#and I've probably written so much more than that

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hi there! I'm a sex-repulsed aro-ace AFAB person but in my story there's an explicit sex scene between two men. I've never written sexual content before, so could you give me some advice?

I love your blog so much!

Thank you for your kind words!

I would recommend following blogs like @lgbtqwriting and @yourbookcouldbegayer as these may have specific resources to help, and if not, they can probably point you in a better direction than I can.

My only recommendation is to watch some TV shows and movies with the type of scene you want to write, and then pay close attention the details. It would also help to read books and stories with with the type of scene you want to write, and see how they're written. You can pick up on all the emotional details and cues that might otherwise not stand out to you.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

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!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[lady-of-the-garden]

I love overthinking things just for them to be so simple as to not even be worth mentioning

[forcedhesitation]

astarion origin playthrough worth it just for all the extra moments where he does the "sad wet cat" face

[andromeda-nova-writing]

"Are you laughing at me?" "Yeah, I am. What are you going to do about it?" - Wriothesley Request from @isekyaaa

When Clorinde said she knew someone who could teach Y/N the basics of a different hand-to-hand combat style she wasn’t expecting that Wriothesley would be the one to teach her. One would think it would be easy to take the guy seriously but all the stories from Clorinde and that his back was absolutely covered in stickers made it so hard. It would have been easier if she said she would just show up to the fortress for her lesson rather than agreeing with him to take advantage of the nice weather out at the beach. With his coat on, the stickers were at least out of sight.

“You know I never got the reason why you agreed to this.”

“Clorinde didn’t tell you?” He was focused on wrapping his hands.

“Nah. Just said she knew a guy.” Her head tilted to the side. “Is there something I should know? Heard from her that you both like betting. You lost?”

He sighed. “Yeah, but this is better than me winning and my shelves filling up with more law books.”

Y/N laughed. “So you’re the reason I end up swinging by the bookstore to pick up a law book for her every now and then.”

Wriothesley rolled his eyes with a smile. “Seems so. You ready over there.”

“Been. You were the late one.”

“Work’s a bit far from here to be fair.”

“I thought I was gonna have to tell Clorinde you were a no-show. I’d be back on the hunt for an instructor. Probably could find someone better if I spent more time looking.” She teased.

“You’re gonna give me a headache.”

“Don’t tell me I’m too much for you to handle.”

He looked away biting his lip, he pushed his bangs back before letting them fall in front of his face. “Let’s just get this started.”

It didn't take long for Y/N to begin understanding the basics. The only issue was that she kept falling back into the stance of her normal fighting style. It was definitely something she’d have to work on to fix but at the same time being able change styles mid fight could be an advantage. 

After some time of just focusing making sure she was picking things up correctly. It didn’t hurt to test some things out in a small scrimmage. It would just be a few blows back and forth with no real weight behind them. 

Y/N had thrown a punch Wriothesley's way. She focused on pushing him further back towards the water. It was her best bet with that they were in two different weight classes. It wasn’t hard for him to dodge. But in doing so he tripped backwards trying to avoid stepping on a crab and fell into the waves that crashed against the shore.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. Yes, he had been a more than perfect teacher the entire time. But with the knowledge he was helping cause of a lost bet, the stickers that covered his back and that he was soaked beyond belief she let go of everything that kept her from laughing at the man.

He looked up at the woman who was now towering above him as the waves gently splashed at him leaving no part of his clothes dry. “Are you laughing at me?” He wasn’t mad but he for sure knew he had to look a bit stupid.

“Yeah, I am. What are you going to do about it?” She teased. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

He sighed. “You’re right nothing I can do. Help a guy up?”

Y/N wiped a tear that formed from her laughter before holding a hand out to him to pull him back up standing. Wriothesley took her hand pulling himself up just slightly before pulling her down into the water with him.

“Ugggh, You asshole!” She laid in the water beside Him.

“It's what you get.” He let go of her hand before splashing her lightly.

“It’s not like I was the one who pushed you in.”

“You were laughing enough where you might as well have.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe Clorinde set me up to learn from a man who doesn’t know how to even treat a lady.”

“I don’t know if our activities here would even have you being considered lady like.”

“I think it’s very lady like knowing how to defend yourself. After all you never know when a big oaf is going to pull you into the ocean.”

“You say that like you haven’t been having a good time.”

She turned her head away to hide the smile that was creeping onto her face. “Let’s just go dry off already.”

[queenlucythevaliant]

A while ago, @supreme-leader-stoat sent me an ask with a really interesting concept for a HHB AU. It’s taken me a while, but here is the story I came up with as a result. 

The Fisherman and His Boy

Six years after the Tisroc (may he live forever) began his august reign, word reached the fisherman that the prince of Archenland had been kidnapped.

Arsheesh lived many miles from the nearest city, and so it was common for news to take its time in reaching him. When the old queen of Narnia was overthrown by the demon lion worshipped in the north, Arsheesh did not know of it for two years. Smaller matters often did not reach him at all.

“You have brought me a poor catch today,” said a merchant in the village. “It is a shame you cannot pluck that barbarian prince from the seas.”

“What prince is this?” asked the fisherman with polite disinterest.

The poor day’s trading left Arsheesh in a sour mood. When he arrived home, he found that Shasta had not cleaned the nets as he’d been told to, but had only succeeded in thoroughly tangling them. Arsheesh grabbed the boy by the hair and made to strike him, but he stopped short. Shasta was barbarian-fair.  

