#this is a little stream of consciousnessy

[gourdberries]

Providence a Doflamingo x reader fic Part 1

CONTAINS: dark content (emotional manipulation) otherwise SFW, slight fluff but mostly angst

Tbh I don't think this series will have more than two or three parts but anyways here's part one. It's gonna be sort of a prequel to part 2. Haven't edited it so it's probably gonna be rly stream of consciousnessy. Also, my first time posting here! Reader is written as a brown woman but read her however you like. Hope you enjoy!

You were raised in a brothel frequented by merchants and scholars alike. They would often hold meetings here, sharing information while enjoying a stiff drink and a woman on their lap. Your mother was the favourite of a renowned scholar from Ohara who had been excommunicated from the archaeologists society. An elderly man who decided to spend the last of his years in this brothel. The closest thing to a father that you’ve ever had. He instilled a love for archaeology in you, taught you how to decipher lost languages and made you an expert in ponegliffs at the age of 15.

He died a few years later. It was around that time Doflamingo and his family came into town. They had planned for it to be a short visit. Word had reached them about a girl of 18 who lived in a brothel – a girl that knew how to read ponegliffs. Seeing an opportunity to make money, your mother sold you off to Doflamingo.

Doflamingo knew your worth and knew how to care for you. A precious addition to his crew. You were a rarity, someone who was essential in his quest for divinity. The day you were sold off was the worst day of your life but the life that came after was one you could never have imagined were you to stay in that port town. Doflamingo gave you books, clothes, and a room of your own. Freedom. The family treated you as one of their own and slowly but surely you began to open up to them. Senor Pink took you to see his wife a couple of times, and you grew close to Baby 5 and Buffalo, them being the only members around your own age. You vaguely knew that Doflamingo had dealings in the underground market but you were often left out of business meetings and missions. To you, Doflamingo was an elusive figure. That is until 9 years later, when you witnessed what this man was actually capable of, when the man they call the great heavenly demon brought an entire kingdom to its knees.

“You can leave whenever you wish to.” He noted the fear in your eyes as you gazed down upon the inferno, “Although... as it is now, I don’t think that you’ll find a reason to leave”. You heard his command loud and clear. You realise that this man is a mirage of gentle greatness harbouring pure evil at the core. Tears prickle behind your eyes as you feared that he was just getting started.

“Oh, my sweet girl… you did this”. His large hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head up to face him. “I thank you. I could never have done this without you.” You finally begin to cry at his words. He embraces you and there’s little you can do but let him. Your hands balled up into tight fists, resting on his broad chest.

You couldn’t sleep the first night in his care. “Mother never loved you, she only saw you as profit – nothing but money to be made. You're all alone in this world”. Poisonous thoughts occupied your mind, you needed a distraction. So you sneaked into the library and looked for a book to read. 

Doflamingo was about to enter the library as well, when he caught a glimpse of you. At that moment, he thought that you looked like divine in your stark white nightgown contrasted with long black hair and bronze skin illuminated by warm candle light. You struggled to reach a book at the top of the shelf until you saw a hand shoot up from behind you. Doflamingo grabbed the book and studied the cover, “The Book of Five Rings? Didn’t know that we had this”. His sudden appearance managed to purge your mind of any thoughts of your mother. Completely dumbfounded, the only thing that you could muster up was “Do you read, sir?”

He chuckled lightly as he walked over to a velvet chaise lounge and settled into it with the book.

“Of course you–“ you wished that you hadn’t spoken at all in the first place, "it’s your library after all”. 

“I don’t have much time to read these days.” 

You studied his features for a while, spiky blonde hair and a sharp jawline. He was as handsome as he was intimidating. 

“Uhm… I couldn’t sleep.”

“I see…” 

“I thought I would read instead.”

He looked confused for a short moment until he realised, “Ah, I've hijacked your book.” 

“Oh, no… I’ll read another. I didn’t mean–“ 

He cut you off and pointed to another book “Grab me the blue paperback on the desk there.”  

You grabbed it and handed it to him. 

“I’ll give you back your book and read this one instead.” 

You nodded. “Thank you, sir. I-I’ll read it in my room”

“You can stay,” coming from him, it sounded more like a demand than a suggestion, “Let me keep you company until you feel like you can sleep.” 

You spent the rest of the night together with Doflamingo. In a soothing silence. 

