#I have wips started but nothing concrete yet

[monsterfloofs]

🍓 Maestro?

Maestro!! 💖💖💖

💧 Maestro actually has a leaf taken out of a book from an older character I had made. . . gosh, years ago! A ghost named Ulysses who haunted a theater with his brother. Uly was of a very similar temperment! Not a musician though, he was an actor. Stuck up, a dash of snobbery and actually a lil over dramatic romantic side if you EVER got to see it! Both have quite a temper on them, but I do have to say Uly is probably the more energetic of the two. An actor through and through. 😏

💧Maestro had a issue with his cousin, a relationship that ended in travesty when said cousin took a song he wrote, unknowing that Mae composed it himself and used it to boost his career. It was an accident and miscommunication of a younger kiddo looking up to an older and cooler family member and wanting to emulate them, but Mae has never forgiven Angelo for that.

💧 Maestro is also a picky eater, and he also tends to forget to take care of him in the thralls of creative inspiration.

💧 He is ridiculously socially awkward, so he has been trying to write a song for the protag. in an attempt to tell them how he feels. Nothing he seems to compose feels good enough though! ^^ )

[momhwa-agenda]

debating on writing for blue pongtiwat............we'll see

[gyokujyn]

WIP Game ♡

rules: you will be given a word. share one sentence / excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

Tagged by @amaraangelicus

My word was COMFY and, ironically, none of these snippets are terribly comfortable.

Under this cut, you are going to find slurs, gore, violence, sexualised violence, implied sexual assault, antisemitism (there are Nazis), and implied torture. I write difficult, dark subject matter, particularly exploring self-hatred and grief. Please take care of yourself and proceed with caution.

C - As-yet unnamed Bucky-centric Wakanda recovery fic

“Cause I didn't expect to be able to dream,” he said finally.

“In the stasis tube?” Shuri clarified and he nodded, shrugged, shrank in on himself.

“With HYDRA, I felt like I was dreaming all the time.  Like a waking nightmare.  I couldn't string my memories together in a coherent line.  People or places would come to me, but I couldn't remember why they were important or how they were connected.  The only thing that mattered was right now, the only thing I could keep a grip on was what was right in front of me.  Then, they'd shove me back in the ice and there was nothing.  I would close my eyes and when I opened them, the nightmare was back, like no time had passed at all, and they'd burn out whatever I could put together and start over.  But, I never really…. I don't really remember sleeping under HYDRA.  Just mission after mission, and in-between them, cryo like the blink of an eye.  I think they knew that sleep healed me because there were times I was kept out so long, my body'd start shutting down.  The drugs wouldn't keep me up forever; even super soldiers breakdown at some point.  And, when I slept, I remembered.  So, instead they would shove me into cryo as soon as they could and shut me down like flipping a light switch.”

“Their cryogenic process was barbaric, just freezing you like meat.  Our stasis tubes put your cells in a state of regenerative hibernation, but, even so, the only times I have heard of patients dreaming is those who have taken of the heart shaped herb." She hopped down off the bed and paced for a moment, the way he'd learned meant she was working out a problem. She tipped her head side to side, eyes on the ceiling, then looked back to him, "Perhaps, some part of your enhancement is close enough to my brother's that you also visited your ancestors."  A sudden seriousness, so unlike the princess, overtook her and she narrowed her eyes at him. "What was it like?”

He thought back to twilight in Brooklyn, feet dangling from a fire escape, a face in every window of the alley, and more stars overhead than he'd ever seen before coming to Wakanda.  The scent of his mother's perfume is already fading in his sense memory when he replies, “It felt real.”

O - As-yet unnamed Bucky!Cap WinterBaron fic set in WW2

On the air is the thick smell of smoke.  Bucky’s in the dancehall in Brooklyn with the ugly, fake Roman arches around the stage, but he’s in the back by the bar.  And he’s draped over a barstool next to Sandra Singer with her honey brown eyes and fingernails purple like a bruise.  She’s smoking the Marlboros he started buying to pick up dames and he’s digging his fingers to the knuckle into her curled hair while he licks the taste out of her mouth.  They’re hot and heavy in the alley by the butcher’s and the smoker must be working overtime because it’s cloying and her laughter sounds like shouting as he buries himself in the nape of her neck, hot and suffocating as she presses him against the brick.  He licks a line along her throat and coughs out dirt and ash as he pushes himself up out of the wreckage.

On the air is the thick smell of smoke.  Bucky’s in the rubble of the factory in Kreichsberg and he’s buried under crumbled concrete at the edge of the building when he comes to.  He’s propped up on his arms, both dirt stained and black with soot.  His mouth tastes like the inside of an ashtray, every shallow breath like embers, but he can’t worry about the taste right now because he can barely breathe. He’s gasping like a fish on the rocks at Coney Island in the summer, but there’s something in his throat and gasping gives way to wretching and suddenly he’s coughing up the rest of the ashes out of his lungs, along with what appears to be most of the lining of his throat and lungs.  He can still hear the shouting nearby, but it’s not close enough to worry about, yet, not when he finds himself staring at parts of him he’s sure should remain inside and it’s another long moment before he can wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and gather himself enough to stand.  Dragging his feet up towards his chest, he pushes himself up miserably, skin feeling sharp and bright beneath the layer of grime he’d accumulated.  The first landmark he spots is at the top of the last wall standing.  It’s that useless door he’d been inching his way towards when everything went to hell and he realized at that moment that he’s a good 200-feet from where he had expected to die on the opposite end of the factory.  That backdraft was a bitch.

M - As-yet unnamed Bucky/Peggy fic where they hatefuck in their grief over losing Steve at Kreichsberg THIS BIT IS EXPLICITLY LEADING UP TO A RAPE SCENE AND SHOULD BE READ WITH CAUTION

Mangled clicking sounds cut through the quiet of the room as she struggles to choke out his name.  She’s shredding the skin of his hand with her nails, tears falling down her cheeks and stinging in the wounds, but he just shakes her a bit by the throat, like a wolf worrying its prey.

As suddenly as it had begun, the fight leaves him and his grip on her loosens.  She gasps, gulping in air desperately, coughing and gagging as he falls to his knees at her feet.  He's shaking, hands and arms wrapped around her calves.  She stares down at him in horror, panting, scared to move and trigger another attack.

“Did you fuck him in the end?”

She blinks slowly, her voice wrecked when she finally croaks, “what?”

Bucky looks up at her, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, “You heard me.  Did you fuck him?” He repeats, moving his hands up her legs, wrapping the hem of her skirt in his fist and pushing it up her thigh, “Will I taste him on you?”

F - As-yet unnamed Stucky/Steggy law enforcement AU with felon!Bucky, LEO!Steve, DA!Peggy

For a moment, Bucky was taken off guard, his shock written clearly across his features in the face of Steve’s aggression and it should have settled something in Steve, but it only stoked it.  Bucky let his face melt into a smirk, his voice pitched low, just for Steve.  “Blue is my color.”

“Yeah,” Steve growled, hissing right in Bucky’s face, teeth bared.  “Really brings out the convicted felon in your eyes.”

