when we first meet him.

Luke has friends who tell him about the galaxy. He seeks adventure.

And he's very impatient about it.

Everything he says basically SCREAMS how much he hates it there.

Now back to Rey.

Am I expecting Rey to show the same interest in getting off Jakku with the same attitude and level of energy as Luke, should that have been what TFA was going for? No, of course not. They are (supposed to be) two different characters after all. But I do believe that, given the setup, that helmet scene leaves too much room for confusing and unnecessary interpretation. (More so because I am trying my best to avoid nostalgia bait wherever I can.)

I am not denying the fact that she wouldn't have heard about the wider galaxy, that she wouldn't wonder about what it would feel like, being out there. People travel. And with people traveling, so do stories. So if you want to hint at that, do it subtly, all the while keeping the focus on her biggest want.

I might really just be reading too much into it, but still, in my humble opinion, a way to solve this confusion is cutting out her interaction with the pilot helmet completely. Let me demonstrate.

Inside her home we already see this self-made rebel pilot puppet. Just like the puppet lying around, instead of having her pick it up and putting it on,

the helmet remains part of the environment, stuck in the sand. There could even be a close-up on it as Rey puts down her empty plate next to it when she has finished eating if you really want to show it. She then rests her arms on her knees and looks up into the sky, following the ship that has just departed from the far outpost into the high atmosphere until it disappears. Waiting.

What is achieved by changing the interaction with the helmet is that it keeps her wants just as clear as Luke's. Luke wants adventure. She wants her family back. Period.

...I rewatched this scene after writing these paragraphs and yes, I admit, in the end it happens so fast that one could probably just let it pass and interpret it as Rey being very bored and using it as entertainment to wait out the days. But even if it were just that, the effects this little tweak would have on the following scenes is quite interesting to look at nonetheless.

The tweak I am going with from now on: Having her not actively wonder about possible adventures at all. She doesn't believe those stories to actually be true, because she's never allowed herself to. She's never allowed herself to actually want to ever leave Jakku.

What would it mean for her characterisation? It would make her slightly more serious and grounded. And the movie (except for the helmet scene) actually already treats her that way. Notice how she, while fixing BB-8's antenna, takes a moment to look at him before asking:

She's never seen such a droid before. At least not in such good condition. So, of course, she's curious. But when BB-8 says it's classified, she only laughs about it. "Classified? Really? Me too. Big secret," as if to say, haha, yeah, right. She rejects that possibility. And she doesn't bother asking any further, because when she is confronted with the choice to go and explore, she is reminded of her promise to herself, which is that she will wait for her family until they return.

Now, here is where I insert some very subtle "rewriting". When Rey first meets Finn, she is suspicious of him...

...and should actually remain suspicious,

instead of admiring him and falling into this, let's call it, "excited, fangirly smile"...

She doesn't know him. She has no reason to trust him. Instead, the tone of this line should be one that reflects her emotions as it slowly gets to her that those stories she's been hearing about might actually have some truth to them, that there might actually be a wider world out there. So make her be gradually interested.

Huh. This man I just forcefully hit to the ground, a Resistance fighter, knows about BB-8 and his classified information. What are the odds of that?

"So you're with the Resistance?" Rey asks suspiciously, looking down at the man.

The man stands up, brushes the sand and dust off his jacket and answers, "Obviously. Yes, I am. I am with the Resistance."

Rey frowns, "I've never met a Resistance fighter before," scanning him with her eyes. Why would there be any on Jakku? Nothing ever happens here.

"Oh, this is what we look like, some of us. Others look different."

Rey cannot help a little smile at his strange attitude. She looks back to where BB-8 rolled off to. Puzzled, she tells him, "BB-8 says he's on a secret mission. He has to get back to your base..." Even hearing herself pronounce that out loud feels so surreal to her. None of this makes any sense. Why-

"Apparently he has a map that leads to Luke Skywalker and everyone's after it."

What? "Luke Skywalker?" she asks, confounded.

CUT TO ACTION.

Whether she wants it or not, the plot forces her into the stories she's been hearing of. You don't want to believe they are real? They're real, all right. She has no choice but to run and get along. And later, she does get more and more interested, specifically when she meets Han Solo, the legend himself. Her whole beliefs turn upside down. It's exciting and she embraces it. Why? She's made a promise to BB-8 that she will get him home, and those things kinda come hand in hand.

Rey's physicality.

Rey is very fast to jump into action. She doesn't think twice about what she's doing. She just acts. Because that's how she's learned to survive all this time on her own. When she but hears BB-8 struggling in the distant sand dunes the first time they meet, she immediately reacts and goes to help (which also shows how compassionate she is towards people - and droids - in need of help).

And she's incredibly stubborn about it. If I may even word it like this: it's something she carries with pride.

So she's a good fighter. And I have but one request: DO. NOT. FORGET. THAT. HER. FIGHTING. STYLE. IS. ROUGH. AND. DIRTY. AND. HAS. NO. TECHNIQUE. WHATSOEVER. WHILE. THE. STORY. PROGRESSES. OK? Ok. What else? Ah, yes. Piloting. I don't know which of the two aspects has brought more uproar in the SW community, with the addition of the Force to these 2 points making people call her a Mary Sue, her being overpowered and so on. Let's have a look at that.

Rey's piloting skills.

She obviously knows her way around the Falcon. And it's plausible. "This ship hasn't flown in years!" It's been there for quite a while. Maybe she has had the opportunity to sneak onto it once. What about her flying skills? Well, that takeoff definitely had me worried. At this point I am even amazed this ship is still all in one piece. Which has me thinking... just a thought...