Numbly, Arsheesh released his hold on the boy’s hair. Shasta scampered back, his face a blotchy mess of tears and snot. “Boy,” the fisherman said. “Clean thy face and let me look on thee.”

Shasta scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand. He raised his head.

Certainly, the boy was either Archen or Narnian. He had been an infant five years ago, when the prince was supposed to have been taken. The dead man in the boat with him had been dressed like a foreign nobleman.

“Surely,” the fisherman said slowly, “surely the gods never fail to reward those who befriend the destitute.”

“’M sorry,” muttered the boy.

“No child,” Arsheesh replied. “Thou’st naught to be sorry for. I ought not have been harsh with thee. Has not one of the poets said, ‘Treat a child with care, that he may one day care for you?’”

It was obvious that the boy did not understand what was happening, but Arsheesh would not have expected it of him. He sold his boats that day and his hovel the next. He put the crescents he had gotten for them in a satchel along with a small bit of bread, a great deal of dried fish, and a few other necessities. He saddled the donkey for riding and made petition to Tash for good fortune. Then, with the child clinging to his back, Arsheesh the fisherman set off north.

*

The boy became swiftly accustomed to the knowledge that he would not be struck for displeasing his father, and soon enough his questions were endless.

“Where are we going, O father?”

“To Archenland, north of the great desert.”

“But how do we get across?”

“We shall book passage on a ship once we reach Tashbaan.”

“A ship? Are we going to cross the ocean?”

“Yes, boy. As I have told thee many times: we are going to Archenland.”

“But why?”

The whys were endless. Arsheesh did not care for them in the slightest.

*

When the lions attacked, Arsheesh urged the donkey into its fastest sprint. The donkey, which was rather frail to begin with and not at all made for sprinting, keeled over and died after it had scarce run a thousand paces.

Arsheesh and the boy tumbled from the donkey’s back and landed hard on the ground. The roaring grew louder as the seconds lengthened. The dratted boy’s lower lip began to wobble, and presently he was choking back sobs.

“Be quiet, boy,” hissed the fisherman. Yet Shasta only drew back from him when he said that and began to weep all the louder.

“Quiet!”

“We’re going to die!” wailed the boy. “We’re going to die, the lions are going to eat us, we’re going to die.”

Yet the lions did not eat the fisherman and his son. After a long time, Shasta’s wailing subsided into quiet sniffling and the roaring of the lions faded into the distance. Arsheesh regarded the carcass of the donkey and sighed very heavily. “We’d best begin walking,” he said.  

*

The boy proved willing enough to walk without complaining, but he was small and as such made poor time. Arsheesh looked down at the child dutifully trailing along behind him and sighed. “Come, boy. I’ll carry thee,” he said.

“’M not tired,” Shasta protested.

“Nevertheless,” replied the fisherman. He bent down and scooped the boy up in his arms. In the five years since he’d rescued the child, Arsheesh had held him very rarely. Yet Shasta was small and slight: not at all burdensome. Arsheesh shifted his weight very slightly and then continued on, satchel over his back and child in his arms.

Day turned to dusk and somewhere along the way, Shasta fell asleep. When Arsheesh made camp for the night, he roused the child only briefly in order to feed him, then tucked him away under his cloak beneath the stars.

*

After the moon had set, yet while it was still dark, the fisherman heard the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats fast approaching. He glanced towards the boy (who had roused at the sound) and murmured, “Stay here.”

When Arsheesh stepped out into the middle of the road, he saw a mail-clad Tarkaan fast approaching. “My lord!” cried Arsheesh, waving his arms above his head.

The Tarkaan made no sign of having heard him, so the fisherman tried again. “My lord! Your servant is in distress, and I’ve a child in my keeping.”

Distantly, a shrill, girlish voice spoke. “Shouldn’t we help them?”

“No Aravis. Hush,” the armored figure replied.

“We should help them,” came the girl’s voice, more firmly than before. “Salma, you’re my horse and I say halt.”

The horse halted.

“Your servant is grateful, O my lord,” Arsheesh said at once. “Yesterday, lions perused my ward and me and our donkey perished in exhaustion. Might your servant render you some service in exchange for aid in reaching Tashbaan?”

“How funny!” exclaimed the girl (who Arsheesh could now clearly see was seated in front of the Tarkaan). “Lions were after us not two hours ago.”

“Indeed,” said the Tarkaan. “What business have you in Tashbaan, peasant? And where is this child of whom you speak.”

“The child is a ward of mine whose family are in Archenland. Your servant must return him hence.” Then Arsheesh turned round and called, “Boy!”

At once, the boy appeared beside him. “Here, father.”

“Didn’t I tell thee to remain where thou wert?”

The boy nodded once, but made no apology.

“Doubtless he’s of northern stock,” said the Tarkaan, inclining his head as if to indicate that he believed Arsheesh’s story. “As it happens, my sister and I go north as well, and we must not be prevented from going. An Archen child in our party would doubtless be a boon. If I may claim your story for my own, I will ride to the nearest village and return with another horse. Then we’ll all travel north together. Will that serve?”

“Certainly, it will,” said Arsheesh, who hardly dared believe his good fortune. “Your servant is grateful.”

“Good,” replied the Tarkaan. “Stay here and hide yourself. I’ll return before dawn. What shall I call you?”

“Your servant’s name is Arsheesh, and the boy is Shasta.”