But, Bucky saw the opportunity for what it was and he wasn’t letting it go.  He leaned forward into Steve’s space, running his hands up Steve’s thighs slowly, “Oh, Steve, c’mon, do you even try not to think of me when you’re fucking her?  Or, do you put her on her belly with her ass up and shove her face into the pillow, huh?  So you don’t have to look at her or hear that whiny fucking voice when you’re–”  Steve’s knuckles connect with a dull thud, barely audible over the clattering of Bucky’s chair toppling over.  The first time shuts him up, the second puts him on the floor along with a spray of fresh blood from his broken nose.  Steve’s snarling and panting, raised fist poised to go again, but he contains it.  He breathes through it.

Y - As-yet unnamed (is this sounding familiar yet?) Bucky-centric fic, this scene is during his first capture by Hydra, when he is first selected for Zola's program.

“You are a Jew?” the interrogator asks him.  It’s a simple question and Bucky doesn’t want to respond.  His jaw trembles open and shut as the fresh tears track down his muddied cheeks.

“Barnes,” he starts, finally, “James Buchanan.  Sergeant–” and the soldier in front of him just nods slowly.

“You are a Jew.”  It’s no longer a question and the soldier begins barking orders to the guards who have stopped stringing him up.

“Wait,” Bucky jumps in as they unbind his hands, but it’s all happening so quickly, now.  They drop him unceremoniously on the floor.  His pants are still around his thighs and he fumbles to pull them back up, his stomach lurching, “No, wait, look at my tags.”  They’re not even listening to him, and he knows this, but he can’t stop the words bubbling out of him as his numb fingers clumsily wrestle with the buttons of his trousers, “My tags say I’m Catholic!”  The guards ignore him, hauling him up by his armpits and dragging him towards the door.  His voice rises frantically as he pulls back against them, pulling out his dog tags as evidence, “Look at my tags!  Look!”

The interrogator is calm as he grabs him by the face, his long fingers digging into Bucky’s jaw as his hand covers his mouth like a mask, “I understand, Sergeant.  Barnes, James Buchanan.  You are not only a Jew, but also a coward,” his gut wrenches again with the truth of it.  At least he’d stopped crying. “Nevertheless, you may prove useful to us, yet.”

no pressure tags: @katie-delaney and @blackwood4stucky

Katie, your word is LUSTY

Aspen, your word is TWIST

If anybody else wants to join in, try the word STORY

[sylveon-official]

more huskerdust mpreg wip

Part 1 here!

“Princess, we have a fuckin’ problem,” Angel whispers heatedly, voice shaking as he guides Charlie into his room and shuts the door.

“Oh no, Angel, what’s wrong? What can I do to help?”

Angel cuts to the chase, shoving the photographs into her hands. Charlie stares down at the images quizzically, then cocks her head to the side as she looks up at Angel Dust with clear confusion written on her features.

“Angel, are these ultrasound pictures? Why—”

“Because it’s mine, Charlie,” Angel hisses, then points accusingly at his slightly distended middle. 

Charlie blinks once, twice, then furrows her brow together. 

“No, no, no, no, that can’t be right. Sinner demons can’t get pregnant. Who is telling you that, Angel?” Charlie asks, concerned. “Is it Val? Is he… is this his idea of a prank? Because if it is, I will march right over to that studio and give him a piece of my mind—”

“No! Val’s not smart enough to pull something like that, I went to the doctor and — and I saw it, I fucking saw it with my own two eyes! I don’t understand it anymore than you do, but I thought, I donno’, Lucifer’s daughter’s gotta be more aversed in the way shit works around here and — augh!” Angel cries, tugging at his hair as he feels hot tears build up behind his eyes and his legs start to give out from under him.

Charlie gasps, diving forward to grab one of Angel’s arms and lead him to sit down on the bed. When he sits, the adrenaline he’d been functioning on dissipates all at once and the first couple of tears spill heavily down his cheeks. He buries is face in a set of his hands and heaves a wet sob.

“Oh, Angel…” Charlie immediately pulls his face into her chest and strokes his hair. Angel tries to respond, but all that comes out is more pathetic blubbering.

Charlie gives Angel the time to unload his tears, at least to the point where he can functionally speak again. Angel pulls himself out of her chest, swiping a hand over his wet eyes. 

“Val’s gonna fucking kill m—” Angel chokes on the word ‘me’, eyes instantly flicking down to that damn bump, and hates that his mind instantly replaces it with ‘us’. 

Charlie pauses where she’d been tracing gentle circles along Angel’s back. Angel looks up to see her eyes flash a dangerous red, horns threatening to escape from her forhead.

“It’s going to be okay,” Charlie says confidently, clasping Angel’s hands in hers. Angel gives her a skeptical look, and Charlie simply tightens her grip. “I’m going to call my dad. If anyone knows what’s going on it’d be him. Okay? I’ll be right back.”

Part 3 here!

me jus layin all my cards out lol this is all i got. just blurbs, i got some ideas cookin for a fic but nothing concrete yet so lmk if you got any ideasssss

[definitelynotshouting]

[scar voice] Well, hello there! >:3 📝 ⁉️

behind the scenes ask game

WELL HELLO RIGHT BACK MY FRIEND!!! >:]

📝 what stages are you currently in your WIPs?

🤔🤔🤔🤔 of the active ones?? Well, chapter 11 of hunger au is in editing phase, and ive got about 1k of chapter 12's first draft written out as well!! Havent been able to get much done on it due to life circumstances, BUT WE CHIP AWAY!!!

Ive also got a few other wips in various stages of being written first draft-wise, but nothing concretely done yet 😭😭😭

⁉️ what do you do when stuck on a scene?

Generally i try the "go back a few lines and rewrite it" technique first-- thats honestly usually how i get gummed up, and it helps grease the wheel a bit so i can keep turning it. My other method is what i essentially call "zooming in" or doing a "deep dive" into the narrative-- sometimes i start things too broad, and its hard to bring the full picture into focus, so i try to go deeper and focus on a singular detail while building the scene and atmosphere up around it. So a scene that maybe starts with two characters talking, after the first line of dialogue if i get stuck i'll try to "zoom in" on a very small detail (like, say, a strand of hair whipping in the wind) and work my way back out. It helps a LOT with establishing sequences :]

Other than that tho, sometimes i just have to sit on things and cook for a while. Im never really not thinking about my projects, even if im not actively working on them, so any little problems are constantly churning in the back of my mind and getting solved slowly as they simmer. Sometimes you gotta tenderize the words a lil bit before you can start laying em on the plate, so to speak :P

[atonalginger]

WIP Wednesday, Through Plasma and Flames edition

Once again Doc would like for you to behold another peek at the fallout 4 fic I've been working on that I've been calling Through Plasma and Flames in my scrivener document. I'm not sure when I'm going to start uploading this one. Part of me thinks once I get done with the first arc and part of me thinks I might wait until I'm even farther in. I find writing stays breezier for me when I'm not building on a partially published fic but also Ranger and the Deputy went pretty smoothly and I published in chunks as I went...we'll see

A casual tag to the Coemancer crew and anyone else who sees it and has something to share. No pressure, as always.

This wed we join Vadim at the Dugout Inn

--

The sound of the small back office door being closed, Yefim once again fighting with the latch, the rattling of the loose knob and creaking of the rotting wood while cursing under his breath, held Vadim’s attention. It was a slow afternoon in the bar with Scarlet managing to handle all the orders, which was good for Vadim as his mind was many miles away to the north west. He watched the open archway for his twin to return to his usual stool against the wall, questions already locked and loaded for his return.

Yefim looked tired shuffling back to his spot, the lines of his face deepening when his eyes met Vadim’s, “don’t start.”