While trying to get those TIEs off their tail, Rey damages a visibly big part of the Falcon's exterior. "Ups," she comments, hastily checking the controls. Ok... The ship still flies. All good.

"What was that?" Finn calls from the gunner position, seriously worried for their lives.

"Nothing to worry about!" Rey quickly shouts back. All in all, the flight is messy as hell, and the Falcon needs some heavy repairs. But they still manage to get out.

"Nice shooting!"

"That was some flying! How did you do that?"

"Thanks! I don't know! I've flown some ships, but I've never left the planet."

(This is me reacting to their dialogue in the new context:) Yeah, guys, good work! You've almost destroyed the Falcon in the process, but you're alive, so I guess it's fiiiiiine.

What am I going for here? Adding to their level of expectations, which are... pretty low, and hopefully Rey's likability.

And then, later, Han is horrified of the state his ship is in, "Who did that?" Rey doesn't answer his question, but instead immediately offers her help, "I can fix that for you," feeling a bit ashamed of handling the ship of a legend this carelessly. And Han is... well, Han about it.

When would the Falcon get those repairs, you might ask? Eh, *hand gesture* there's plenty of time on D'Quar for that while they discuss how to blow up the third Deathst- *clears her throat* Starkiller Base. And obviously it's not gonna be Rey doing those repairs.

This addition tones down her abilities, puts more focus on her skills as a scavenger and makes her more relatable. I'd also argue that it puts more weight to her decision to eventually decline Han's offer to join the crew because of her wants. You see, once immersed into the real thing, the stories becoming true, meeting the legends, she becomes genuinely curious. She asks questions. Why did Luke leave? What fight? She gets incredibly excited when Han offers her a job. And yet, despite all, she still wants to go back.

Nevertheless, Rey displays pretty amazing piloting skills under those stressful circumstances on Jakku. After all, flying the Falcon is....

Her instincts are implacable. One might even say that she*

She just isn't aware of it yet. It is not until some scenes with Han and the rathtars later that we get the first hint.

The Force.

Now I might be wrong, but I have a theory, which is that the piloting performance under high pressure on Jakku might have been it. The Awakening.

The Force calls to Rey through Luke's lightsaber. And she listens to it, not knowing what will follow. She experiences the Force vision, and is horrified.

"That lightsaber was Luke's, and his father's before him, and now, it calls to you!"

"I have to get back to Jakku." Again.

Even when Maz tells her, "You already know the truth. Whomever your waiting for on Jakku, they are never coming back,"

she still refuses to believe that.

Tears run down her cheeks

and she shakes her head. No.

"But there's someone who still could."

Rey frowns. What is Maz implying there? "Luke?" she asks and realises what it's leading up to, and doesn't like it. Her emotions are a mess. She gulps back and keeps shaking her head as Maz speaks.

"The belonging you seek is not behind you. It is ahead. I am no Jedi, but I know the Force. [...] The light. Feel it. [...] The lightsaber. Take it."

Rey doesn't want to hear of it. Any of it.

"I am never touching that thing again!"

Rey just witnessed complete horror. She is in denial. Keep in mind her clear wants from the beginning of the movie. Ideally her want for her parents to come back should be replaced by the character fulfilling her needs at the end of her arc. But we're not nearly there yet. What Maz tells her about the Force completely contradicts Rey's experiences. She cannot just accept the truth. And how does she handle it? She runs away. She's terrified.

She wants to go back to the way things were before any of this mess started. But the plot doesn't let her run away that easily. It knows she has to face her fears, one being her fear of the Force and one the fear of perhaps never making it back to Jakku ever again.

It forces her further into these situations, making it impossible for her to get out of them. She's trapped. Literally and figuratively. And fighting her way out won't work this time, the one ability she always relied on to save herself. It's her darkest moment. And if that were not enough, Kylo Ren, this stranger, this man inside that mask, the man from her vision, shoves all her insecurities right into her face.

"And Han Solo." Rey jolts up. Either out of fear of possibly betraying Han and slipping, giving away a location, or out of rage that Kylo has gone too far into her personal space. Either way, this rage gives her some strength to oppose him. "You feel like he's the father you never had. He would have disappointed you."

"Get out of my head!" He backs away for his own reasons, not wanting to think any more of his father, but still holds onto her mind. Rey does all she can to withstand him, and the longer she does, the more time it gives her to understand what is going on.

And Kylo senses it. What he's trying to do here is not working. Concern washes over his face, which makes him lose control over the situation. The connection opens, inviting Rey to tap into his mind. She's inside his head. Now she understands. She understands she can use this power on him, too. So she does.

And there it is. She's strong with the Force.

And that's intentional. Why? For reasons we discover in TLJ and numerous other fanfictions. (TROS? w-what's that-)

She has found a way out of the situation. Now, has she ever heard of Jedi mind tricks? Maybe? But remember what she just discovered: She just tapped into Kylo's mind. So she tries that again on the stormtrooper. Because when she knows how to act, she just does. She's always been confident in her physical abilities and skills. Why would she have to treat this new power any different? And luckily it works, after 3 tries.

And that's fine. Let's move on. Kylo kills Han. Explosions.

Notice this. Even though she knows she now has these new powers, the same powers Kylo has, she still draws her blaster at him after calling him a monster. She acts on emotion and choses the quick, familiar way.