The Tarkaan nodded. “Very good. I am Ilsombresh Tarkaan.” With that, he flicked the reigns and was gone.  

*

True to his word, the armored Tarkaan and the little girl returned just as the western horizon was beginning to grow hazy. The girl rode the same mare that they’d both been riding the night before (though she couldn’t have been much older than Shasta), but the Tarkaan was mounted on a grey dappled stallion.

“Arsheesh!” called Ilsombresh from the road.

“We’re here,” piped the boy, who till now had not spoken in the presence of the Tarkaan. “Are we going to ride that big white horse?”

“Are you a skilled rider?” Ilsombresh asked. “Is your master? I purchased this horse cheaply because it’s proven difficult to break. If you are not up to the challenge, then Aravis and I will ride him and leave Salma for the two of you. She’s quite gentle, I assure you.”

*

That evening, after a long day’s riding, Arsheesh dismounted the Tarkheena’s mare feeling sore and saddle-weary. He hefted the boy down and set him on the ground. When he turned round, he saw that Ilsombresh had at last removed his helmet to reveal a shockingly youthful face beneath it. The hair on his face was scarcely more than a few whiskers; not nearly enough to make a beard. Why, he was little more than a boy himself!

“If your servant might inquire,” began the fisherman.

“You may not,” replied the Tarkaan.

Once the horses had been tended to, Ilsombresh went into the brush and shot a rabbit with his bow. Arsheesh produced the dried fish from his pack, and he instructed Shasta to go find wood for a fire.

“I can come too!” the Tarkheena exclaimed at once.

As they supped that night, Ilsombresh said to the fisherman, “Supposing you tell us your story in full.”

Arsheesh regarded the boy Shasta for a long moment, wondering how much of the truth he ought to reveal. It is obvious, he thought, that the Tarkaan has his secrets too. Perhaps now is the time to speak truly.

“I am a fisherman, like my father was before me. Yet because of my poverty, I never married and have no child.”

From Shasta there came a sharp intake of breath. “You mean— you aren’t really my father!”

“Hush boy. Do not interrupt me.”

Shasta flinched away from the fisherman for the first time in several days. When he remembered that he was not going to be struck, he crossed his small arms and looked sullen. Arsheesh turned back to his audience.

“Yet in the same year in which the Tisroc (may he live forever) began his august reign, on a night when the moon was full, the gods saw fit to deprive me of sleep. Therefore, I arose from my bed and went forth to the beach to refresh myself with looking upon the water and the moon and breathing the cool air. And presently I heard a noise as of oars coming to me across the water and then, as it were, a weak cry. And shortly after, the tide brought to the land a little boat in which there was nothing but a man lean with extreme hunger and thirst who seemed to have died but a few moments before (for he was still warm), and an empty water skin, and a child, still living. I thought then that they might have escaped the wreck of a great ship, but I’ve come to learn of late that at that same time the crown prince of Archenland was kidnapped. I believe that this boy is that same prince and I’ve a mind to return him to the king and queen.”

“And doubtless fatten your own purse insodoing,” retorted Ilsombresh.

“I expect to be rewarded handsomely,” Arsheesh said, “but your servant is a man of tender heart.”

“Assuredly,” said Ilsombresh, though he sounded incredulous. “Well then. If we are stopped at any point before Archenland, I will say that I came to your hovel while traveling with my sister and that upon speaking with you I realized who the boy must be. I took you as my servant and we are all bound for Archenland together so that I can claim the reward.”

“You, claim the reward? Surely not. I’ve sold all I have in hopes of profiting thusly!”

Ilsombresh harrumphed. “So much for your tender heart. Yet you and your wallet need not fear; I’ve need of your excuses, nothing more. My sister and I are going north for our own reasons.”

The Tarkaan sat back and the fire popped. Shasta still looked thunderstruck, but he knew better than to try to press the issue.

*

They mounted up early the next morning, Arsheesh and Shasta on Salma the mare and Ilsombresh with his sister on the newly acquired stallion. They made good time, but there was unease in the air. Arsheesh still didn’t know why the Tarkaan was fleeing north with his young sister. Shasta had all but stopped speaking to him.

“Boy—Shasta. If you mean to curse me for speaking untruth, do it and quit your sullenness,” Arsheesh said when he had finally had enough. “Thou’ll thank me for my kindness when thou art old enough to appreciate it.”

The boy didn’t answer for a long time and Arsheesh began to wonder if perhaps he had fallen asleep. At last, he muttered, “Is Shasta even my real name?”

“It is the name that I gave thee. Doubtless thy true parents gave thee another, but I do not know what it is.”

“Is that why you always call me ‘boy’?”

“No,” said the fisherman. “It isn’t.”

*

The longer Arsheesh observed the young Tarkaan, the more Ilsombresh seemed less like a nobleman and more like an untried youth. “If it please my lord, what age are you?” he inquired cautiously.

“It does not please me,” replied Ilsombresh, raising his chin and looking proud. “Remember your place, beggar.”

A few feet away, where the two children were seated with their noon meal, the young Tarkheena leaned over and loudly whispered, “He’s fifteen.” A little gasping laugh burst forth from the boy. Arsheesh didn’t think he’d ever heard it before.

Arsheesh leveled his gaze at the young nobleman for a long moment. “One of the poets has said, ‘A boy in a time of peace is a man in a time of war.’ I’d wager the notion applies in the case of our noble patron.”

“Thou haves’t naught to wager,” muttered Ilsombresh, but his face looked smoother now.