“Start what?” Vadim opened his arms wide, “I just have questions.”

“You know what I mean,” Yefim sat down with a huff, “you do this every time.”

“I do not.”

“She will come back when she’s able, Vadim,” Yefim brushed lint from his jacket, “she’s a busy woman. Lots of responsibilities. Things you have too, you know.”

Vadim waved off the last comment, “Bah, you speak like I do nothing.”

“And what are you doing right now?” Yefim asked, his head tilted slightly.

“Talking to my no good brother,” Vadim scowled, “its like you enjoy my suffering.”

“I do no such thing,” Yefim sat taller, looking genuinely insulted,

“Look, I’m not going to pester the radio operators about their General’s whereabouts every time we talk. The answer will always be ‘out in the field’. They aren’t going to say more…think of the risks to her, Vadim.”

“I am! That’s why I want to know where she is, how she is…it’s been too long.” Vadim dropped his hands and leaned against the bar, his head hung low, “she’s never been this quiet.”

“Then you radio the Hills,” Yefim motioned to the back office, “they’ll tell you what I told you.”

“I will!” Vadim declared.

He slapped the bar, causing several empty glasses to jump, and pushed away and stormed through the archway for the tiny back office. Yefim sighed wearily as he watched his twin stomp by, angering Vadim more. He did not need the pity that radiated off Yefim’s breath.

The door knob came off in his hand as he turned it; something else for Yefim to scold him over. That was all his brother did, nag him like their mother, talk down to him like he didn’t know how to run his half of the business. The bar was doing well, always bouncing with regulars and newcomers alike looking for a stiff drink and place to relax, yet Yefim acted like all Vadim did was nap and laze about. He kicked the door, forcing it open with a crunch at the base where splinters littered the floor as it creaked open.

“Must you break everything?” Yefim called around the corner.

“Must you insist on keeping a shit door?” Vadim bit back.

He tossed the knob toward the open archway and swung the rotting door closed behind him. The desk lamp was dim, the glow from the ham radio stronger than the bulb. The wooden desk chair creaked as he sat down, threatening to collapse under his weight as it did every time he sat down. One day it would actually give out, dumping him or Yefim onto the concrete floor, something else for his twin to blame on him when it was Yefim who insisted on hanging on to everything until it broke completely.

[kartaylirnaak]

Fic Writer 20 Questions

Thanks for the tag @medic-6116

Rules: In a new post, paste these following questions with your own answers, and then tag somebody, just for fun!

1.) How many works do you have on ao3?

At the moment it's 11.

2.) What’s your ao3 word count?

29,647

3.) What fandoms do you write for?

Star Wars, specifically The Clone Wars.

4.) What are your top five fics by kudos?

The Lingerie Approval Board — Codywan, Obi-Wan/212th, Obi-Wan/Ghost Company, Smut, Chat fic, slightly cracky

9. Praise Kink (Fox/Dogma) — Smut, Kinktober 2024, Dom Fox, sub Dogma, Dogma is The Goodest Boy

5. Fisting (Bacara/Fox/Neyo/Wolffe) — Smut, Kinktober 2024, Trans Fox, Poly clones

3. Vibrator (Dogma/Hardcase/Tup) — Smut, Kinktober 2024, Poly clones, Dogma is a Good Boy

17. Fucking Machine and Gags (Cody/Rex) — Smut, Kinktober 2024, sub bottom Cody, Dom Rex, Clone Rebellion

5.) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! Getting a comment on a fic is so special and is often the highlight of my day. The lack of people that comment is so disheartening so if someone does go to the effort of commenting, then I'm definitely going to go to the effort of replying and thanking them for reading and commenting. Plus I like to hear about what they enjoyed and love seeing peoples feral reactions to the smut I've written >:3

6.) What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Nothing yet and likely never will. Not a fan of angst. The most I can do is light angst with a happy ending.

7.) What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of my fics don't really have an ending per say, as the fics in my Kinktober 2024 series are more like moments in a larger scene, rather than whole complete fics. The only fic that really has a more concrete ending is The Lingerie Approval Board, and that's a fairly happy ending, particularly for Obi-Wan.

8.) Do you get hate on fics?

Not that I've seen but if I do, that shit is getting blocked and reported.

9.) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Hell yeah! Very kinky smut >:3

10.) Do you write cross overs? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

No.

11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No. Don't do that shit.

12.) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not yet.

13.) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

I haven't cowritten a fic with someone that we've then posted on AO3 but I have certainly rambled on and bounced ideas off others in discord servers.

14.) What’s your all time favourite ship?

How am I supposed to chose?! *cries in multishipper* My OTP is probably Jessix, followed closely by Codex and Foxma.

15.) What’s a WIP you’d like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I've got a bunch of WIPs for other prompts from Kinktober 2024 that I really want to finish but I'm really not sure if those will ever happen. I'd love to do a whole fic and more about Match, my 212th ARC OC that I cover in more detail in an answer to this ask, but as I mention in that post, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to do that justice either.

16.) What are your writing strengths?

Not really sure what to put here. Does being detailed count? Though that's also a weakness. I do really like getting into the emotions of smut and the trust and vulnerability that is essential to kink and bdsm working. The safety that finally allows a character to let go and get the release they need.

17.) What are your writing weaknesses?

Rambling on far too much and going into far too much detail. Being unable to finish things. Planning too much and then not being able to write the actual fic because my brain thinks it's already written the damn fic.

18.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I enjoy a liberal smattering of Mando'a in my fics but I usually stick to one or two words in dialogue. Anymore than that and I find it difficult to read and understand.

19.) First fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars. I only started writing fic fairly recently.

20.) Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

I'm not sure I have an outright favourite. I'm fond of various different ones for various different reasons. I'm quite fond of 13. Dom/Sub (Fox/Dogma) as it gets into some of the things I was talking about in my answer to question 16.

No Pressure Tags (NPTs): I never know who to tag in these things, mainly because I'm worried about tagging someone who's already been tagged by other people. So if you see this, consider yourself tagged! Especially if you write kinky smut.

[time-to-write-and-suffer]

Fren! I wish to know more of the faeries. I know nothing of the fae romance things but it says dark fantasy and I saw some sweet arts and I need more information now.

Who's it about, who are they romancing, who is the big pointy eared guy (I want to hug him)?

Hiii omg hiii yes I assume you're talking abt the faery wip/These Dark and Lovely Woods cuz it's not my only faery wip but it's the only one with art sooo yeah!

It's my oldest babiest baby, I started writing it around 2016 and finished it a few years back, it's been sort of sitting in my Scrivener folders for ages now because idk what to do with it. I have been fiddling with an outline for the second book in the trilogy but there's nothing concrete yet.

It has a side blog @the-overgrowth, but it's not super active right now aside from the occasional aesthetic reblog.

Anyway, it's about Sidra Carver, a 19-year-old weirdo who lives in the woods because she's a weirdo who's never seen without her stupid hat BUT she has a stepsister, Sinéad, whom she loves more than anything. But then Sinéad gets kidnapped by a fae, and the fae bastard curses the rest of town to forget Sinéad ever existed. But Sidra manages to break out of the curse and goes into the fae woods to find her. But! She gets dunked on pretty hard on account of the fae creatures having an appetite for human meat, so she needs help figuring out how to save Sinéad. Enter Valerien (big guy with pointy ears) who's like "I can help. For a Price." and Sidra's like "ok what's the price" and he's like "I'm not telling 💅"

And then it turns out he's fucking CURSED and Sidra might be the only person that could save him, too? So she's like ok. I gotta save my little sister first, then I need to solve this douche's problem as well.