I actually like to believe that Rey really doesn't know what the Force is and how it works, at all. How would she? Yes, Maz did tell her about it, but how do Force-powers manifest in people? She's never seen anyone use it before, upon meeting Kylo Ren. So in every scene she does use it, she just copies Kylo. That's the only reference she has. Remember how proud she is of her physical abilities. And she is so naive that she just goes and tries it for herself, without thinking of whether it will work out or not. And it works out for her. Because, again, she is strong in the Force.

It's true that her flaw, her naivety, is not really addressed in TFA. It never really backlashes on her. And, to be completely honest, I have no idea how to make room for that without some heavier rewrites yet. But maybe it's not necessary. TLJ takes care of that. TFA just introduces us to Rey as a character after all.

Now, is the force-summoned lightsaber making her overpowered? If you interpret it as "Kylo couldn't get that thing out the snow but Rey could," then yes, yes it is. BUT, if you see it as "while Rey is observing the fight, she sees Kylo trying to summon it, so she copies him, the way she copied him with the mind-tapping, and reaches for it the moment Kylo conveniently gets it out of the snow for her," I don't think it is, though I do agree that in order for the second version to be true, the scene happens too fast with too little shots to explain it. *OP takes a breath* So, here is what I suggest:

Kylo reaches out for the lightsaber. SHOT of the lightsaber in the snow, fidgeting slightly. BACK TO Kylo, pulling anew. BACK TO the lightsaber. It gets free. CUT. Another shot of it flying through the air towards the camera.

SHOT on Rey witnessing that - she is already on her feet again - and immediately reaching for it as well, outstretching her arm towards it.

SHOT of Kylo as he feels the momentum of his pull shift and dodges out of the way. The lightsaber flies past him, into Rey's hand.

Rey has always been fast to react to action. So it would make sense for her to be able to do that. Ok. Now to the fight itself.

*sighs* I don't even know where to start. ...One thing's for sure. Kylo at this point is pretty much destroyed emotionally from having killed his father, but he's still big and strong and aggressive in his movements. Rey, on the other hand, kinda seamlessly knows how to handle a lightsaber, which... is definitely not believable at all.

Let's step back for a moment. Why do we have this fight? Rey needs to get Finn and herself out of there and Kylo is pretty much in the way, so she wants to eliminate the problem. And what does Kylo want? Sure, he is interested in Rey and her raw powers which eventually adds up to them being equals in the Force, so he doesn't want to kill her...

But he also wants that lightsaber, doesn't he?

(God, I am looking at this fight to find any clues and I'm just sitting here, elbows on the table, resting my head in my hands, massaging my temples, wondering, "why the hell are there so many cuts in that fight scene?") (I am no expert in fight choreography, so bare with me as I try to make this work.)

Rey is the one who draws first at him.

She has never wielded a lightsaber before, but knows how to handle a staff... so she treats the lightsaber like a staff within its limitations.

Because remember, HER. STYLE. OF. FIGHTING. IS. ROUGH. AND. DIRTY. AND. HAS. NO. TECHNIQUE. WHATSOEVER. So, pretend we have some well thought out choreography in this part.

Kylo blocks her with ease. Rey is frustrated. The lightsaber feels heavy and difficult to handle. It doesn't take long for Kylo to

get her cornered at the edge of the newly formed cliff.

"You need a teacher! I could show you the ways of the Force!" he exclaims.

Rey considers, out of breath, "The Force?" Rey takes a moment as her mind connects the dots. So that's what these new powers are? Kylo watches her, waits for her to make a move. No time for pondering about the Force any more. Rey moves. Kylo LETS her duck and free herself from his block. She runs, backs away from the crater. He follows her. He outstretches his arm. Rey is stuck. She's literally petrified. Again. Kylo draws nearer. He twirls his saber, now holding it backwards (you know, Ahsoka style). "No," she hisses through her teeth, struggling. Heavy breaths. She closes her eyes. When he almost touches her hand holding the lightsaber, "No!" she RESISTS his force-cage and GOES FREE.

Because, you see, even though Maz told her to "close her eyes" and "feel the light", Rey has never done that before, and when under stress, I do believe she would rather choose a quick, familiar way to get out of the situation. The only thing she knows how to do with the Force at this point is to copy or resist Kylo. She wouldn't know how to to draw power from the Force, yet. She'll have plenty of time to learn that from Luke later, should she survive this fight, so we better continue.

Kylo stumbles back as she draws at him. Rey goes for a swing to hit from above, which Kylo manages to block last second, bringing his lighsaber up from behind his back. As their lightsabers are crossed again he quickly reaches for her right hand, which is holding Luke's saber, with his left hand and moves it aside to his right towards the ground, using his crossguard for more momentum to force her down. He steps his left foot accordingly to keep himself stable. Rey cries out from the unexpected movement. They are kinda back to back. His left shoulder against her right one. The position is uncomfortable. He squeezes Rey's wrist. Rey cries out in pain. Then, she realises how close they are.

Time for some close combat, ladies and gentlemen.

She gives in and lets go of the lightsaber, lets it fall to the ground. Kylo releases her to reach for the fallen lightsaber. But before he can pick it up, Rey KICKS his left hand away with her right heel and PUNCHES his JAW with her right elbow from below. Kylo's head rocks back. He stumbles backwards from the harsh impact, causing him to turn his back to her in order to catch himself. Rey summons Luke's lightsaber back into her left hand, and ignites it. When Kylo turns back to his opponent, left and unprotected side first, Rey is ready to stab him in his left shoulder.