The girl Tarkheena, however, was not so easily mollified. “But you haven’t been to war yet. That’s the whole—”

“Aravis! Mind your tongue. One of the poets has also said, “The price of careless talk is paid in blood.’”

“Sorry, ‘Bresh,” she chorused.

Shasta leaned over and whispered something else to the girl, who elbowed him firmly in the ribs. The boy had the good sense to look sheepish, but Arsheesh saw another smile beginning to take shape on his face. It tugged at his cheeks like a fishing line pulled taut.

*

The whole party rose later than intended the next morning, for the young Tarkaan had slept fitfully. As the children made up their bedrolls, Arsheesh went with Ilsombresh to go see about the horses (for although Aravis knew far more of riding than he did, she was nowhere near tall enough to reach all the buckles and straps involved in tacking up.)

“Tis a most peculiar thing,” mused Ilsombresh as he settled the saddle blanked over the stallion’s back. “I bought this fine horse for a pittance because he was ill mannered, yet now he seems as docile as a kitten.”

“No doubt a testament to your exceptional horsemanship.”

“Perhaps.”

*

The moon waned a little, and then the lions came again. Far from any village, Arsheesh was roughly roused in the dark part of the night. Someone was tugging at his bedroll.

Shasta was crouching over him. The child’s face was red and blotchy, but his tiny voice was level when he whispered, “Lord ‘Bresh says for you to get up.”

Arsheesh blinked a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. Across the camp, Ilsombresh was hastily preparing the horses. Coiled around his right leg were the arms of his little sister.

There were lions roaring in the distance. Lions, again. Arsheesh stood and made to join Ilsombresh and the horses, but he paused for a minute before moving. “Are you afraid, Shasta?”

The child bit his lip. “Yessir.”

So Arsheesh scooped the boy into his arms before striding over to join the rest of the party.

Up close, the horses’ eyes were wild with panic, and Ilsombresh himself was little better. “Do they seem to be aware of our presence? Perhaps we ought not flee in haste,” Arsheesh volunteered.

“We cannot remain here. We cannot take the chance! I will not, do you hear me? My sister will arrive safe in Narnia, and if you refuse to go I will run you through with my sword and use your worthless carcass to ward the lions off.”

From her clinging place round her brother’s leg, Aravis choked out a sob.

Arsheesh knelt and placed Shasta down beside her. “Here now, Shasta. Comfort the Tarkheena, yes? That’s a good boy.”

The boy looked uncertain, but he nodded firmly at the charge. He tugged on Aravis’s plait and said, “Aravis. Aravis. Come here. Let the grown-ups talk.”

Slowly, painfully, Aravis released the grip on her brother’s leg and went with Shasta to sit by the bedrolls. Arsheesh turned his attention back to Ilsombresh and his flashing eyes.

“Peace,” he said firmly, placing his hand on the young Tarkaan’s shoulder. “I’ve no wish to see either of the children come to harm. If we must flee, so be it. I only mean to offer an alternative. If we move apace, will we not seem as prey?”

“They can smell us, can they not? If Aravis dies, I shall—”

“You needn’t threaten me further, I understand. Perhaps if we crossed the river.”

Ilsombresh seemed to consider this and Arsheesh breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright,” he said finally. “Let us cross the river and see what comes of it.”

*

The children, seeking to be helpful, had packed away the camp and sitting pressed together and whispering when their guardians finished their conference. “We will cross the river,” said Arsheesh, disentangling the children and hefting Shasta into his arms. “We must make no sound and no sudden movements, do you understand?”

They crossed in silence and dark, Arsheesh with the two children in his arms and Ilsombresh leading the horses (who were as quiet and obedient as anyone could have hoped.) His many years of fishing served him well; he navigated the currents and swells of the river and after ten agonizing minutes, he placed the children on the far shore and waited for Ilsombresh to follow.

The whole party stopped and listened, and presently the sound of the lions began to grow faint. “You see, my lord? They never knew of us.”

Ilsombresh cleared his throat. “I apologize for my rashness, Arsheesh. Your wisdom has availed us all tonight.”

“I am a man of many years, my lord,” replied the fisherman.

*

As the days went on, Shasta’s whispered conferences with Aravis Tarkheena blossomed into a full-fledged conspiracy. The smile tugged on his cheeks quite often now. When Arsheesh told him to gather kindling or to lay out the bedroll, he did it without any sullenness; almost with cheerfulness. It seemed, thought the fisherman, as though he was a whole new boy.

That, in itself, was troubling. Arsheesh had taken the boy in with the thought of putting him to work, and so he had done as soon as Shasta was capable. He was six years old, but he could untangle nets and scrape muck and oh, so many other things. Yet his fearful sullenness had made him inefficient. Arsheesh had gleaned long ago that Shasta could likely work faster if he did not double back and check his work so often for fear of punishment, but what else could he do? Without that fear, the boy would not work at all.

Now, in the face of Shasta’s newfound cheerfulness, Arsheesh was forced to concede that the child was capable of pleasantness and speed in whatever task his small hands were set to do, if only he might smile and laugh as he did it. Arsheesh watched as Shasta and Aravis diligently set about filling the waterskins; how they raced each other down to the river and tossed stones into the water while they worked and squealed with glee as they raced back. Perhaps, in the past he had been overharsh with the boy.