And he is a true douche like it's not even funny how annoying he is, but his dysfunctional ass is fucked up in the same way Sidra is so she's like "omg ... is he kinda ... my people???" and spends the last third of the first book trying to pretend he isn't fine as hell while also planning to die saving Sinéad. Because Sidra is insane and deeply unwell.

Uuuh. That's it, really!! It's a planned trilogy so that's not the end of it, but only the first book is done so far!

Thanks for asking about it!! It's been a while since I've talked about this story and I still adore it, I'm just stuck in a weird place with it right now.

[smileweakandwrong]

find the word!

tagged by @eskawrites and big thank you because work is painfully slow and I don't want to be productive.

rules: search your WIPs for the words you're given and share the extract they're from.

the words I was given are: glass, remain, unlikely, loyal, and wrong.

I'm pulling everything from chapters of I Will Remember You that haven't been posted yet because it's the only thing I'm working on that's not just an outline at the moment.

glass

Nancy left the porch and picked up a decent sized rock from what appeared to have been a rock garden before months of neglect killed off any non-local plant life. She balanced the weight of the rock in her palm, said, “Anything can be a key if you throw it hard enough,” and sent the rock smashing through the sidelight beside the door. Reaching through the new opening, careful of the jagged glass that surrounded it like a mouth full of teeth, Nancy flipped the deadbolt and opened the door.  Nothing appeared to be disturbed inside, certainly not like anyone had ransacked the place looking for hidden secrets about El or Brenner’s work. The rooms were minimally decorated in monochromatic colour schemes with utilitarian furniture and no photos on the walls, just the framed mass-produced prints that often hung in hotel rooms—snow-capped mountains, a boat at sea, a pair of wolves in the forest. Arbitrary art to break up the blankness. Someone had stayed here but no one had lived here. A turntable sat atop a cabinet with a single shelf of records. A newspaper was folded neatly on the kitchen table, the crossword fully filled in in pencil. 

remain

Nancy climbed out of the hole, digging her fingers into the hand holds and feeling the clay cake under her nails as the web-like blackness sunk back into them like it always did when the darkness in her made contact with its home. She scrambled over the top, crawled a few feet on her hands and knees, and threw up that morning’s gas station coffee and muffin onto the earth. She crawled away from her mess and collapsed down into the overgrown grass of the ball field, flat on her back, waiting for the seasick feeling in her stomach to calm. The grass had been left to grow unchecked since July. Mowing seemed pointless when the gates remained locked and large ‘Park Closed’ signs were fastened to the chain link fence that enclosed the field. It grew tall enough that when Nancy turned her head to the side she couldn’t see the base at third, her view swallowed up by feral field. If Robin were lying in the grass with her, she’d be making some joke about bases, trying to make some suggestive comment for only Nancy to hear and being about as successful at sounding smooth as she’d be if she picked up a bat and tried to hit a homerun over the back fence. But Robin wasn’t here to lay in the too-long, too-itchy grass with her, no one was, and that truth made Nancy want to roll over and vomit again.

unlikely (apparently the only appearance in the whole damn fic)

“Look, I don’t know what to do with you, but I can’t call the pound because I’m not supposed to be here and there’s no way I’m putting you in the car and taking you there myself. They’d probably just put you down anyway because you kind of suck, but it’s not your fault. Your job was protecting, you’ve got to be pretty brave and a little mean for that—” Nancy told the dog, opening the bag of food and scooping a generous amount into one of the shiny stainless steel bowls. “But I’ll tell you what, you can stay here and stay warm and fed until I figure it out as long as you dial back the crazy, deal?” The dog just licked its lips and waited until she slid the bowl across the concrete floor with her boot. She just watched as her unlikely new roommate started eating.

loyal and wrong exist in the same passage, how fun

The thing about guilt is that it’s excessively hard to smother, like a stubborn ember hanging onto its heat, loyal to its flame and ready to reignite the moment it's presented with oxygen and a new fuel source. Nancy had been trying to snuff out her guilt and stop dwelling on the shame that came paired with it like a buy one; get one free of her perceived wrongness, but it burned deep, smoldering on her kindling bones and filling her lungs with smoke from the inside out. Sometimes she’d make it an entire day without feeling the burning and think maybe she’d finally managed the impossible—believing that Robin’s reassuringly kind words were true—but then she’d see the freshly healed bite-mark scar on Robin's neck and the fire of guilt would consume her all over again. Guilt was hard to smother, especially when it burned Nancy’s palms every time she tried.

but I also like this bit, so wrong gets two

The centre backed onto a park space, basketball courts and a playground and a splash pad that would have been full of kids hanging onto summer a month ago. Now, it stood empty as the autumn leaves collected in little piles on the brightly painted concrete. A deflated green balloon clung to the branches of a nearly-bare tree like it was trying to recreate the summer greenery, a leftover scrap of latex from the million and a half balloons released over the city a few weeks ago. Nancy just shook her head as she noticed just how many dead balloons littered the city, a stupid idea gone wrong the way that most stupid ideas do. She watched as a small and shriveled but not-yet popped pink balloon bounced along the ground in the breeze and out into the road where it was finally flattened by traffic—just another pretty thing lost to the falsehood of good intentions. She looped around to the next street over that wasn’t blocked off by a police car and officer redirecting foot traffic, and made her way through the park to the back of the rec centre. 

I'm not tagging anyone because anxiety, but feel free to play if you want!

Your words are shoelace, sidewalk, rusty, palm, sincere

[alvfr]

The Ex from Hell - Part 1

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

This is what I wrote based on this prompt here and I liked it so much it spawned more parts, so I'm trying to collect them. I'd love to hear your thoughts if you take the time to read and feel free to reblog if you want <3

WIP: The Ex from Hell Excerpt rating: T Word count: 2.4k

The important thing to remember, was that I was not trying to summon a demon. The fact that I was not trying to summon a demon while performing a ritual to summon a demon definitely complicated things, but my life was nothing if not complicated. It should not have worked. I had skipped half the so-called essential equipment and preparations listed in the Book, slapped the sigil down in broad messy strokes using a broken makeup brush, and mumbled most of the incantations under my breath so low I barely heard it myself. It should not have worked.

And yet, the sigil — painted in bright millenial pink leftover from a DIY project — started to glow on the concrete floor. So far along, the ritual pulled out the rest of the incantations from my mouth, I could not have stopped now even if I tried, while a tension built everywhere in the room, including my body. It pushed and pulled in my chest, my throat, my sinuses, my skull, my eyes — growing and growing until I feared my whole head would pop right off my shoulders. It did not. With the anti-climax of a cut trip wire, the dam burst and the sigil flashed so bright I almost lost my vision and was left to stare blindly at the vaguely humanoid shape appearing in a vortex of smoke and shadows. The smell of burning filled the damp basement, mixing with the sickening odor of mold and rotten wood.

The thing, still concealed in the dark, spoke in a guttural tone; its language sounding as old and dead as the civilization it once stemmed from. Probably asking the standard question about which foolish mortal had dared summon them, yadda yadda yadda. Stars continued to dance before my eyes and I blinked several times in order to adjust to the dim light after all the poor LED-candles had gone out from the demon’s arrival.

