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[writing-domain]

It's time to share my addition to the hurt/comfort exchange 2025!

This year, the collection gathered over 300 works, including mine - I created not one, not two, but three works for the exchange! How cool is that! From three different fandoms at that!

I wrote for All For The Game, DSMP and Original Work.

CWs can be found in the end notes of all works.

There's Fire At Will, a work from the fandom All For The Game by Nora Sakavic. It's hurt/comfort, an AU focused on what would happen if Neil was the only one picking Andrew up from the hospital. It's fairly short, a little over 1k. Has some swearing, and references to canon-typical violence. I really enjoyed writing the tension between the two.

Andrew’s fingers drummed on the handle, but held the door open for Neil until he safely made it onto the pavement. “Did you hit your head too when you let yourself get beaten bloody, or is the staring a fun side effect?” To an onlooker, Andrew’s voice would sound completely level. Neil detected an edge to it he wasn’t sure how to interpret. “Let’s go.” If he didn’t know Andrew, Neil would say he sounded scared.

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I wrote for the fandom I've been in on and off for a few years, but never written anything for, DSMP. Gold is in the eye of the beholder follows Philza around the Butcher Army arc, and is a canon divergence around that time. It's a bit over 1k. Loved writing a miserable Phil, since the story focuses mostly on his POV during the streams.

On the day a guillotine appeared on the town’s square, Philza’s captors found his almost-finished tunnel. The young President waited for him in the basement, all fake smiles and disdain boiling under his skin, with two of his most trusted followers in tow. Both guards towered over the man – the boy, he was just a boy wearing a skin of a grownup – yet no one could mistake him for anything less than a fearless leader. His eyes tracked Philza’s every move, too weary to belong to a child. In the quiet moments, Phil mourned the death of the President’s innocence.

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Then we have Reflecting on stars, an original piece I'm really proud of, since I had to come up with the whole new world and flesh out the characters. It's sci-fi, but more down to earth. Its main character, Salem, is a retired general that's been sent to a distant planet, Lem. The story is character driven and there's a lot of angst. Really hope to write more about Salem and her love interest, Mar. The story is almost 4k and it's F/F.

Salem woke up in an unfamiliar bed, sweat dripping on the rough bed sheets. Over her head, there’s a lone window illuminating the mess she’d left on the floor. Were she still a private, her superior would tear her to shreds for leaving muddy boots near her bed. Then again, in her youth there was no mud to sully her soles, neither was there a Colonel to yell profanities at her for not cleaning the dirt that has already crusted on the wood floors. A pang of longing makes Salem look outside, where the Suns have yet to set. The twenty-hour cycle of the planet would take a toll on her, she heard when her feet first touched down, blood still fresh under her fingernails, but it would feel much better than the Federation’s strictly regulated day-night cycle. There was one word she heard Naturals call such situations, and Salem thought it described the situation she’d found herself in quite well. Hell.

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Congratulations to everyone who participated this year! It was a blast 😊

[writing-domain]

Get your contrast on this Juxtaposition July at the Prompt Foundry!

Whether things be opposite, just different, or two sides of the same coin, placing one thing in juxtaposition to another can create interest and nuance you wouldn't get from either on its own.

If you use this list, please tag me here @thepromptfoundry, I’d love to see your writing and art!

Feel free to combine different days' prompts with each other, or combine them with other events! Create fanwork, invent something original, give us some academic analysis, make art that's all vibes, whatever tickles your fancy.

Respond to as many prompts as you want or as interest you, don’t worry about missing or skipping any. Remember, this is supposed to be fun!

If you have any questions or musings, check our FAQ, and if you don't find your answer, shoot me an ask.