Yes. Well. As one of the poets had said, “A sluggard is he who desires nothing; let the man with a lazy servant discover what that servant desires.” Besides, the King of Archenland would likely prefer a son who laughed to one who only sulked.

*

One night as their party was nearing Tashbaan, Arsheesh woke to find the bedroll beside him empty and cold. Shasta was missing. At once he was awake, scrambling upright and looking round until at last he saw Shasta sitting cross-legged with Aravis beside him. Their heads were close bent together, dark hair and tow side by side in the moonlight, facing the makeshift hitching post and the two horses tied there.

For a moment, Arsheesh considered whether he ought to go to the children and usher them back to bed, but after a moment’s pause he decided against it. Let them have their midnight whispers. They were in no danger and certainly they would return to bed when they were tired enough.

*

“We come to Tashbaan in two days,” Ilsombresh said. The party was seated in a patch of grass, taking their midday meal in the afternoon sun. The horses grazed contentedly a little way off, and the two children were seated so close together that their elbows were touching.

“In two days,” the young nobleman repeated. “It is imperative that no one of our acquaintance should recognize Aravis or myself. To that end—”

“Perhaps the time has come for my lord to disclose what, exactly, he and his sister are running from.”

It was a very bold thing for Arsheesh to say to any of his betters, but he met the Ilsombresh’s gaze and held it nevertheless.

“Yes,” Ilsombresh replied, stroking his barely-whiskered chin. “Very well then. I’ll give the shape of it, at least. Thou hast earned our trust.”

“My father, and Aravis’s father, has lately married a wicked woman (having been bereft of our mother for some years.) She loves us not and covets our father’s inheritance on behalf of her own child, which she is carrying; thus, she arranged for my appointment to the army of the Tisroc (may he live forever), in a place of great peril and in the hope that I should perish. Likewise, she has arranged to send Aravis to dwell in the home of a distant relative, a man of many vices, until she comes of an age to be married. Therefore, I have taken Aravis and made to escape, that such evil things might not come to pass.”

Arsheesh stared, dumbfounded at his blunt admission to deserting the Tisroc’s army.

“Have you any questions?”

Arsheesh opened his mouth and shut it. Finally, “Thou art very brave, my lord. I shall do my utmost to ensure that no one knows of thee.”

A wide smile spread across Ilsombresh’s face at that. “I thank thee,” he murmured. “I have tried to do right. It has not been easy.” He cleared his throat. “And I, for my part, will ensure that thou art well rewarded for the discovery of the Archen prince, eh? North to freedom and fat wallets!”

“Freedom and fat wallets,” Arsheesh softly echoed.

“The plan then. Aravis and I will enter the city with our faces covered: I with my armor and Aravis veiled. We will go to the Foreigners’ Quarter, where we are unlikely to be recognized, and Shasta will remain with us in case we are recognized. You, Arsheesh, will go to the docks and secure passage on a fast ship in the name of your master, Alimash Tarkaan (that’s a cousin of mine). Then, you will sell the horses and return to the Foreigners’ Quarter to meet with us. We will lay low until the ship is to embark, then make our way to the docks and be on our way to Archenland. Is that acceptable?”

“’Bresh,” Aravis interjected, tugging on her brother’s sleeve.

“Yes, my lord. A fine plan.”

“’Bresh!”

“In a moment, Aravis. Now if we have need of Shasta as our alibi—”

“’Bresh, what did you mean about selling the horses? Salma and Bree are coming with us.”

“Bree? I was not aware that thou had named that stallion. I told thee not to, dear. Thou knowst that horses may not come on the ship. I’m sorry.”

“But ‘Bresh, the horses have to come—!”

“I know thou’rt fond of Salma, but I will buy thee a horse when we reach our new home. A better horse, yes?”

Aravis looked helplessly at Shasta, who himself seemed to be rather agitated. “Father, hadn’t we better take the horses? Perhaps we can give them to the King of Archenland.”

“’Please, ‘Bresh. Pleeeeeeaaaaseeee?”

It was at that moment that something miraculous happened.

“Excuse me,” said Salma the mare. “It seems to me that we’re all trying to get free of Calormen in one way or another. Could I—that is, I think it would be sensible if we all were to work together. So that no one gets left behind, I mean.”

Nobody breathed. Arsheesh could only blink at the Tarkaan’s horse, convinced that he was losing his mind. Then, when several long moments had passed, the stallion replied.

“Very well put, madam. Four of us have much better chances of seeing the foals safe in the North than you two have alone—and, I might say, a better chance of getting free ourselves.”

And then all Tash’s hell broke loose.

Ilsombresh drew his sword, but the two children leapt to their feet and raced over to the places where the horses were tied. “Bresh!” cried the Tarkheena. With his child’s fingers, Shasta untied the knot holding the stallion Bree in place. Bree lunged forward towards the young Tarkaan and Arsheesh saw the horses’ fierce hooves preparing to collide with his chest. Ilsombresh ducked and took a swipe at the horse’s feet with his sword, but now Shasta was untying Salma and she was free as well. Arsheesh strode forward and put his hand on Ilsombresh’s shoulder, but the youth roughly shook him away. Shasta crouched very near Salma’s back legs and Arsheesh now turned and moved towards him, meaning to scoop the boy up and at least remove him from harm’s way, but Shasta scooted away, closer to Salma’s legs. Now, Aravis was yelling and Ilsombresh was still brandishing his sword and Bree reared back and then—

Everything stopped. Everyone turned towards the deafening, unmistakable sound of a lion’s roar. It had heard them. It was coming.