Kylo stumbles back some more, she brings her hands together for another strike leftwards, he barely blocks it, he stumbles back some more, it leaves his posture open, Rey strikes again, rightwards, lower this time, wounding his leg, he falls to his knee, leaving Rey the final blow to provide him with his scar.

The reason I started writing this entire ramble in the first place is a conversation I had with my friend which brought up the fact that Rey should be able to beat Kylo by using her rough, unpredictable moves. Shout out to my friend who, bless her, is willing to listen to and survives every one of my sw rants and who pointed this out in the first place!

Is this a good fightscene now? I have no idea. I hope so? I do have it very clear in my head now though, so I might go and have some fun storyboarding it in the nearest future.

You know the rest. The ground splits, she runs to Finn, Chewie picks them up. . . .

There are some more moments which I believe need some tweaks, like the meeting with Leia, which is just so unfair to Chewie, really, but if I go on and on about this, I would end up changing the entire movie, which I do not have the strength for atm. This ramble was supposed to be about Rey and her alone, so I am done here.

I guess in the end Rey does realise her needs and is able to let her wants aside for a bit longer and focus her hope on actually helping the Resistance and get Luke. Hope that, with finding Luke, she will get to understand these new powers. I do feel like the movie could have provided us with a more emotionally rich reactive scene to the fight and her abilities, and generally just more of those, but then, what am I expecting from a JJ Abrams film? We have Rian for that.

My conclusion? I'm bad with conclusions and summaries, so here you have it, my take on Rey by only adding to the existing dialogue, changing some attitudes here and there, adding a scene, and changing the fight sequence at the end and how she treats the Force.

I do have a clearer understanding of her character now, which was the entire purpose of this ramble, so I guess, mission accomplished. Congratulations on having made it till the end. It was a long ride. I did consider splitting this beast into 2 parts, but while writing this, at one point I just decided to fully commit to it.

You are totally free to, of course, agree with me and stay tuned for my WIP fanscript or disagree, never read through this thing ever again, ignore it and leave it to die on Tumblr's graveyard.

Before you ask, because I also considered doing that just for the sake of having fun with GIFs on Tumblr (all text gifs are taken from YARN btw), I will not do a post like this on TLJ, since I have no problems with Rey's character there at all. Props to Rian Johnson at this point, for managing to make sense of her with what TFA gave us.

[the-writing-mobster]

were there any fic ideas you never ended up writing that you regret not doing?

also, do you have any other undertale ships? {:

Ah! Thank you for the ask dear heart! Let's see...

Of course I have fics that are still deep in my drafts, and I also have a few unfinished fics currently published ON Ao3.

I don't really regret not publishing certain fics because it's not really a matter of if more than it is a matter of when. A few of these old ideas just need way more fleshing out and just aren't ready for the limelight.

And that "not if but when" mindset is carried over to my unfinished fics as well, like Baby Face and YWIW.

They'll eventually be completed. (Although tbh, I'm not so sure about ywiw now, may have to go and really take a good long look at that one and the goals I want to achieve with it. For YWIW, I guess I regret some of the choices I made with Frisk's character arc. Like I accidentally walked back on things that I shouldn't have. Sequels are hard, y'all.)

—

Now for my other UT ships? Hmmmm...

I'm gonna come out the gate swinging and say that I, first and foremost do not ship Asgore and Toriel. I think their dynamic is more interesting as a divorced couple. Boom. That'll stir the pot some.

(I have a lot of weird UT ships tbh)

Now, moving on to what I actually ship:

Asriel x Papyrus / Papsriel / Boneblossom

This stems more from how I wrote their dynamic in wdyw part 4 + ywiw. See, when Frisk and Sans are off doing hard main character work, Papyrus and Asriel were alone together a lot, working through both of their collective daddy issues together (their fathers were big ole villains and they were consoling each other about their relationships with their fathers, it was actually very sweet) Ergo, I began to ship.

But also, if you look at the game, there are instances of Asriel and Papyrus befriending, and Asriel manipulating him, or growing fond of Papyrus in his own way as Flowey. Yeah there's the problem of "well technically Asriel is a child!" Which like... Okay, he's also dead and immortal at the same time. In wdyw he died at an older age so... 🤷🏻‍♀️ It depends on where you take the story. I could also just ship them platonically. So yeah!

Undyne x Alphys / Alphyne

This one is obvious. They're canon. They're beautiful. I love gay people. I love lesbians. I am a gay people. I am a lesbian. I love them.

Also, low-key, I also just like to explore more of their dynamic than just lovey dovey sapphic stuff. The highs and the lows. And they're perfect to do that with.

Nick x Sans / Nicecream Guy x Sans

This one is unorthodox, but it's because of Baby Face. They're so gay in that fic like it's unbelievable. If not Sans, then definitely Nick. Like they've definitely explored each other's bodies at least once.

Also in wdyw, they have a more complex, complicated friendship since they're more like long lost friends, and the whole "you betrayed our ideals by joining Asgore's military" and Nick "you joined a rebellion that will never win, you've doomed yourself to martyrdom." Sans saving Nick from prison & the purge, ugh, they're so complex, I love em!

Nick is definitely gay. I know we were pushing for Alick but honestly... That boy is gay. And I really believe that. I think the only better pairing for him would be Napstablook, or... And I guess I'll concede to years of shipping before me... Burgerpants/Bryan. Because Bryan has that like, newly joined rebellion, starry eyes, just found out his crush was brutally murdered by one of Muffet's assassins, etc, and then there's Nick, shining hero of the revolution. I think it could work really well.