“English, please,” I said and coughed from the thick smog that coiled into my throat. “And can you do something about that smoke before it sets off the carbon monoxide detector?”

To its credit, the smoke cleared in an instant while a way-too-familiar voice said in perfect modern-day English: “You have got to be kidding me.”

And as my eyes adjusted, I wished they had not. For standing in the circle atop the haphardouzly painted sigil, naked and perfectly sculpted like a mahogany statue, stood none other than my ex-husband. 

“Santiago?” I spat, out of breath and unable to put the appropriate amount of venom into his name. “What are youdoing here?”

Because it was him. Everything about him exactly as I remembered, apart from his eyes that glowed a dull red, like the reflection of a distant hellfire. Not even the finest shapeshifter or body double could manage such a perfect replica and especially not the expression of pure and utter contempt highlighted by the curl of his lip and the pull of his brows. 

“What am I doing here?” His voice, unheard for seven years now, cut its way through my ear canals like every vowel wielded a razor. Determined to carve out the path again after all this time. “I was summoned! An exclusive VIP-can’t-refuse-can’t deny invitation dragging me back to this horror show of a dimension. The real question is, what are youdoing here? And where,” he swept his muscular arm along the room with his suspicious glare trailing, “is the foolish mortal who dared summon me and will regret it to their dying day?”

“What did you just call me?” 

“I called you nothing!”

“Foolish mortal?” I repeated in a mocking deep voice, arms already crossed over my chest and hip cocked to the side. “Why do you talk like some kind of,” the realization slapped into my brain like a ruler over my fingers, taking the question mark out of my mouth as I whispered, “demon.”

Instead of the hard denial a part of me still hoped for, Santiago’s vivid attention returned to me and my skin grew prickly and cold. He tilted his head, like a grown hellhound burdened with behavior imprinted as a puppy, a habit always displayed when he was confused. “You summoned me?”

“No!” The word shot out before I could stop it and I gritted my teeth before amending it to: “Well, yes, but not on purpose.”

“You what then? Tripped over the paint bucket, swore in ancient Akkadian and accidentally performed a summoning ritual?” Santiago took a step forward, stopped and gave his surroundings another disdainful glance. His lip curled further into what could only be classified as a snarl. “Now what in the eight blazing hells is this?”

“Nothing.” I bit my teeth together, but was helpless at the sound of his impatient snort. “It’s just a circle.”

“A circle? This isn’t a circle, it’s a damned fun fair laser show.”

“It’s a circle, gods be damned! It just happens to be made up of LED-strips.” My defence raised immediately at the sight of his disbelieving face, the distant memories all too close in the blink of an eye. “You make do with what you have, all right?”

“Of course. A circle, made from whatever trash you happened to have lying around. What are you, some kind of,” his voice turned cold and changed its pitch before his last word, “witch.” He drew his hand over his mouth, each of his fingers ending in sharp black nails I had failed to notice before. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah, oh no. For once, I agree with you. “I barely looked up from where my finger trailed the handwritten lines of the Book. “Now shut up for a second.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to see if I accidentally used the Summon-A-Lying-Two-Timing-Scumbag spell instead of the Summon-A-Demon one! Not that they’re mutually exclusive, as demonstrated by your very presence.” I slapped the book shut, erupting a cloud of dust that made me cough. “I can’t believe you never told me you were a frickin’ demon, Santi!”

His voice sounded like a roaring waterfall just before the surface. “Just like you never told me you were a filthy, disgusting witch!” 

Witch. Witch witch witch witch witch.

“Because I’m not!” Again, the pressure in my chest made me chomp down on my own lip. “Or I wasn’t. Look, I used to be one, then I quit, and now I’m sort of back, but I don’t really want to be, okay?”

“Glad to see your remarkable eloquence has remained unchanged.” Santiago’s hooded eyes looked heavier than before, as if consumed with instant boredom in my presence. The familiarity wreaked havoc with my insides. “And you never cared to mention this during our three years of holy matrimony?”

“There was nothing holy about our marriage,” I snapped back, my knuckles turning white from clutching the Book in my hands. “Apart from the sex. Speaking of, could you use your demonic shenanigans and conjure some clothes?”

His voice smoothed as river water reaching the sea as his lean body tightened further. “Am I distracting you?”

“Yes,” I bit out, knowing myself defenceless from trying to subjugate the truth. For all the hardships our marriage had suffered, his physical appearance had not been part of it. “I honestly thought I’d never have to say this again, but cover up your damned dick, Santi.”

So familiar with the workings of his face, I recognized both when his mouth moved to stretch into a dangerous smile and when it stopped in puzzlement. The way the nostrils of his slightly hooked nose flared, the way his thick eyebrows twitched up — either struggling with the effort of conjuring the loose pants materializing on his lower body or with the effort of fighting it.

“What,” he growled, “in the eight hells is this?”

“I told you. It’s a circle.”

“You trapped me! Spellbound me! Oh, you dirty little sneaky witch, you really are all the same, aren’t you?”

“I sure as hell didn’t have plans to make any kind of pact, if that’s what you mean. And definitely not with you.” I forfeited his attention in favor of the Book, flipping through crinkled pages in fast succession. “Now can you shut up?”

“What are you looking for now, witch, in that little book of yours?” 

“A vanquishing spell. We need to get you out of here.”

A puff of smoke came out his nostrils. “Hmph. You went through all this trouble just to cast me aside again? Without telling me why I’m even here? For what purpose you summoned me?” Even while straining my eyes on the Book, Santiago’s glare sent shivers down my spine. “Which of the tedious reasons can it be? Humans are all the same, after all. My first guess would be money, but you are looking plumper and softer than ever before so that can’t be it. Sex?” A tantalizing tilt to both his jaw and tone. “Have you caught an itch you can’t scratch yourself these days? The trap blocks your scent, it’s hard to tell. It can’t be power, not when you managed to ensnare me with this circus rendition of a circle. So what does that leave?”

I did not look up — I had found the correct spell, at least I hoped so — but had to answer. “Protection.”

“Protection?” he repeated, all of a sudden so human-like it made my heart ache. “Protection from what?”

Before I could reply, a heavy knocking sounded from the basement door and a skeleton claw of fear grasped my heart harder than ever this night. “Have you quite finished, girl? Is the demon fully subdued?”

“Not yet, Grandaunt Hester,” I said and winced at the high infliction of my voice. I gave Santi a wide-eyed look, pleading with him to keep quiet until she went away. “Give me a little more time, please, Grandaunt Hester.”

A different voice came from the door now, reedier and harder. “We don’t have much time, child. Hurry.”

“I will.” 

Santiago made motion to speak, but I flapped my hand at him to make him wait until sure the old hags had gone back up the stairs. The way his jaw set and his eyes widened as he glared at me told me everything I needed to know and I bowed my head to escape that look, trying to decipher the Book’s writing instead. Despite my attempts, I caught the way he again surveyed the basement and the stack of boxes along the wall, each marked with a different name.

“We’re in your family home,” he whispered; not a question, saving me the trouble of coming up with an answer. “You hate your family. Would rather poke your eyeballs out than spend another minute in their presence. Or at least that’s what you told me.” Not a question either, did not beget an answer. “Was it a lie? What is going on?”

Damn. 

“No, it wasn’t a lie,” I said and avoided any and all of his attempts to look me in the eyes. It was never a lie. Could never be a lie. “It’s complicated, okay? Things have changed. I have changed. For what it’s worth, I wasn’t trying to summon you — or any other demon for that matter, but I had to at least make half of an attempt so I could tell Grandaunt Hester that I did and now we need to get you back before they come down here and sees you.”