Arsheesh recovered his wits first. “If you horses carry us true,” said the fisherman in a rush, “we will see you free in Archenland.” He whirled round to face Ilsombresh. “Yes?”

“On my honor,” Ilsombresh nodded and sheathed his sword.

The lion was at their heels in moments. Both horses broke into a run, but still it gained. Its roar was terrible: so much more fearsome than it had been at a distance, now that it was so very near. Like thunder on the sea, thought the fisherman. Like when a squall comes from nowhere. From in front of him, Shasta whispered something into the horses mane. Arsheesh couldn’t make out the words, but he felt the child’s skin clammy against him.

Bree was the faster horse, and so for all that Arsheesh had gotten the head start, the Tarkaan and his sister had soon outpaced him. He hazarded a glance behind and saw great, white teeth snapping not yards away. The creature’s breath on his back. Claws like bright silver and that thunderstorm-roar.

Shasta’s clammy hands. A squall on the sea. There was a kind of symmetry to it, Arsheesh thought. Perhaps one of the poets might have made some great tale of it, but for now his own mind was dumb with fear. If the lion took down Salma, Ilsombresh and Aravis would escape, but he and Shasta would die. If the lion took him—

“Mercy,” gasped his horse, and the thought came to Arsheesh like lightning.

He leaned low over both child and horse and to Salma he said, “Ride hard and get him to safety. Not Tashbaan: Anvard.” Then, to Shasta, “In Archenland, let Ilsombresh claim the reward. But—tell the King and Queen that I was good to thee.” With that, Arsheesh slid from Salma’s back and landed hard on the ground. The hoofbeats continued on, running at full tilt, and from his pile on the ground, Arsheesh thought, good. He shut his eyes and waited for the lion’s teeth.

*

Arsheesh opened his eyes. His muscles ached from the fall, and he thought that perhaps a few of his bones were broken, but he was not dead. That itself was very strange, and for a moment he dared to hope that the lion had left.

But no. A few paces ahead of him were two enormous golden paws. The claws were still extended, but the creature attached to them was so still that it might have been a statue. Arsheesh held his breath.

“Well then, my son,” spoke the lion. It had a heavy, rumbling voice that seemed to come from all around. “What would you have me do with you?”

Arsheesh flinched backwards and his old muscles complained. What was he to say? First, the talking horses; now the talking lion. Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he had gone mad.

“Do—do you mean to ask how I want you to eat me?”

The lion inclined its head lower, so that Arsheesh could see his face. “That is not what I have asked you,” it said.

Thinking then of Salma’s gasping voice as she ran, the fisherman spoke the only word he could think to utter. “Mercy.”

“Mercy?” rumbled the lion. “Certainly, you shall have mercy in abundance; for you have asked for it.”

With that, it bent its head nearly to the ground, where Arsheesh still lay prostrate, and breathed on him. A bright, tangy scent surrounded him, as though someone had peeled an orange very near his face. The fisherman sat up.

“Arsheesh, son of Altan. Give me an accounting of yourself. How have you treated the child I gave you?”

“You gave me? I plucked the child from the sea one night. There was no lion. I’d never encountered a lion in all my years until I set out on this thrice-damned journey to Archenland.”

There was a glint in the lion’s eye that Arsheesh might have taken to be a smile. “You know not what you speak. It was I who pushed the boat that held the child nearly to shore for you to find. I gave him to you, that you might bring him up and someday see him returned to his homeland. Have you done these things?”

A knot had risen in Arsheesh’s throat. There was no doubt in his mind (if indeed there ever had been) that the creature before him was the lion-demon that the Narnians worshipped. Yet for all the fear he should have felt, he did not really feel scared. It was guilt, not fear, which had lodged itself in Arsheesh’s throat.

“Shasta,” he whispered. The lion looked at him, and Arsheesh began to feel very naked. He wondered if the lion somehow knew how he had treated the child, and only wanted to hear him say it before it devoured him.  

“O Mighty Lion, I knew not of these things. They are too marvelous for your servant, who is but an old and greedy fisherman. I drew the child out of the water seeking only my own profit, raised him to be my slave, and only made to return him to his homeland when it seemed that I might be rewarded for it. If in confessing these things, I have forfeited the mercy you promised me, then do with your servant as you will.” For the second time that day, Arsheesh shut his eyes. Once again, the pain never came.

*

The fisherman Arsheesh arrived at Anvard on a cloudy day. His clothes were threadbare and he carried no supplies, but the gate opened for him as soon as the watchman saw him approach.

He had scarce made it to the courtyard when a young man came running out. He looked like Ilsombresh Tarkaan, but his hair was shorter and there were more whiskers on his chin then there had been two weeks ago. He was arrayed in the heavy furs of the Archen court, and his arms were outstretched.

“Arsheesh!” he cried as the two of them embraced. “You live.”

“Yes. I take it Shasta is here with his true father?”

Ilsombresh nodded. “He is Crown Prince Cor, and he and Aravis are playing with his twin brother in the nursery. The horses—Bree and Hwin—are here too. And now thee.”

“Yes, thanks to the fare that thou left for me at the docks. But come. I would like to see the child, and the King and Queen should know that I’ve spoken with Aslan.”

“Aslan?”

The fisherman laughed. “Oh, my boy. I’ve much to tell thee.”