Muffet x Toriel / Muffriel / Spiderscotch

Bro even the name screams lesbian, wtf? This is like Everlark's alternative ship name being peenis.

BRO THEY LIVE IN THE RUINS TOGETHER, MUFFET SET UP SHOP IN THE RUINS. TORIEL BAKES PIES AND MUFFET BAKES FUCKED UP SPIDER DONUTS. THEY'RE A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN. (And I'm purely talking about classic, but who's to say that wdyw Muffet wasn't sneaking into the queen's chambers after killing her own husband and poisoning Toriel's daughter right under her nose? UGH THE DRAMA!!!!)

Ugh, I love my gay ships.

Anyway, Toriel is the sweet, albeit very flawed, old money, cottage core wife, and Muffet is the manipulative, borderline Machiavellian, macabre, new money, goth wife and they're PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER. I've never been more serious in my life.

Anyway, those are my UT ships that are not Frans. Don't come for me, I know they're unconventional (except for Alphyne) but I love them each dearly.

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Old pencil drawing I did:

[thepenultimateword]

Writer Intro

Hello, I’m thepenultimateword (the penultimate word) or Pen for short. I’m a twenty-something year old English Grad and writer. I’ve been writing for probably 15ish years, and I hope that once I finally get around to finishing the zillion WIPs in my brain I can someday get something published.

My favorite genres to write are sci-fi and fantasy, however, my most popular genre on Tumblr is Superhero fiction (or Supervillain fiction—I have an obsession for bad guys). Off Tumblr, I’m a novel writer, but on Tumblr I mostly write mini series, snippets, and prompts. This is also a SFW blog. The only thing that may come up now and then is gore and violence, but I try to content warn for that sort of thing.

Some things to expect from my blog:

Lots of romance. Sorry, I can’t help it, I do have some platonic stories, but I’m a sucker for romance plots even if I’m not in the habit of reading romance books.

Flangst (fluff + angst). I rarely end things angsty, but you better believe there’s gonna be angst in order to make that fluff super sweet and satisfying.

Long snippets. I have a habit of writing long, so most of my snippets are usually at least a couple thousand words. This is either a good thing or a bad thing for you depending on what type of reader you are, as well as how invested you are in my stories.

Arranged marriage, fake dating, enemies or rivals to lovers, strong woman x weaker guy, slow burn (These are among my favorite tropes).

Sometimes slow response to asks or continuations. As much as I love writing, I’m pretty slow because I’m meticulous. It usually takes me about 3 hours or so to write one snippet, which can delay me for several reasons.

That’s about all I can think of for now! But let me know if you have any questions! And check out my masterlist for my work! (It’s ordered from oldest to newest.)

P.s.

I’ve been on Tumblr for a little over a year now, so part of me felt like it was too late for an intro. But I never gave one when I first joined and new people are still finding my blog all the time, so why not, who’s stopping me?

[salmalin]

I Wanna Talk About "Comments"

IMG ID: Yknow go figure you’d abandon this for a popular fandom… goes to show you just write for attention and instant gratification. May as well just delete this. It’s clogging up space. To do all this and walk away for mainstream games is so typical for people like you who claim to be in it for the art. You’re in it for the ratio, you’re in it for your massive ego, so just delete it.

I've been getting a few comments like this lately, and this one is honestly the least biting, but I've been seeing enough of them that I've decided to post this.

I've already deleted this "Named" Anon Comment off the fic, and I'm not going to reply to them, but I wanted to take a moment to talk about this mentality, and why comments like this make no sense.

Basically: They're angry that I'm taking a break from this fic from a small fandom—a fic they've never interacted with—while I'm also writing another story for another fandom that happens to be bigger. This bigger fandom fic has (despite being in first-person with a non-linear storytelling style, famously hated formats) gained a bit of attention. Which is fine. That happens.

So let's talk about why this comment sucks, and why it fails at every level to be any form of criticism, constructive or otherwise.

"abandon this for a popular fandom" Everyone can see that this fic is marked as incomplete. Whoever this is, they chose to click on an incomplete fic that hasn't been updated in eight months—only eight months. A drop in the bucket, really, and the time I went between chapter 5 and chapter 6 was over a year. This is on them. They do not get to put this on the writer. At any point they could have stopped. At any point, they could have closed the fic. They knew this from the get-go. They did not. This was their decision, and they're trying to blame me for their despair. They made it through 245k before they reached this point, and I know because they commented on the last chapter specifically.

"you just write for attention and instant gratification" "Instant"? I don't think this person knows how writing works. Like, on a fundamental level. This story started getting posted in 2020, with my most recent update this year (2023), and they think writing and posting something is looking for "instant gratification". Bold to assume this is "instant". (Bold to assume we have any control over it at all.)

"May as well delete this. It's clogging up space." AO3 is only limited by its server size, and my fic is a drop in the bucket. It is not taking up much in the way of space. Besides, just because something is unfinished does not mean it doesn't belong on AO3. That's why you're allowed to upload chapter by chapter. That is a critical function of the website. It's also an archive, which means it's designed to hold information, finished or unfinished. Again, shame on the reader.

"You're in it for the ratio; you're in it for your massive ego." These are not only assumptions, but if this person is really so opposed to the idea of people doing things for attention, they should ignore children when they need food, only read published novels that are obviously written in a desperate grab for money, and never go on AO3 ever again. If writers didn't want attention, they wouldn't post online for free because they'd just keep it to themselves. And if commenters didn't want attention, they wouldn't comment. (But then would we even have a fandom, if no one's talking to anyone else?) Is this the attention they wanted? Probably. I've found that people like this seem to thrive on the misery they inflict on others.