“Oh, I see. You’re that kind of witch, are you?” Santi’s dull red eyes glinted in the shadows. “No wonder you were always such a bitch. Could not help yourself. I just have one question, disgraced queen of my heart.” I steeled myself for the inevitable, but Santi’s eyes seemed to have caught on something and he asked: “What is that half-dead succulent doing on my sigil?”

“Book said there had to be a living sacrifice.”

“Traditionally that would mean a little baby goat or a lamb. Maybe a rooster.”

“Okay, this is the twenty-first century, it’s not like you can just go out to the mall and get yourself a live goat or a frickin’ rooster in the middle of the day. Besides, you know I have allergies.”

“I do know that.” His head tilted as he watched me. “And so you used a succulent. I see no gifts or offerings, this sigil is half a brushstroke away from being inelligeble, not to mention in a most gaudish color, these candles run on batteries where half of them have already failed, and you stand there fully clothed when I know for a fact that every last penned summoning ritual begets complete and utter nudity. And yet,” he held up a clawed finger to still my protest about how damned cold it was down here, “it worked. Why?”

“You make do with what you have,” I repeated myself from earlier, as honest an answer as I could make it. “Now shut up, I need to concentrate.” I held the book aloft and started stumbling through the unfamiliar language, feeling the strings of my mind pulling the strings of the universe.

“Are you seriously going to vanquish me?” He sounded dreadfully bored. “Me? Dead rose of my garden, you know me. Let me out of the circle and we can talk.” The incantations flowed out my mouth, preventing me from answering his increasingly desperate questions. The shadows swirled, the sigil flared. “Stop it now, my broken-winged dove. What do you need protection from? Why do you need a demon? Do you need help? I can give you that, just stop talking and open this circle. Put down the book.” The further my words went, the stronger my voice grew and the basement filled with the opposite of the pressure from earlier. A vacuum, no less uncomfortable for that. “Put down that book and talk to me, hells be damned!” 

Incantation done, I put down the book just as he asked and watched the shadow vortex crawl up Santiago’s legs. “This was awful. Let’s never do it again.”

“You have changed,” Santiago snarled, sounding choked on the smoke expelled from the sigil. “Grown fat and strong, have you? Sober, even?”

“Painfully so. Now go to hell, Santiago.”

All the strings of the universe grew taut and rigid before everything shattered with the same anti-climatic pop from before. Only the sigil, painted in my favorite color, and the forlorn LED-strips remained in the basement. I closed the book and braced myself for facing my Grandaunt Hester, planning to give her nothing but the truth. 

Not the whole truth, but nothing but the truth. 

[shivunin]

✨ First Lines Meme ✨

Rules:  Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able to and see if there are any patterns!

Thanks for the tag @greypetrel!

This feels like sorting things to my brain, so I am feeling very !!! about this rn. (Also. I didn't figure out how to change text color on tumblr until literally just now, so that's fun c:)

Zevwen, Cullavellan, Fenhawke

AO3 First Lines:

Byways and Lay-bys (Zevran/Tabris, 1,855 Words):

The fight was quick and brutal.

Palimpsest (Fenris/Hawke, 11,038 Words)

Hate had been scrawled over Fenris’s skin long ago.

As Two Reflected Stars (Fenris/Hawke, 12,436 Words)

“Well, what do you want to do, Fenris?” Hawke asked, crouched beside him with her elbows resting on her knees. 

Katabasis (Cullen/Lavellan, 25,324 Words)

“Dying.”

Sleight of Hand (Fenris/Hawke, 7,470 Words)

In the hours before showtime, Hawke sometimes liked to come to the stage and stand just behind the curtains.

Book of Memories (Cullen/Lavellan, 62,304 Words)

Echo—a basement or dungeon, dim and close and stinking.

Pour Forth (Fenris/Hawke, 3,845 Words)

The first time she said it, Fenris had just taken a crushing blow to his leg on the Wounded Coast.

Breath of Life (Zevran/Tabris, 7,562 Words)

“When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.”

Winter's Grasp (Fenris/Hawke, 4,834 Words)

Winter hung heavy over Kirkwall.

Your Fate for Mine (Cullen/Lavellan, bg Fenris/Hawke, 129,681 Words)

How long had they been running through this endless dreamscape of rocks and seas and the endless, roiling green sky?

Cracking up at Katabasis haha. I decided to do a couple of my WIP ones under the cut and I'll stick the analysis there, too, for neatness. But for now:

Tagging @scribbledquillz @heniareth @zenstrike and you!! (I've just realized idk how many of my new mutuals write fic and I don't want to pressure anyone who hasn't posted unfinished stuff yet! please count yourself tagged if you want to do this!)

WIP First Lines:

Aerolite (Fenris/Hawke, 4,214 Words so far)

Hawke was not unobservant.

Stardust in her Hair (Josie/Lavellan, 1,995 Words so far)

Josie had never really been much of a teacher.

When to Walk Away (post-Act 2 Fenris/Hawke, 1694 Words)

Hawke had finished fixing her clothes and hair before she stepped out of the Rose.

These Last Strands (Fenris/Hawke, 2,992 Words)

“Hawke will come for me.”

Signifying Nothing (no pairings/ Hawke & trauma, 3,544 Words)

“What does it say?” Hawke asked.

Contrivances (Zevran/Tabris, 2,252 Words)

Something had been weighing on Arianwen’s mind for hours.

Leave With the Tide (Zevran/Tabris, 698 Words)

Arianwen didn’t understand what Zevran was saying to her at first.

Analysis:

So choosing a very concrete and short sentence to start is definitely intentional. As a reader, I like to have at least one basic detail about what's going on before I dive into a story. If I have to wade through a lot of commas and clauses to figure out what's going on, I tend to check out a little bit.

I also like to state who is the POV character close to the beginning, which is why a lot of them tend to have at least one name in them. I think it takes out some of the confusion jumping into a story (and w/third person, since anyone at all could be talking, including an unseen narrator, I like to anchor the text to one person to start if I'm not describing a big, chaotic scene).

Beyond that, I like to try to reflect the mood and/or tension in the story with the first line.

YFFM's is long and sort of dreamy because I wanted it to mirror Elowen's sense of detachment from what's happening.

The short, hard start for Katabasis is like that because Salshira finding out that she's dying is like this giant, immovable rock dropped into the stream of her life. It's not something she can get around. It's a slap in the face. I wanted to mimic that in the flow of the text.

I also like to establish contradictions and circle back around at the end of a fic, so sometimes (Josie had never really been much of a teacher) the first line is directly contradicted within the next few lines or paragraphs (Josie was…for once, she was glad to have been wrong). Idk, I just like people lying to themselves. I like making it clear to the reader that their self-perception is a lie, an obfuscation, or an act of self-deception. Or---in this case, it's a way to exhibit that anxiety does not always play out the way you feared.

I also went through and looked at the last few fics I posted on tumblr, but I chose not to add those here because most of them were from the micro-fic prompts. Unlike the other things I write, I tend to pack as much information as possible into each sentence of those prompts, so I didn't think they were as indicative of how I write. Since sentences are at a premium, they just don't wind up flowing as well as other things I've written.