[lunaetis]

for eden, who is still struggling with her own identity, her meaning of existence, her fate and purpose, and the everchanging role she played in the script, her saying " you are my constant. " to someone has such a deep, gratifying weight to it. this means that person is the only person so deeply rooted to her very core that no matter what had happened, what will happen after, or no matter who she was, who she is, who she might be in the future, you are the only one whose existence would not change in her eyes. to her, that statement is like a fact. so immovable and unchanging. and that makes me emotional every time i think about it.

[suddencolds]

i've def heard of people having to be in the right headspace to write like, v thirsty/self-indulgent snz content, but somehow i find it equally difficult to be in the right headspace to write angst

[sysig]

But would you tho (Patreon)

[girlitfeelsgood]

I'm so nervous about writing an essay for the first time in two years. What if I do horribly 💀

[stiltonbasket]

can we send you asks about a wife by any other name/svsss in general 👀

PLEASE do 👀👀👀👀

[sparky-is-spiders]

Title!

there was teeth in their kiss

Okay so I won't lie, this one really got away from me. I had like three different ideas and I was like "I'll just write a really short scene for all of them!!" only for the "really short scenes" to get... progressively longer. Oops?

I have two Lizardverse fics and one TMA (JE) fic. Because I don't want my Lizardverse stuff showing up in the JE tag and it's also The Longest One, so you can check the notes of this post to read it.

Also gonna be real I wrote these at ass-o-clock at night and Did Not Edit them, so.......

Oh shoot wait warnings! They only apply to the second one (you can stop reading at (Amaldyne)).

Body horror/mouth horror (mild?)

Non-consensual touching (non-sexual/non-romantic, but I figured I should still warn for it just in case)

(Send me a fic title!)

(Important Lizardverse Context (TM): The Overseer is a creature called a Grotle (think ankylosaurus but bigger, spikier, and omnivorous). He's also a very dangerous necromancer. His real name is Mihzarch (pronounced Miz-ark), and these are used somewhat interchangeably. Leoshgon wields a sword called the Godslayer sword. It's a very deadly semi-sentient sword that's bonded to his soul. He's also a Noctar (a much smaller, fuzzier mammal species.))

(Leoshgon) The Overseer liked to put his teeth to Leoshgon's throat. It happened in the night, mostly, when Leo was curled against Mihzarch's heavily plated body, throat bared in offering for the Overseer to do as he would. He was always very gentle, of course, and very careful. As if Leo was a priceless, fragile heirloom, not the most dangerous weapon in the world. But there was a pressure there, and Leo could feel the shape of the teeth even through his mane: the wide, shearing ones in the back; the broad conical incisors in the front, wet with saliva and dreadfully cold. The puff of chilled breath sent shivers down Leo's spine. Leo wasn't sure he liked the sensation, really. It was uncomfortably damp, for one, and also sort of boring to be held in place for so long (aside from that brief spike of fear, which really wasn't fair to Mihzarch at all, because the Godslayer Sword was the real danger here, but- that wasn't the point anyway). But he always bared his neck willingly. And when those massive jaws closed so sweetly around his throat, he leaned into it. And then Mihzarch would let out a happy rumble that sang through Leoshgon's entire body, and all would be well.

(Important Lizardverse Context (TM): Amaldyne is currently a (semi) unwilling servant of the ever-starving god of hunger. Eityr is weirdo freak bestie who want her to become as powerful as possible. Their relationship is. Uh. Weird. Amaldyne is a dragon becoming something More, Eityr is a Noctar)

(Amaldyne) "Show me." Amaldyne didn't look up when Eityr entered the room, nor did she turn to face her. In fact, she did not acknowledge Eityr's presence in any way at all. No matter. Eityr would not be so easily dissauded. Amaldyne's desk was strewn about with massive tomes and piles of documents and about a dozen bits of charcoal. It was as if some great beast of parchment had been savaged and slain atop it, and Amaldyne was trying to read the future in its bones. With a flick of her wrist and a stretch of her power, Eityr relocated them all to the floor, then hopped up onto the now-cleared metal. Amaldyne slowly raised her head to look at her with exhausted irritation written plainly all over her snout. "I want to see," Eityr said, "so show me." "Show you what?" the words were accompanied by a hiss of displeasure, but Amaldyne's wings remained loose and relaxed by her side. Unhappy, but willing to indulge. Were it anyone else, Eityr would find that infuriating. "Something happened, didn't it? There's something-" 'wrong' wasn't the right word. Whatever it was, it must surely be the opposite of 'wrong,' but Eityr struggled to think of an alternate descriptor. "Something happened to you, and I want to see it. Show me." Amaldyne nudged her down off the desk. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Eityr, and I don't have time to engage your every childish whim either, so please-" Sick of waiting and on a whim, Eityr grabbed at Amaldyne's lower jaw and yanked downwards. It split right down the middle, and the insides were coated with teeth that had not been there only a moment ago. Amaldyne let out a proper snarl then, shock intermingled with an animalistic rage. Her tail was poised to strike, stinger gleaming in the low light. But the tell-tale glow of dragonsflame never touched her throat, and so Eityr felt comfortable in running a paw along the seam where Amaldyne's mouth had split. No venomous fangs sank into her fur and no bite crushed the strength from her writs. Of course not. Amaldyne had always been content to let Eityr do as she would, why should this be any different? After a moment, Amaldyne pulled away. Her jaw clicked back together, and she watched Eityr through slitted, appraising eyes. "Satisfied?" She asked? Eityr saw no reason to lie. "No."