If y'all care to know why this person was so abysmally wrong in this specific context: (if not, just skip to the end of the list.)

This fic that they're complaining I left for a bigger fandom? I actually left that bigger fandom for this fic. That "bigger fandom" was the first video game I was ever obsessed with. It was 1997, and I wasn't even allowed to touch the console. My brother destroyed the final disc in a fit of rage. I've never even beaten the final boss. It has been 26 years, and for a solid 15 of them I was desperately trying to figure out what I wanted to write for the pairing that changed my life. This fic that they're complaining about me "abandoning" Fires of War for has been rolling around in my brain for longer than the media for Fires of War has even existed. In fact, when you search my username here on tumblr, an ask I sent another user laying this out is essentially the first thing you see. (At least, right now.) In fact, my current user pic is from Fires of War. I did not change it because there's no need to.

Fires of War is actually still in progress, and they would have known this if they read the other comments on the same chapter they complained on. I originally took a break from FoW due to stress, and because no matter what I tried, the next chapter just wasn't working. After a break, I realized why—the outline was broken and needed to be adjusted. Meanwhile, the other fic I'm working on to relieve that stress is much, much easier to write. In my eyes, it's much lower quality, as well. It requires fewer stages of editing. The words flow easily because they're much closer to my speaking voice. I'm not constantly researching cultures I know little about for fact checking and world building and (I shit you not) intercontinental politics. (I once researched the GDP, climate, and economy of Spain in 1986 for several hours and proceeded to have a three hour debate with my editor about a plot point. Yes. Three hours.) Oh, and I don't have to write anything in Iambic Fucking Pentameter. (Yes, that's a thing in Fires of War. They are complaining that I "abandoned" a story that has bits of dialog in god-forsaken Iambic Pentameter. Even at my peak, I wrote 8k in two weeks. But with my current "popular" fic, I can whip out 14k in one. That's how much easier it is.)

I want to turn those "ratio" stats off. I've mentioned this to people a few times, actually—I wish there was a way to turn all stats off on the Archive. They actually give me anxiety. I don't want to know how many comments are on my fic, or kudos are on a little obscure piece. I think that information should only be accessible to the writer, like Tumblr follow counts.

Literally talk to me for three seconds and you will be sick of how into the art of it I am. Holy shit, I cannot shut up. I will include required reading. I will rant about the details I put in for plotlines ten chapters out. I will give you a crash course in tone, word choice, and counting verbs. And yes, I count verbs! Holy fuck I am autistic as hell and this is my special interest. I love writing so much. It's my favorite thing in the world. Please stop my I CAN'T STOP I LOVE WRITING SO MUCH GOD IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT KEEPS ME FUCKING SANE. So you can imagine how misguided I think someone is when they say I'm not into the art of it. It just exposes them as someone who doesn't know what art is.

I'm a hermit who doesn't really go online much aside from using Discord as a free texting app because for some reason every texting app I've gotten has been broken. I legit do not like attention. I talk to like four people a day outside of work. I don't even like it when people complement me too much. Even if I went above and beyond, just one sentence is more than enough and move on, please. It's good to know my actions have had positive consequences, because that's crucial for my brain processing said consequences so I can continue said action in the future because I know I didn't do something wrong, but repeated praise makes me uncomfortable. It took me a long time to understand this about myself. This seems antithetical at first, but I do like the comments that break down the themes, execution, etc. in my fics. If they're breaking things down, moving to point to point about parts they enjoyed, there are giving me critical feedback. They tell me what thy enjoyed, and what was picked up. It's extremely useful feedback to know what they enjoyed, and what stood out to them. It helps me write better stories on the future, and hones how I get my point across. Besides, what is art that doesn't spark innovation and thought? It is forgotten.

The strongest hate is born of love—misguided though it may be—and this person has made that clear. Obviously they care about this fandom or they never would have commented like this. But if they knew more about people and less about what they want everyone to give them, maybe the spaces around them would be safer for the people in their lives—or the people they brush against online.

Comments like this often make people not want to write their fic.

Thankfully, I'm actually am in it for the art, so they might be going out of their way to make the lives of everyone around them miserable, but they haven't achieved their goal here.

However, there are a lot of writers who critically need feedback; who need this positive reinforcement. It's also why it's so important to tell writers why you enjoy their work. Even if it's something small like "I like your word choice" or "I really liked this line" or "I can't wait to find out how they resolve this"—that's feedback more valuable than we can really quantify.

"I like your word choice."—The way you pay attention to the words you use is working with the tone.

"I really like this line."—The way this line is formatted is very memorable and hits better than the others. It may be good to pay attention to it to find out why.

"I can't wait to find out how they resolve this."—You have gotten a good grade in suspense, a thing that is possible and reasonable to achieve (or however that meme goes).

I am constantly learning. I am constantly growing and changing as a person and a writer, and other people are critical to this. Sitting in a room and shouting will not make you better at making jokes, and shoving your writing in a corner never to see the light of day will never give you the tools to communicate with other people.

Sometimes I feel like people like this *points to the top of the page* don't want to learn that lesson, because of the painful reckoning with their actions it will entail.

If this is you, or you have done something similar, I recommend going through, finding your old comments, and deleting them yourself, or even apologizing if you can. Clean up your own mess, so people like me don't have to do it for you. This is a public space. Act like it.