Despite his imposing presence, he has always been gentle with you. Even as he massacred a whole kingdom and turned the king into his own puppet. You knew that you had to leave him, however improbable it may be, you had to escape from this man.

[leatherbookmark]

yknow what i'm trying to make things less stream-of-consciousnessy, and i am actively Uncomfortable. it's not bad per se, it's readable and possibly even more enjoyable because instead of a dense forest you have to machete your way through, there's a neat little path, but also it feels just plain wrong. what is this. who wrote it. why are there only two sentences instead of a detailed description of all body parts aching due to a particular Emotion. ???

it might be because i did a risky thing and wrote the backstory down -- i was struggling to make the dialogue more straightforward while keeping the right level of emotional entanglement and torment, so i had to lay it out in bullet points. risky thing, because i always fear that if i talk or think too much about my projects, i'll end up, idk, "pouring out" all the passion i have for them, and none will remain for me to actually write/finish them. it feels like it's happening right now, and i'm really not liking it! :0000

it's earlylate again, even though i promised myself i'll help my body get rid of the cold and, yknow, go to sleep earlier, so maybe i SHOULD go to sleep earlier, wake up with a clear head and try again, but. augh. can you imagine? losing the steam because i did the normal, GOOD thing and sketched the thing out like god intended? i'd die. i'm praying it's not the case

[pyrrhesia]

FF14Write - ‘Oneirophrenia’

In which words fail Ysabet Sable.

A direct follow-up on Day 12.

Hlessi borrowed from @nerdlordholocron.

Ysabet hadn't slept. She'd slipped into unconsciousness. Then she'd passed out. After a time, she'd laid down and closed her eyes. But she had not slept. Kleskizhae and the rest had carried her back to Fanow, and on her own initiative she'd have stayed there. But instead, she'd been too weak to protest; she had to return to the Crystarium, under observation. She hadn't been back since her arrival, instead failing to get into Eulmore - well, little loss, now they knew the place - before seeking out the Greatwood. There had been celebrations, of course. Another night sky. Another tribute to the heroes of the hour. When she'd first arrived at the city, she'd had the overwhelming feeling of a people simply waiting for death. No drive, no ambition... no future, in the face of the overwhelming dawn. Now, they had some hope. People in the streets smiled at her. But always people were watching her back, watching to see if she'd turn... and she'd be doing the same in their shoes. They had a room for her at the Pendants; apparently it had been left empty for her since her arrival. She excused herself early from the festivities to retreat there. At least here she could establish some kind of order. The first priority, a long bath. She buckled herself out of her beaten armour, allowed herself to soak, staring at the ceiling, listening to the fireworks outside. Eventually, reluctantly, she heaved herself out, slipped into a simple red shift - not at all her colour, but it was what had been left for her - took her journal from her satchel and sat down to write. Of course, it was no mere journal. She liked to consider it her little slice of living history. A beautiful, heavy, leather-bound tome, one she had every intention of bringing back home with her - should she ever make it back home. No matter what happened in her travels, no matter how surreal, its presence in the journal in cold, black ink somehow made it... real. She'd left it at their departure from Fanow to the Ravel, and dipped her quill in ink. Where to pick it up, where to... She wrote of the battered majesty of lost Ronka, of the wisdom contained within. At the best of times, Ysabet's boundless curiosity lead to long-winded diatribes about whatever struck her fancy. Her account of the assault on the primal, Bismarck, lasted three pages, preceded by fifty-eight of Vanu Vanu culture and internal politics. She'd devoted sixteen pages to recounting a single exchange with the dragon Tiamat, and neglected to mention Azys Lla itself. The bulk of what she'd written had concerned Ronka; writing about its crown jewel came naturally to her. Why they were there, and what they saw at the end, however... well, she had to get to it eventually. Our quarry, the Lightwarden 'Eros', stood guard at the end. It proved a ... Ysabet frowned. Her quill hovered over the page, a careless drip of ink spotting the page. How to possibly put into words what had happened? There was a finality to ink. She refused to lie, but could certainly curate the truth. ... puissant adversary. That much was true. And, well, they had won... Yet none of the Lightwardens had proven an insurmountable obstacle, and so ... She dithered once again. What could she write? What more could she possibly write? What words could she use to convey her own fear, the carrion-smell of the thing's mouth, the way it had slavered light? The way its energy had crept into her, the... the things she'd seen? ... the beast was slain. She snapped the book shut, rose, took six sharp steps to her bed and threw herself onto it.