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

Opinions on Dream? :^

SO many feelings about him omgg rant under cut please forgive me

okay so i don't really talk or draw him much cause honestly,,,most of the times i just think he's a bit....boring? or more accurately plain? not in a mean way either but just in a 'fades into the background' type of way like don't get me wrong!! he's a really nice friend to his peers, his feelings about his powers and aura making his relationships harder to navigate and trust along with his whole conflict with nightmare and morality about what's good and bad IS very cool!! and i love it whenever they write him to be complex and not on this black and white mentality or when he's just straight up following along his friends with no free will or with a dubious purpose without ever addressing his issues or feelings! it's just unsatisfying to me :')

or when they're making him the 'naive' and oblivious, (sometimes childish?) character being marked as the obstacle and villain along with the other star sanses from the fic's pov, always talking about doing good things while fighting his brother and not hearing him out about the balance, (and for weak reasons most of the time. like it's been so long and you STILL haven't sat down with him when he's, generally, basically begged you to just have a talk? guys please :'( ) or when they go for the victim sad dream always missing the old nightmare, where corrupted nightmare is the incarnation of evil, with no sympathy or emotion except anger and sadistic glee, killing and hurting everyone and dream's just trying to protect the multiverse and dream's always been in the right. such extremes!!!

LIKE!! i hope i'm not the only one that thinks a 500+ year old should have had enough time to idk. learn things? about people and manipulation and deceit? after knowing what the villagers did to night? about the bad things in the world and how there's a lot of grey areas in life and that he maybe reflected on his past enough to process and ask himself if there should to be a convo to settle his differences with nightmare (and you can make nightmare the stubborn one too! or have them BOTH be petty and imperfect and have some things wrong and some right at the same time like why do i always see the good guy vs bad guy cliché with these two when they're the perfect example of why positivity doesn't have meaning without the negativity!! as long as there's a satisfying evolution or growth that doesn't leave me empty i'm good yknow?)

plus i believe dream really isn't as dumb as people view him. i do get some of you saying he probably can't read or write since that's actually a pretty interesting idea to explore! but in general please let him have emotions other than pure sunshiny happiness or endless sadness like he's gotta have more depth than that! let him make mistakes, have flaws that don't just make him the bad guy that's always in the wrong by default, and be angry or suspicious or jealous or bitter or battling his mental health problems/depression or malicious or smart or witty or mischievous and silly or sarcastic or ANYTHING dude i just want him to be put into different scenarios where he can be serious or lighthearted like it doesn't even have to be long or perfect but make him feel real.

it could definitely be that i don't read or see much art about dream or really look for it hard enough but also i just. i feel bad for even saying this fr and i wanna be honest about why i don't enjoy most stories about him cause he always gets the worst treatment along with ink!!! especially ink omg the poor guy has it the worst i think like wow do they mess him up :'(

always one dimensional in non shippy fics, or too plain or easily replaceable by other, more entertaining people in the significant other's life in most of his ships like man. i have read fics out there that made me genuinely FEEL and root for him and love his character so much it restored all hope for me!!! but i can only name one on top of my head and the others? it's been so long i don't even remember their names i just legit feel terrible cause i love him still and i can't find many headcanons that fit my interpretation of him yknow?

not to say people who write him very happy, mislead or sad are ruining him like that's silly- if i see something i don't like i just. move on bro i wouldn't force people to feel or think the same way i do about him cause anyone can have whatever headcanons they want!!! just talking about what i personally look for in him and why i can't exactly find it since most of the stuff out there just isn't my cup of tea :')

hopefully i didn't set anyone off with this rambling opinionated essay i just pulled hhh xD i know i know he's a popular character and i know a lot of people like dream so *sobs* please please recommend me artists and fics about him that you think is good it's been so looong since i've read or seen anything new that makes me attached to this little guy aughg<33333

[cartograffiti]

Fandom: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner - An ongoing series of poem fanfictions. They can be read in any order and do not depend on each other. These were written as treats during the 2022 and 2023 Hamiathes's Gift Exchanges.

A Star Fell at Ianna-Ir A newly discovered tablet telling an adventure of the Medean heroes Immakuk and Ennikar, translated by Baron Pheris Erondites the Younger.

From Gen to Irene: Three American cinquains Three short romantic poems.

Acrostic for a Spy in Roa A poem and its introduction in a collection, photocopied onto a sheet of A4 paper.

Ursa Minor to Ursa Major A rediscovered poem from the juvenilia of Pheris Erondites the Younger.

From Irene to Gen: Three tanka poems Three short romantic poems written in-character.

From Sophos to Gen: A double tetractys A poem about friendship and swimming.

From Relius to Irene: Two limericks Two short poems reflecting on life post-KoA.

These fics were posted in 2022 and 2023. I'm sharing them now because I want my Tumblr to have a nicely organized link to each of my fics. Some I've shared with such inconsistent tags I can't find the links myself, and many I've never blogged about at all!

[lesenbyan]

There are few things worse, I think, than reading a call to action memoir that is so close to right but really should have been shelved for at least 5yrs before going to print so the author has time to learn enough to see all the false equivalencies that really hinder the point

[xnervouscircus]

oh

that's

oh

i'm

i am legitimately tearing up oh wow

[wereh0gz]

Wish my ocs were from pre-established media so I can be insane abt them with other ppl. But alas. They are my ocs and for there to be media of them I need to make it myself