Plain text list below the cut:

1 Light – Dark 2 Old – Young 3 Hurt – Healed 4 Chaos – Calm 5 Far – Near 6 Hot – Cold 7 Reckless – Reserved 8 Little – Big 9 Future – Past 10 Quiet – Loud 11 Cowardice – Bravery 12 Smooth – Rough 13 Bright – Dull 14 Ordered – Jumbled 15 Evolution – Stagnation 16 Skepticism – Belief 17 Broad – Narrow 18 Lost – Found 19 Trapped – Free 20 Passion – Apathy 21 Bend – Break 22 Absence – Presence 23 Familiar – Strange 24 Life – Death 25 Long – Short 26 Formal – Casual 27 Create – Consume 28 Fantasy – Reality 29 Masculine – Feminine 30 Fast – Slow 31 Beginning – End

[writing-domain]

Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Halt O'Carrick & Will Treaty Characters: Will Treaty, Halt O'Carrick, random oc - Character Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Found Family, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Dad Halt, POV Outsider Series: Part 1 of Overture Summary:

Halt and Will’s relationship throughout the years, through other people’s eyes.

 The fic has spoilers for the first four books, although it’s rather minor.

Basically a prompt that got a little bit out of hand.

Alternative title: 5 times someone thought Halt and Will were a family and one time they realised they really were.

It’s an old one, so if you’ve seen it, hi! If you haven’t - hi to you as well. I’m making an attempt at promoting my work more, hope you can excuse the shameless promo haha

If you want to hear more about why I wrote it, you can read more below the cut.

So this is an old one, I never really shared it on here, I don't think. I wrote this in a sort of in-between period of my life when I wasn't sure I wanted to continue on with my studies, didn't know how to live my life. 

Having a sort of fluffy story to come back to helped a lot with the anxiety of a new chapter of my life. I guess in a way, I needed some stability. I remember going on a trip at that time, on a writing camp, and reading the first four or five books on my library app on my phone. The first draft was made then, too, handwritten on loose A4 sheets I ‘borrowed’ from the office.

RA wasn’t the book of my childhood (that title goes to Sheepfarmer's Daughter by Elizabeth Moon, and equal parts Discworld and HP), but it was influential. I was always a sucker for a good action story with a training montage, and RA is just that - an underdog becoming stronger and learning to embrace his flaws, rising above his adversaries? Who doesn’t love that? If you’re curious, my favourite is "Oakleaf Bearers"/"The Battle for Skandia", of course.

Family Ties was also the first (or one of the first, I cannot remember) stories I wrote since 2018, and definitely the longest up to that point. Then came its sequel, Carry on my wayward son, focused on one of my favourite characters in the Ranger’s Apprentice saga - Gilan. More about that later, haha. I just can’t get enough of that wet cat.

I must confess, it’s not my best work, I was still struggling with English (it’s not my native language), and with my identity as a writer. Come to think of it, I still haven’t made peace with either, lol My English is still of debatable quality, but if I’m being honest... I would say I have more nuance in my work, now. Also, more range, I hope. (ha, range, get it? cuz it’s ranger’s--)

[writing-domain]

Big heads up, I will be spamming my works on here (remembered about this side blog haha), so if you don't want to see it, block the "my fic" tag for the time being ;)

[writing-domain]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Murderbot (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dr. Gurathin & Dr. Gurathin's Mother Characters: Dr. Gurathin (Murderbot Diaries), Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: Introspection, Character Study, Minor Character Death, Blood and Gore, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, episode 6 coda Summary:

A little peek into what could go through Gurathin's head at the end of episode 6, going a little deeper into his past.

Coda for Murderbot TV show season 1, episode 6.

Wrote a wee MB fanfiction! 

You can read it here under the cut, or on ao3 😊

For Gurathin, there was never a moment of silence in the literal sense – he spent his every waking moment connected to the network, data swirling around him, through him. Having been in the state of constant awareness for decades, he rarely experienced moments of silence. Of stillness. He was used to the fast-pace, welcomed the overwhelming intake of information.

When the SecUnit blew Leebeebee’s brains out, everything came to a halt.