[choicesficwriterscreations]

CFWC Writer of the Month - July 2023: AlwaysMyChoices

Each month CFWC highlights one of our talented fanfic writers, and this month’s writer of the month is @alwaysmychoices. We hope you will enjoy learning more about them and their work below! The writer is selected at random. More info can be found on the navigation page.

Quick Links:

Tumblr Blog: AlwaysMyChoices Blog Masterlist

How do you want to be known on Tumblr? May

1- When did you start playing Choices? What was the first book you played? 

I started playing The Royal Romance in December 2017. I have no idea how I found the app, but I was obsessed with that story. My memories from this time are super vague -- I know there was a connection between Cordonia being based on Montenegro and Croatia (two countries I studied abroad in the next summer), a well-placed advertisement, and a Christmas vacation where I was snowed in with too much time on my hands.

2- When and why did you join Choices fandom?

I joined the fandom in January 2018 because I desperately needed to talk about the Royal Romance. I didn’t have any friends who played (and was embarrassed to share), so I started off liking posts from my “real” account (which was a Sims account) and then made this as a “side blog.” Later, that Sims account got abandoned, which is why all of my likes come from a different Tumblr.

3- How did you pick your blog name? 

I had three criteria -- it needed to be (1) somewhat punny, (2) dramatic and angsty, and (3) tangentially related to the game. Though I was a Royal Romance stan, I wanted to give myself room for growth, so I didn’t name my account anything to do with the book. The name I really wanted was taken, so I settled for AlwaysMyChoices. But honestly, I love it now.

4- Pull up the first post in your archive, and tell us about it!  

My first post is expressing my disappointment that the Royal Romance’s Book 2 wasn’t angsty enough -- and that perfectly sums up my account. Four days later, I posted my first Choices fanfic.

5- How long have you been writing fanfiction?

13 years. I started writing in 2010 on Fanfiction.net for Percy Jackson. I was very, very young, and it shows in those initial works -- which is pretty ironic because this was the phase in my fanfiction career where I had the most success. I got millions of views on some of those stories, and they’re objectively terrible. After about six or seven years on that website, I went to college and ended up taking a hiatus. I wasn’t inspired to write anymore, which was pretty devastating at the time. Finding Choices brought back my passion for writing fanfiction.

6- What is your favorite Choices book, and what is your favorite Choices book to write about?

Here’s the thing -- I love Open Heart, but The Royal Romance has to be the best. Are there flaws? Definitely. Did the series go off the rails? Eventually, yes. But TRR understood pining. It knew that the readers wanted tender moments with LIs, but they also wanted pain. We wanted tropes, but we didn’t want it to feel tired. We wanted incredible supporting cast members where even the tiniest background player was well-crafted and interesting (and the villain was iconic). We wanted growth and well-structured arcs, and surprising twists. Plus, the LIs checked all the boxes -- the prince bound by duty, the lover’s best friend, the supportive friend turned lover and the woman who had been through pain but always saw the best in people. I wish I could go back and relive that magic.

At the time, I loved writing about TRR, too, but I’ll admit that Ethan Ramsey was made for angsty fanfiction.

7- Share the first fanfic you wrote with us. Do you still like it, or would you change it if you were writing it today?

My first fanfic for Choices was “Come to Bed.” This was when I still wrote in the first person, which feels like a lifetime ago. As for my thoughts, it’s fine. I wouldn’t do anything differently, but I also probably wouldn’t publish it. When it comes to my Choices fics, my biggest complaint is that they’re often too tied to a moment. I wrote them because I read a chapter in whatever book, felt overcome with emotion and inspiration, and put that into my word processor. They’re my reactions more than a story, and aside from a few angsty quotes or steamy scenes, I generally forget about them when the moment passes.

To be honest, I totally forgot about “Come to Bed.” I thought my first story was “Prove it,” a much steamier TRR story. 

8- What is your favorite fic that you’ve written?

A Weekend with Dr. Ramsey is my legacy in this fandom, and I’m happy with that. I’m proud of that series. But if it had to be a single fic, it’s either “Him” or “Never Had a Chance.” Both are pairings I don’t often write (Ethan x Tobias and MC x Drake, respectively), and both stories focus on these grand, explosive loves that burn up too quickly but eventually settle into comfortable, platonic admiration. It’s the kind of love that lingers long after the romance has died. 

9- Do you have a fic that you didn’t expect to be well received, but it was? What about one you expected to be but found could use a little more love?

I never expected my Ethan & F!MC "Calling to Say I’m Marrying Someone Else” headcanon to blow up. That was such a pleasant surprise, and I love it to this day. As this fandom has dwindled, engagement naturally decreased, but I have to admit I hoped for a bit more love on “You’re a Devil.” Sexy pining at a Halloween party? The color red symbolizes danger and decadence they can’t accept? I still think it’s great.

10- If you could write only angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why? 

Angst. I love reading fluff and smut, but I’m really in the zone when I’m writing angst. For me, that’s when characters become something bigger than an idea -- they’re growth and change and cathartic and tragic and triumphant. If I never wrote angst again, I don’t know how I’d ever find that feeling anywhere else.

11- Do you ever recognize yourself in any of your MCs or in your writing?

Oh yeah. My MCs are generally versions of me with some exaggerated character flaws -- pride for Collins, indecision, and stubbornness for Charlie. I’m not as messy as my MCs, but at my core, I think I want to be.

12- What element of writing do you struggle with most?