[wrencatte]

Oooh I’m liking their whumpy titles so can I ask about “water torture” and “stress position” !! And then bc I need to feel nicer, what about “community”?

Thank you for sharing your WIPs with us!!! ❤️

<3 <3 thank you for asking!

water torture! I actually posted about this one a while ago. It's a very specific water torture I've been eyeing for a few years now to put a character through (Mythbusters did an episode about it!)

Maybe it’s the blood loss. Does he have blood loss? He might have blood loss.

Another droplet hits his forehead. He flinches. It’s almost cold with how superheated he feels – like a fever but worse because there’s no relief. Hopefully it’s not actually a fever. That would monumentally fucking suck.

He tries to tilt his head, but concrete blocks one way and then the other just leads to the edge of a one-inch lip digging into the back of his head. It makes it even more uncomfortable than just accepting the annoyance of water dripping. For good measure he reaches for his helmet, finding it just slightly out of reach. Thanks, past Jason, real helpful. He strains for it a little bit longer before his chest starts screaming at him and he pulls back.

Cool.

Drip.

Jason sniffs. Water runs down his forehead to pool in his ears. He scratches it out of one of them, but the other is – he tilts his head over. It only helps a little. He closes his eyes, listens hard for sirens or deliberate rubble shifting beyond the, quite frankly terrifying, sounds of the building settling.

Until another drop smacks him right out of it. Fuck. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and starts counting instead. One. Two. Three. Four. Drip. One. Two. Three. Four. …Five…Six. Drip. One. Two. Drip – oh come on!

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me!” Jason all but howls at the pipe.

Drip.

stress position....that one's been tricky. I keep trying to come back to it. it's a 2022 whumptober prompt. but the vibe of this one is A+ (to me)

Jason spits at their heels as the men leave the room, the door snapping shut. He misses them by a mile, bloody saliva falling short which is such a shame because their boots were so shiny. The room is dark and freezing. His shivers feel like he’s seizing instead, muscles contracting painfully, bruises and open wounds pulling. There’s a click-click, and even colder air blows in from somewhere, making him groan. Fucking hell.

He’s stung up like a piece of meat. Wrists bound painfully together and hooked on, well, a meat hook, then bound to that for good measure or else he would’ve used his impressive core control and unhooked himself a long time ago. He can touch the ground, barely, with the tips of his bare toes – because, oh yeah, they took his helmet and his shirt and his boots and his goddamn socks. The weight is hell on his shoulders. He can only stand on his toes for so long. The angle does this weird thing to his lungs, making it hard to breathe if he’s not paying attention.

"because I need to feel nicer" I am so sorry....

It only takes them a week – it hasn’t made the news yet, buried by the scrolling headlines of BRUCE WAYNE’S SON KILLED IN TERRORIST ATTACK and the unspoken agreement to ignore it. But Gothamites always know. The air had changed when Robin left the first time. Sad and melancholy and a low, simmering anger that didn’t know where it wanted to go.

Robin leaves a second time and there’s nothing useful about the word sad when it’s grief, heavy and burdening. Rage, explosive and violent. Devastation. A pleaded bargain in every broken bone and hospitalization, in every reckless plan.

The Batman – well, he disappears fully into the shadows that he never quite blended into when he had a brightly colored Robin at his side. The kid had been like a sunbeam peeking between clouds, cutting through the darkness, and letting everyone see the bright day ahead. 

When Batman stopped letting himself be seen. When he stopped lingering after scenes to comfort and console.

As days and days passed, Robin never showed his face again.

That’s when they knew, and they finally had to acknowledge it.

Robin wasn’t coming back.

[miasmaghoul]

I love your fic so much. Caaaan i ask 🖊,💻, 🍰 ?

Thank youuuuu ♡

💻 Do you do research for your fics? What’s the deepest dive you’ve done?:

Nothing crazy yet, but some stuff on pagan fertility rituals and also what flora and fauna are indigenous to northern Italy (where I hc the abbey to be).

🍰 Name one of your fave comfort fics (doesn’t have to be your all time fave):

Ooh, I'll give you three: Thunder Only Happens When It's Raining by @ohvegeta, new sensations, sweet temptations by @ratballet and Obviously by @shelterforananimal!

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP:

Oh you're gonna HATE ME

The little ghoul plants himself between the beds and the door, arms crossed and shoulders squared. Bracing himself for something he doesn’t want to hear, but knows is coming anyway.

After all, no one knows Aether like he does.

“You’re done, aren’t you?”

The other ghoul freezes mid-step, his shoulders tighten, and it’s all the confirmation Dew needs.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Dew replies, trying to keep his voice even. It’s better that Aether’s back is to him, maintaining composure would be a lot harder if he could see the eyes he loves so much. “You’re leaving. Aren’t you?”

The silence that follows is thick as concrete, stifling and heavy. The room feels boiling hot and frigid all at once, and in the dim light provided by the bedside lamps Dew can see Aether’s hands starting to shake. He balls his own into tight fists, chews the inside of his cheek, and funnels every bit of his will into not throwing himself at that broad back and clinging on for dear life.

Aether sighs and his whole body seems to sag. He sits heavy on the bed, just where Dew had been a minute ago, head hanging low. Dew watches him fiddle with one of his rings, twisting it around his finger.

“How did you know?”

[thisliminalspacedaydreams]

20 questions for fic writers

Thanks for the tag @imdamagecontrol

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

31 so far

2. what's your total ao3 word count?

441,751

3. what fandoms do you write for?

The wretched Naruto (in a secret account no one will ever find), Star Wars (I was there, I'm not), Harry Potter: Dramione (I was there, I'm not), Wolfstar and Jegulus (I was there and I left but apparently I'm back now?), Attack on Titan (my current love interest)

4. what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Collars and Croissants with @solmussa

Runaway Groom

The Brew 

Goldeneye

Le Mange Dieu et le Dévoreur de Mondes with @greenvlvetcouch 

5. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

Not really. I will sometimes, but unless it's a question, then I don't really see the need for it. My "thank you" is the fic itself, so repeating it doesn't really make much sense. But if it's a particularly fun or interesting one, who knows.

6. what is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Heartless wasn't meant to be that ending at all, but I'm not mad.

7. what's a fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Your maker maybe? I don't really do endings, so a lot of it is up to the reader to decide what'll happen for them. I gave you their personalities and a slice of their lives, what do you think is gonna happen for them now?

8. do you get hate on fics?

I haven't yet.

9. do you write smut? if so, what kind?

Sure, it's a fun outlet, like writing science-fiction. I have to be in the right mood for it, but it does tends to happen.

10. do you write crossovers? what's the craziest one you've written?

I've been thinking about a Harry Potter / Attack on Titan crossover but nothing concrete yet. @greenvlvetcouch keep and eye out on our Playground.

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

A few are available in Russian.

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yep, it's always a fun ride.

14. what's your all-time favorite ship?

Naruto/Sasuke, only because I stuck with them for 10 years when I was younger. They've got a special place in my heart even if I don't read them anymore.

15. what's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

All the Graveyard Fics in my Notion page that have been started and unfinished. And a few collabs I have with a few people that are on hiatus but might never see the light of day. I am planning to finish the Dramione Echoes in Eternity in the coming months.

16. what are your writing strengths?

Metaphors and atmospheric juju.

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

Large casts and descriptions of shit. I'll give you what you need to know, you figure the rest out babe. I have been working on making it a little more descriptive recently, but I'm more about the atmosphere than the place they're at.