No sound.

No feed at the back of his mind, pinging to grab his attention.

Just… Silence.

Pure, unadulterated silence.

He could see, clearly as if he was watching a recording, Pin-Lee’s head thrown back in either maddening laughter or a silent scream, Arada’s shocked expression, SecUnit’s masked face, its body clad in armour. Someone was talking, a distant buzz of an insect’s wings, and it took him a moment to link it to Ratthi. His lips were mouthing words Gurathin didn’t hear.

This low buzz muted everything. Then, he heard something that was more of a dull thud, like a beat of the drum. In the silence, it was louder than a gunshot.

He could feel his own pulse in his chest, ears, even his head throbbed, bizarrely tight, like Leebeebee had shot him there instead of his leg, an injury he felt strangely indifferent to. Gurathin’s mind swirled around the idea, even grasping the meaning of being shot at, but the implication eluded him.

A movement caught his eye, and Mensah appeared beside the SecUnit, or had she been standing behind it the whole time? Gurathin wasn’t sure. It felt strange, to not know, he was usually the one to notice things like that first, his brain hardwired to solve issues before they arouse.

He saw how her mouth moved, eyes bulging as they darted from Gurathin and what was left of Leebeebee to SecUnit and back. Clearly, it was an important message. He really should focus. And yet no sound reached Gurathin’s ears. Not a peep.

He noticed, belatedly, that he was drizzled in blood.

The port behind his ear itched, demanding attention, and when he reached out to touch it, Gurathin found himself watching the scene unfolding before him from the distance, slowly drifting up, up.

He looked into Mensah’s warm eyes.

The bright Sun of the planet they temporarily inhabited shifted into the artificial light of a spaceship, and he could finally put a finger on what the silence reminded him of.

The spaceship buzzed with machinery vital to keep the human cargo alive.

“Stay still” said a construct, and a warm, familiar hand gripped his shoulder painfully, his mother’s fingers digging into the tender flesh of his skin. “Follow the instructions and surrender all weapons.”

Someone’s fingers brushed the tender skin behind his ear, and Gurathin questioned why he was surprised to find it smooth. He felt like something was supposed to be there.“Get out.” His mother’s voice was cold, and it took everything not to surrender to the command. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Gurathin looked down at his hands with an awkward sensation of being in a wrong body. The floor swayed. Or maybe he was just about to faint. His thigh hurt.

“The boy was not authorised for this journey.”

The mask turned to Gurathin, and he saw in his mind’s eye the emotionless face twitching as the construct searched the network for more data. He had seen it do that a few times already. The question was, where had he seen it? Gurathin couldn’t remember if any construct had revealed its face to him.

The air around them was stale, as was everything else on such spaceships, where companies didn’t care enough to install a proper air filtration systems.

He could taste the rancid aftertaste of the reused air on his tongue.

“I can’t leave him alone, he’s eight.”

That’s right, he was eight. Eight and hidden in his mother’s cabin, fed leftovers and processed water. He remembered it, now. How he begged not to be left alone in their home, clutching his mother’s arm as she carefully peeled away his tiny fingers, even though his grip left white marks on her skin.

He remembered crying with relief when she stuffed him into a Company-approved bag, only to choke on his wishes hours later, after the weight of someone’s duffle being placed on top of him knocked the air out of his lungs. It wasn’t even the worst he’d endured that night.

Gurathin’s mother tried to push him to the side, but was stopped by a low chime. Even though he couldn’t see her expression, as his mother’s face was cast in shadow and smoke, he knew the tremble in her hands very well. A pang of guilt and pain gripped his heart when he heard a wet sound from where the enemy stood.

The skin of the construct’s arms pulled back, tissue folding until the limb resembled nothing more than a mechanical part, hollow skin flapping from the elbow uselessly.

“You’re advised to surrender the unregistered asset to the authorities.”