Yet she did not sleep. It wasn't for want of trying, or of exhaustion. Perhaps the night sky was throwing her off after well over a year under an ever-bright sun? Ysabet tried every conceivable remedy. She threw open the balcony and stared at the stars, trying to match them to the constellations of home, writing five pages of frenzied observations about the similarities and differences. She put herself through a difficult exercise routine, to immediate regret. She drank two cups of mulled wine. She pulled her blanket over her head. She screamed into the pillow. Eventually, she gave up, wandering out of her room to loiter by the stairwell. For a moment, she even thought she was alone. "Can't sleep?" Ysabet glanced over to her left, too tired to feel surprise. Hlessi was there. One of precious few viera she'd known back in Eorzea, a towering, raw-boned figure who always gave the disconcerting impression she was looking straight through you. Ysabet had always... liked Hlessi. Actually, her guilty conscience reminded her, she'd felt rather more than that. After all, one of the bodies weaving at her own feet had been-- "No, I can't," she said abruptly, to try and cut off her own train of thought. "I'm not used to the night, anymore." Hlessi cocked her head. "It's just that?" "Yes," she said, automatically taking the out, before checking herself. "No. I mean-- I'm sorry. It's more than that." Hlessi waited patiently for Ysabet to continue, blinking up at her. Ysabet took a long, seething breath through her teeth. "I know I came close to... to turning, at the Ravel." "You saw something, didn't you?" "More than something. I saw myself. Or... parts of me. Desires." Ysabet remembered the figures again. Overcome by shame, she looked away, out one of the windows. "The light wanted me to give in. Cast aside whatever's keeping me from becoming... from just acting on every thought I've ever had, everything I've ever wanted. It knew what I wanted." She heard footsteps drawing closer. "You didn't give in, though. And whatever ugliness you saw, you haven't acted on. It's no crime to think things. I am sure any of us would have faced the same trial." "But it wasn't any of us," said Ysabet sourly. "It was me." And it was her because she was strong, she was powerful enough to stand in the way of the beast, to land the decisive blow. Because she was bold enough to take the chance, and how did the rest of them treat her? Some trace of marble squeezed at her heart, choked her throat, as she let out a ragged, rasping breath, turned back towards Hlessi, white mist beginning to descend-- Her legs buckled beneath her, and she tried to brace herself on the bannister, muttering a string of viera curses. No, no, that wasn't right, she was... she was here, she reminded herself. She was gripping the banister so hard her knuckles were white, she was in the Pendants, she really needed sleep and now her hip hurt like hell. Still Hlessi watched. "I can see you're fighting it." "It's subsiding," Ysabet forced out. "I know-- I know it won't turn me, the danger's passed. But... ahh, the thoughts are at the surface, now. I can't un-think them. I can't un-know that I'm thinking them, either, no matter how much I hate that I am, does..." She realised she was just stammering nonsense. "I've seen the ugliest parts of myself, and they almost took control of me. Does that make any sense at all?" she asked Hlessi, desperately. Somehow, the leaner viera had a smile to offer. "I know you aren't what you saw. If you, Ysabet, see your worst aspects as ugly, if you fight back against them... well, that proves you're more than that, doesn't it? You did not give in, and that matters. You're choosing to be better, and that matters. Perhaps you could be a better person, but you want to be. That matters, too." She took another step closer. "You learned something more about yourself. Perhaps it wasn't what you hoped, but you've never been afraid of truth. Even if you aren't at your best, tonight. How could you be? How could anyone?" Ysabet's head was running on fumes. Hazily, she connected dots as best as she could, and by the time she'd figured out they just about mapped a path out of spiralling into madness, Hlessi had already closed the distance and pressed her tight in a hug. Ysabet slumped forward into it, gratefully, draping both hands around Hlessi's slender back. Her eyes closed, and her breath slowed, and slowed, and slowed... In time, she found her way to a dreamless sleep.

[chrisbrecheenwritingaboutwriting]

I'm still recovering from fires and all the packing/repacking process, so I thought today I might "splat" something a little personal and stream-of-consciousnessy that I've been mulling over for a couple of years now, as I watch the transition from Inktober to NaNoWriMo happen like listening to someone in a Ferrari grind their gears.  