Consistency. My issue has always been finding that inspiration and holding on to it. I’m very dependent on the “flow” of writing. When I’m in it, everything is easy -- the dialogue is effortless, the descriptions are perfect, and the pacing is impeccable. When I’m not in it, I’ll write the same thing over and over until I give up. I have a bad habit of letting inspiration come in all-consuming waves without any safety net of pacing or discipline. If I burn out or get distracted, it’s all over.

Oh, and length. Those stories are always way too long.

13- Do you have any neglected work you really want to finish?

Omg, yes, all of it. I need to finish With and Without, but I know I’ll be devastated when I do. Then, there are the dozens of notes on my phone, reminding me of all these new stories I’ve abandoned.

14- If someone you know in real life (who isn’t involved in fandoms) asked to read your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you recommend they read first? 

I am super weird about keeping my fanfic life separate from my real life. It is a barrier I very rarely break, but when I have broken it, I’ve run into the same problems -- because it’s fanfiction, I give no exposition. So, if you’re reading it without any fandom knowledge, you’re lost. With that in mind, I think I would give them a quick recap and then give them “A Weekend with Dr. Ramsey.” It would kill me to be that vulnerable, but I think it’s the best reflection of this account. 

15 - Are there any writers (published authors and/or fanfic writers) who influenced your writing? 

So many! Particularly in the fandom, I’ve learned from so many creators. Early on, I remember @boneandfur and @heauxplesslydevoted were such big TRR influences for me. So many amazing creators have deactivated -- even someone who taught me my entire bullet point format for HCs. Now, I’d say I’m pretty inspired by @jerzwriter, @terrm9, @utterlyinevitable, @the-pale-goddess, @mvalentine, and @queenbirbs. I’m definitely forgetting so many amazing people!

16- Which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series? 

I would love to see A Weekend With Dr. Ramsey adapted into a mini-series with a devastating ending. 

17- Do you write original fiction? 

Yes, but not as often as I wish. Fanfiction has always been easier for me because I have somewhere to share it. Without that, I find I end up losing steam and forgetting about it. I do, however, have a phone full of story ideas, and one day, I’m determined to do them justice.

18 -  What other hobbies do you have?

I am a big reader, an occasional bullet journaler, a dog lover, a movie buff, and a fan of British mystery shows. 

19 - What’s your favorite emoji? 

The eyes emoji 👀It’s one of those amazing emojis that adds nuance to a text, and I use it way too often.

20: BONUS - tell us anything you’d like (if you want to).

____ I am truly so grateful to be part of this fandom. I know I’m not good at being in the fandom -- I disappear, I suck at answering, etc. But I truly love this group and am so happy to be part of it.

[kris-mage-fics]

Since I always forget what tag to look up to find my own writing, I made this pinned post. Fandoms are listed in alphabetical order, and the individual fics in chronological order of when they were published. Original work is listed last. Only if it's relevant will I note if something hasn't been beta read, any romantic pairing(s), and significant content warnings.

Edit: Now contains links to silly meme/text post compilations! Currently only for Shepherds of Haven, but who knows, some may come for other fandoms in the future!

Ebon Light

A New Room | tumblr post | Ao3 | rated G | 1,532 words | vague spoilers for the end of the game | Haron/MC | Haron is excited to show Natasha her new room in Lonre's manor. (This is the first fic I ever wrote, and close to the first piece of fiction overall. I've improved since, but I'm still proud of this because it kicked off my writing.)

Had it Been Anyone Else | tumblr post | Ao3 | rated G | 2,090 words | spoilers for several parts of the game on Ernol's route | Ernol/MC | Pure angst of Haron trying to hide his feelings for Ilyana since she's in love with his brother.

Scarlet Hollow

Fog | tumblr post | Ao3 | rated G | 411 words | no spoilers, set two days before the game begins | no beta | The cousin Tabitha's never met, and the town she has to keep running, occupy her thoughts Saturday morning.

Smoke | tumblr post | Ao3 | rated G | 504 words | some spoilers for early Episode 3 and a Street Smart cousin | no beta | Isaacs' thoughts as he waits for Haley Scarlet Wednesday morning. (Tbh I think this is my weakest work, it's not bad, but I think the rest are better.)

The Secret of the Greenhouse | tumblr post | Ao3 | rated G | 411 words | no spoilers, set before the game starts and not canon compliant | Tabitha hates taking care of whatever is in the greenhouse, but now she's the only one who can. (Based on my pre-Episode 4 ideas about the Goop Teddy fan theory.)

Shepherds of Haven

The Best Proof of Love is Trust | tumblr post | Ao3 | rated G | 939 words | spoiler for the beginning of Chapter 3 (if you've played the public demo you're good) | content advisory: vaguely referenced suicidal thoughts | After Blade asks Kyrahlise if she's had 'nightmares' like that before, she remembers something her mother told her, and how that has guided her in the years since.

An Unlikely Engagement | tumblr post | Ao3 | rated G | 700 words | very, very light spoiler for Chapter 8 (if you follow the ShoH tumblr you probably already know it) | Blade/MC | Someone is quite surprised to find out that Kyrahlise is engaged to Blade.

Original Stories

Hic et Nunc | tumblr post | Ao3 | rated M for mild sexual content | 1,069 words | Original Female Character/Original Non-Binary Character | An argument between a swordswoman and a mage leads to them working out some feelings they'd been skirting around. (Instead of getting fancy with a Latin title I could've just called it "Kris' first real attempt at writing sexual tension" lol!)

Meme / Text Post Compilations

Shepherds of Haven

Chase, Chase take 2 MC and "adventurous" Mages Like half of the Shepherds, lol