Never before had he seen a gun in real life, but as all young children with unlimited access to the network do, he’d seen weapons in the shows before. He’d cheered, seeing guns in the hands of heroes, and bit his lip in anticipation when the Bad Guys handled them. On the screen, they seemed harmless. Fun. When the Good Guys were hit, they always survived.

Like all children raised in the Company, Gurathin knew better than to believe in the stories told in the films.

In real life, guns were deadly.

He couldn’t help the twinge of disappointment that coursed through him when the construct first revealed the firearms. The gun looked less impressive than on the screen, more like a toy than a deadly threat.

The construct’s bony arms were steady, unlike Gurathin’s whole body he knew shook uncontrollably.

Air came in shallow gasps, lungs squeezed by invisible force.

“Mum?” he whispered, and the hollow barrel of a gun turned in his direction.

“Quiet.”

“Hand over the asset.” The construct sounded distant, in the way Gurathin learned to associate with it connecting to the network. “Remain in place.”

Gurathin’s mother froze, arm hovering over the place he knew she hid a gun of her own. “Why, I just got an itch.”

“I repeat, cease your movement.”

Gurathin tried to speak again, to call her name, but this time he didn’t even get out a single sound. Fear held his throat tightly. He didn’t want to be there, staring at this thing. The hand on his shoulder spasmed, and Gurathin bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from weeping.

“Get down, Gura.”

Two things happened at the same time, as much as Gurathin’s mind could tell.

His mother bolted for the gun again, tiny body moving impossibly fast. Her hand brushed the compartment, but Gurathin knew it was too late.

A gun was discharged faster than he could blink.

Something wet hit his face, coating his face in sticky mess, filling his lungs with a suffocating stench of iron and heat. He didn’t dare blink.

There was a hole in his mother’s body, and Gurathin couldn’t find in himself the will to move even a finger to grasp what was left of her.

“Your contract has been passed down to your closest relative.” The faceless mask turned to look at Gurathin. A chunk of Gurathin’s mother landed on the side of its neck, slowly sliding off the armour until the bloody mess landed on the ground. The construct shook uncontrollably. No. It was Gurathin whose body shook, shoulders hitching high, his thigh twitching in pain. “Your debt is-”

The masked construct looked to its side, and then it was bright again, but the blood was still on his face, in his hair.

Gurathin was an adult again, but he could feel the insides of his mother, the blood of this stranger, on his skin, blood working its way under his skin until it was wedged inside his muscles, like a parasite Gurathin could never get rid of, no matter how red his skin was after a shower, how his body ached from the merciless scrubbing.

The SecUnit stormed off, its back cut open, spine fully exposed.

His mother stood in front of him, speaking in a low voice. It was weird, he thought through the haze. His mother was long dead.

This person’s touch on his shoulder felt like that of his mother, reassuring and warm.

She asked if he was alright. He read it from her lips, like he had many times before, when the Company took away his hearing as punishment.

Was he? Alright?

He nodded, or tried to nod. The tremors in his body only just started, lungs collapsing on themselves as panic rose in his chest.

Gurathin was back in his body, and yet not, numb limbs refusing to work as intended. He was simultaneously too tall, and too short. It hurt to think.

The ringing in his ears subsided slightly, letting in his mother’s whisper.

“Are you hurt?” she asked him, her eyes widening when they followed his line of sight. “Oh, Gura, we need to tend to this!”

He nodded, suddenly wrung of all energy. His eyes were dry.

The touch on his shoulder was familiar. Gurathin let himself drown in it.

“Mum?” he mouthed, buzzing growing louder again, “Mum?”

Gurathin was eight again, and a gun pointed at his mother fired again, and again, and again, until he found himself pulling away from the hurt, away from the world that let his mother die a useless death.

The hand on his shoulder drifted to his face, brushing away some of the sticky mess on his cheek.

“I’m here.”

Gurathin let himself drift.