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Unless it's necessary, no. And if it's done, it has to be done well. Make sense for my bilingual brain. But I'll never stop reading a fic just cuz it has these elements, unless they're completely over-played.

19. first fandom you wrote for?

Naruto.

20. favorite fic you've written?

Heartless

no pressure tags: @otrtbs @rollercoasterwords @twisted-tales-told @rabidlittlestrawberry

[magicaltear]

Thanks for the tag @ailendolin! ♡ I'm sorry I'm doing this almost two months later, but better late than never!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

19 as of January 2024. I guess I'm a very slow writer, but I'm quite happy with my fics so far ♡

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

193,393. Huh. Sadly, less than I'd hope for.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I've only ever written for 1917 and Marvel. I've been toying with some fic ideas for Star Wars, but nothing concrete yet.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. An Outside Chance (1,359 kudos - Marvel MCU)

2. In Every Universe (715 kudos - Marvel MCU)

3. I'm Better When I'm Dancing (161 kudos - Marvel MCU)

4. As Long As We Both Shall Live (74 kudos - 1917 film)

5. Echoes of Grief (57 kudos - Digimon Adventure: Last Evolution Kizuna)

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! To every single one of them. It might take me a while, but I very much enjoy doing it. The fun thing about posting fanfic online is getting to hear people's thoughts and reactions. I'll always be grateful to all of my readers who take a moment to leave a comment on my chapters and stories ♡

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

That would probably be A Million Is Only a Statistic because of the Major Character Death tag. The story follows Colonel Mackenzie and Major Hepburn from the 1917 film, who sadly do not have a happy ending in the fic.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I mainly try to write Happy Endings because it is what I enjoy the most, so most of my fics are fairly feel-good stories. Maybe...Peace On Earth (Will Come To Stay) because I could have gone for a sadder ending in so many scenes, but I stubbornly stuck to the Everyone Lives happy ending I wanted for the 1917 characters.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Thankfully, I don't! ♡ My readers are all absolutely amazing and very supportive. If anything, they might express their dislike for some characters in the fandom, but they never spew hate toward them or my writing. I appreciate them all so much ♡

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I haven't posted any, no, but I have started to practice that type of writing, too. I'd like to include small bits of it in future stories as another chance for character exploration, so I like the kind that helps the plot in that way. (So you won't be seeing any PWP from me any time soon haha!)

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I do, but not in the classic sense where characters from two fandoms get to interact in the same world. It's more of an alternate universe take, I think. All of them have been for the 1917 fandom so far, but I think my craziest one so far has to be The Great British Pastry War in which I dumped the 1917 characters into the GBBO competition LOL

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't believe I have, no. Let's keep it that way, shall we?

12. Does not exist apparently (:o)

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have! And it's a lot of fun~! Please Don't Go (Rushing By) is the only one I've co-written so far, and I hope my friend and I can complete it one day.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Oh gosh, there are just too many. I never really fall out of love with a ship because there are days when I will be struck with a craving for their dynamic or world so I'll look up fics about them. I guess I always return to Ironstrange, Johnlock, Frostcup, and Klance.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Hmm, I really wish to continue my Dwelling Impressions series which is a BBC Ghosts AU for 1917, but it is honestly really low in my WIP list at the moment, to be honest :C

16. What are your writing strengths?

I've been told it's my dialogue and characterization. The characters really do act and sound like themselves in my stories, and that's something I'm rather grateful to hear. The point of fanfiction is being able to recognize your favorite characters in it, right?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I've been struggling with descriptions as of late. I got too used to writing simple cues for scripts, so flowery narration and interesting vocabulary have constantly eluded me. I've also been terrible at consistency, so I keep my poor readers waiting for longer than I'd like (but life has been busy so there's nothing much I can do about it orz)

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I've done it a few times. I can speak three languages myself and know a few words in other languages as well, so I know from experience how your language wires can get all tangled in your head. Recently, I've stuck to simply writing the dialogue in English and simply stating in the dialogue tag that the line was spoken in another language for ease of reading.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Whoa, that would have been Naruto way back when Quizilla was still a thing. Maybe some 18 years ago now??? Hot damn.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Oh no, there's been a lot haha! One thing I like about my fanfics is that I will often go back and reread them because I write exactly what I like. That said...I really like In Every Universe, which is my Ironstrange rewrite of Multiverse of Madness, and my ongoing long fic An Outside Chance. As an honorary mention, I will add A Million Is Only a Statistic because it actually earned its place as an official part of the series that inspired it.

Tagging: @vannral @kiki-shortsnout @aelaer @stewardofningishzida

[naranjapetrificada]

3, 4, 17 for the fic writer asks! <3

Thank you ❤️❤️❤️

If you want to play, pick your fic writing question(s) from this list!

I already answered 3 here, but as for the rest:

4. a story idea you haven’t written yet

I guess it depends on what you define "written" as? Like if written means "finished work" then there's the captive/different first meeting AU I was working on before my current WIP that should count. The preliminary work I did on that was the first time I ever thought a longfic was possible, and I want to circle back around to it eventually because I think I've got a fun twist on the captive trope in mind.

Another idea that fits the description above is a fic of a fic, the incredible In Favor With Their Stars. I've got a couple paragraphs of prose and in line with the way the original story is written, some command lines written as well. The idea for it is existentially devastating though so I'm not sure I'll ever be able to write it. I was lucky enough to get to talk to mxmollusca about it and they approved/encouraged me to keep going so idk, someday.

If you mean something I haven't done work on, well, I guess the closest thing I have to that is something I was thinking about when the season 2 teaser first dropped. It was going to be shortish piece in the vein of "let's just get it out of our system" smut where Ed spent the whole time desperately trying to capture it all in his memory, to the point where he wouldn't really be experiencing it at all. The more we learned about the season, the less viable the idea seemed so I eventually scrapped it.

17. talk about your writing and editing process

Well. Talking about the latter is going to be much more concrete than the former, so let's get that out of the way first.

As someone with not one, but two creative writing degrees, I can tell you that actual CWR classes are incredibly hit or miss. My experience was such a mixed bag, including how much better most of the teachers I had in undergrad were than in grad school. It was one of those undergrad teachers who gave me the one piece of writing advice that I've never, ever abandoned: during the revision process (emphasis on "vision"), instead of tweaking an existing document, try rewriting the new draft in a brand new doc.

Maybe it's not something everyone needs to do, but it's something I very much have to do. I do it every time, without fail, and my writing is the better for it. Once I actually start it's hardly a hardship for me, although that probably varies person to person. The quality of every aspect of my writing grew by leaps and bounds once I started doing it. It forces me to truly look at my work in a way I can never really see it otherwise.

As for the writing process itself? That's a lot fuzzier. In some ways, I'm still figuring out what that means for me now that I'm exclusively writing fic. Because my relationship with the experience of writing has fundamentally changed, I guess it makes sense that the way I do it might too.

That's doubly true now that I work from home on a schedule that's not exactly 9-5. I don't have a set time to sit down and do it, nor a daily word quota. Some days I write nothing. Some days I write 50 words. Some days I write 5000. The days I write nothing are usually days I never got around to opening whatever my working document is, because once it's open I'll usually have something to say. I'm sure if I worked more consistently I could work faster, but that would come at the expense of sustainability. In order for writing to be sustainable for me right now, it can't not reward me for it somehow. I have to be enjoying myself or I'll grow to resent it.