[I don't normally post new articles on the weekend, but this is a special case.]

[firelord-frowny]

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW. 

so like. 

despite my high aptitude and passion for creative writing, I’ve always intentionally avoided ~studying~ writing or literature in any formal or academic way. This contrasts with my approach to music - as a violinist, I pointedly seek knowledge and perspectives from other players, composers, teachers, philosophers, etc. I do those things because I don’t feel at all adept at discovering new things/improving skills exclusively via my own musicianship. I know that I can’t sound the way I want to sound unless I get help.

Writing, on the other hand, is something I feel totally confidant and capable with. Every word, upon reading it back to myself, feels like it’s exactly the way I wanted it. It’s SUCH a core part of my identity as a sentient and corporeal life form, and I feel like any attempt to intentionally broaden my own abilities via studying other people would diminish my own self-concept. Everything I write is totally Me.

So, I say all this to arrive at the point that I don’t actually know shit about the various ~styles~ of literature like, idk, stream of consciousness, or allegory, or transcendentalism, blah blah blah. Which, obviously, means I’ve never associated my own style with any label. Like, I flat out would not know what to call it - not because it’s necessarily sooooooooooooo unique (which, maybe it isn’t!) But because I simply, literally, just do not know what the options even are to begin with. 

But just now, because impressionism is my ABSOLUTE FAV style/era of classical music, I decided to learn a lil bit about impressionist literature, and the traits that distinguish it as such. 

Y’ALL.

My style of prose/creative fiction??? 

IS IMPRESSIONISTIC!!!! 

I never kneeeeew! Omfg! And like, how fucking fitting!!! That my taste in music is directly parallel to my taste in writing!

Impressionist music, a la Debussy and Ravel and Satie, doesn’t rely so much on clear structures of rhythm, harmony, and melody in the way that other eras rely on it. Impressionist music meanders and shifts and hovers in a quasi-tonality that kinda allows the listener’s own tastes to interpret their own idea of harmony. Or something. The melody is over here but OH WAIT now it’s over there but OH WAIT is that even the melody?? when did the melody become the harmony? OH WAIT-... etc. Impressionist music is like a dream - beautiful and evocative and ethereal and saturated with feeling, yet you can’t recall the actual substance beyond just a vague, shimmering gist.

And apparently, impressionist writing is similar in that, for instance, instead of straight up saying “an abandoned, condemned house,” you muse about boarded up windows. Graffiti on the walls. Chipped paint. Rust. Inside, the carpet is torn from the floor. Musty, moldy air. Evidence of squatters - dirty clothes, syringes, fast food bags and wrappers, syringes. Cables and valves sticking out of the wall where a fridge used to be. The descriptions are conceptualized via highly specific metaphors that are informed by the narrator’s own personality, interests, motives, flaws, fears, and hopes.

An impressionistic narrative is easily distractible. You’re immersing the reader in the experience of this abandoned house, but you mention the fridge hookup and it causes you to bring up that when you were little, you used to wonder how the fridge was able to dispense water despite not being near the sink, and that causes you to mention how hurtful it was when your dad said you were “good for nothing” because you didn’t know how to install a household appliance.

Which, I mean, I guess that kind of shit is stream-of-consciousnessy as well, but

woooooooooooooow. 

i’m so fascinated! literally never considered that my artistic identity was consistent across mediums.

[chrisbrecheenwritingaboutwriting]

It's a Patreon week here at Writing About Writing as I work on a number of project for either my patrons or Patreon itself. I've spent the last day and change doing this virtual interview that they'll be using in some kind of internal film. Tomorrow I'm going to start the Monthly Newsletter. By Friday I'm going to have some kind of Early Access post.

In the meantime, here are the three best posts from April.

If You're Reading This I wrote something on the night I came down with Covid-19 hoping to hell that I would wake up and erase it. This didn't happen. I ended up being pretty damn sick.

April, Covid-19, and Writing About Writing (Personal Update) A lot of April's posts were a little personal and stream-of-consciousnessy, but they did get a lot of views.

A Writer's Guide to Working At Home (Part 2 of 3) One thing writers have been doing for a long time is working from home, so let me give you some advice on how to nail it.