[writing-domain]

Page 6 out of 20-page manuscript, and I keep stopping to marvel at my brainchild.

Like, it was me who wrote this! Me! My brain came up with that!

Heck yea!

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Writing in a fandom I haven't touched in two years... Any guesses?

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[writing-domain]

Attention Ranger's Apprentice fanfiction authors!

I am hosting fanfiction writing event! In this event, every participant will write their own little story/statement/interview based on the prologue. Think of it as writing a ra fanfic Detective Conan episode but the plot is vastly different from Detective Conan.

So that you know what you are signing up for, I've added the prologue here. Also, the deadline for finishing your story wont be before mid September, so that everyone can enjoy writing the gathering prompts freely and without pressure!

If you like this and want to join, please DM me and I'll send you the rules.

If you have questions, also DM me!

[writing-domain]

Did I just come up with the silliest AU for one of my fandoms? Maybe. You'll never prove it was me.

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An excerpt from something I'm working on:

Yes, it's kind of an RPF but not exactly.

I kind of find this dialogue funny in a greater context, you'll see 🙈 Hope y'all like it as much as I do. It's a gen btw, although there is a lot of subtext and funny situations.

Will probably post in January, fingers crossed.

[writing-domain]

Can't decide how I should write my last whump piece of this year... Do I put a lot of suffering inside, or do I add a little comfort at the end?

If you want to avoid spoilers for this month, I put spoilers below the cut ;)

This month's fandom is The Witcher, by the way!

The theme I got (a randomiser picks me a theme each month) is *grief*. So, heavy stuff. I'm debating whether I should discard it. Don't want to write "whatever" and that is a very heavy topic. Available were:

grief | stranded | rescue

Do, I don't know. I have an inkling of an idea for the short story, though.

[writing-domain]

Thinking of opening writing comission, because unemployment hit me harder than I thought it would.

[writing-domain]

Kaz carefully set the leather to the side with a flick of his wrist. They watched, mesmerised, as he flexed his fingers like an apt musician before the show.

“You know how to play?” Wylan was the one to end the silence, and Jesper was ready to grant him thousands more kisses that night. “Didn’t peg you for a type.”

Kaz shot him a glance from under his hideous haircut. “Talented?”

“Stuck up.”

[writing-domain]

I’ve got another fic in the works!

This time it’s a fandom I’ve been in for quite some time, although I’ve never written anything for it, and a new concept (for me).

I’m excited for it, hope you’ll enjoy it as well :D

Here’s a hint.

[writing-domain]

Lay your weary head to rest

Summary: Will and Halt fight, Gilan’s there to pick up the pieces. It has to get worse before it can get better.

Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Halt, Will, Gilan

Read on AO3 here

Words: 3 173

Chapters: 2/2

Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Referenced drug use, angst, touch-starved

Rating: Teen and Up

Gen

Excerpt under the cut:

There was someone lurking on Gilan’s porch. They were quiet, soft steps nearly impossible to catch even in the dead of night. It should worry him, this presence. And yet Gilan patiently finished his rapport, the stranger accompanying him from the outside. Putting away his quill, he stretched the sore muscles in his back, cursing the amount of paperwork that fell upon him. It has been a few hours past sunset, the full moon casting faint shadows on the clearing. The clouds were not letting through much light.

 Gilan looked outside and froze when the dark silhouette appeared for a split second. Hastily but silently reaching for a bow, he made his way to the door. The floor of his house had creaky floorboards that he cultivated and avoided if a need arose to remain silent. The door’s hinges worked on the same principle, every Ranger knew how to make their cottage move the way they needed. He grabbed his sword and pushed forward.

 From the crack between the door and the frame, Gilan had a good outlook on the glade backed in the moonlight. He had expected the stranger to lurk directly behind the door, ready and waiting. Instead, as he peeked through the crack, he saw a petite frame of someone curled up on his front porch.

 “Will?” the name came out in a whisper.