#Not used to writing these kind of stories

[its-wwhatevver]

yup, as an author i can confirm this is 100% pure unadulterated crack to us

and i’m not surprised to hear the story about an author getting inspired by OP’s comment. sometimes your comments give us new thoughts or ideas for something that we’ve maybe been stuck on for a while not knowing what to do with it. sometimes just being reminded by you what we ourselves loved about that story gives us fresh motivation to come back and work on it

i’ve gotten a bunch of comments that made me think, oh wow, i hadn’t even thought to interpret/think of it this way, that’s intriguing! i LOVE that kind of stuff

sometimes we’ve just been feeling meh and seeing that you enjoyed it that much that you took the time to let us know is the boost we needed

nobody (well no, somebody always does) really wants to just write into the void, never knowing if what they created was any good to anyone or if it even reached anyone to begin with. but our readers are so much more to us than “just” an audience <3

BTW i see these posts all the time like "ohhh i dont know what to comment on fics.." and every response is "keysmashes! or hearts!! anything works :3" and thats GREAT!! thats helpful!!

but: consider. if u genuinely like analyzing writing.. do u know ur just allowed to go through and quote your favorite parts and ramble abt what they mean to u and the author will LOSE IT WITH HYPE?

genuinely. i felt SO WEIRD the first time i did it.. but like. holy shit authors love it. its crack for authors. the first time i did it, it was on a fic that hadnt updated in half a year, give or take, and the author made 3 updates that month BECAUSE OF MY COMMENT.

LIKE. as an author every comment is INCREDIBLE!!! but also, dont feel like your comment has to be short or otherwise ur invasive or smth!! authors ADORE long comments more than ANYTHING.

[yossef-gaza14]

Urgent Appeal for a Hearing Aid for My S Mother

To the good and philanthropists around the world🍉🙏

I am writing to you today as the son of a mother who has endured unimaginable suffering. My name is Youssef, and I am seeking your support to help my mother, who lost her hearing in her right ear as a result of the brutal siege and airstrikes in Gaza. The war has taken so much from her, but the loss of her hearing has been one of the most devastating consequences.

My mother, once full of life and able to communicate freely, now faces the daily struggle of isolation and silence. A hearing aid is her only chance of regaining some semblance of normalcy, but the cost of such a device ranges from $1500 to $2000 — an amount that is beyond our financial means due to the ongoing hardships we are enduring.

I am humbly reaching out to you, knowing that you are people of compassion and kindness, to help us provide this essential aid for my mother. Your generous support will not only restore her ability to hear but also allow her to regain a sense of connection to the world around her.

Every contribution, no matter how small, will have a profound impact on improving her life and giving her back her dignity. We trust in your generosity and hope that you will answer our call, as you have always done for those in need.

May Allah bless you all with health, peace, and prosperity.

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #251 )✅️

https://chuffed.org/project/119367-help-save-josephs-family-from-war-and-famine

[captain-astors]

Finished up my attempt at Deuce within @where-does-the-heart-lie's fighting game AU! Feeling a little iffy about it but I might've just been staring at this for too damn long. Anyways thoughts, symbolism explanation, and sketches I made in the attempt bellow the cut.

Okay! So in general I worked with a rule of 2's when it came to Deuce's hearts with the exception of his camera, but that's supposed to pair with the pen with the little heart cap, I just didn't remember to keep that in my final drawings somewhere. Trying to strike a balance between "Just a guy" and "fun stylized outfit" was hard and I don't think I quite got it, but it was enjoyable nonetheless!

Heart glasses- Representative of how he loves observing the world and aspires to adventure through it. The cracked lens represents how the damage he's received from people he loved has caused him to look at others cynically at times. Meanwhile the unshattered lens sort of represents his tendency to look at those who earn his love with extreme levels of internal praise, half of Ace's first novel is just him waxing poetic about how lovely Ace is and I think that's hilarious.

Hearts on the gloves- He shows his love for the world and for people through the writing he does with his hands! But they're somewhat damaged because they've been utilized for the medicinal legacy that was forced upon him.

Heart on the camera/pen- A specific love for journalism and writing and telling a story, credits to Whery for the first one.

Spade on the shirt- Not technically a heart but it's a little play on how he keeps the Spades close to his heart/tends to be kind of pokey if you try to get close.

Spade/heart on the back of the shirt- Symbolic of the whole life-devoting love within him, so it's large, but it's kept guarded and tethered by the camera strap and can only be seen beneath a layer and if he trusts you enough to turn his back. It's mostly upside-down to look more like a heart if I'm honest, but that as well as that it's on his back and so guarded is all representative of how the family that he presumably once loved shamed and pressured him, making a sort of "weight on his back". It's spade shaped because that's who his devotion and love belongs to, but also when counted with the other one, Deuce!

One of my scrapped ideas was having the coat be a doctor's coat with the only hearts on it being scorched edges because something something fire set him free but he still uses his medicinal abilities to benefit people in his new life, but I couldn't get it to look right so I went with the summery looking thing he's wearing now. It's fine but it kind of lacks a personality, I think that's the main thing I'd try to revise if I redid this but I've already overthought it to hell so. Another day.

Ace in Dr. Robotnik's outfit from the sonic movie is there for facial reference and emotional support I guess, I made that a while ago.

And in one last vaguely related tangent, yours truly has a very distinctly heart-shaped birthmark on my foot. It symbolizes that I'm tired. (Jokes aside I think it's cool, afab actually stood for Assigned Fighting game character At Birth)

[xyywrites]

How to use weather as a mood enhancer in scenes.

Weather is more than a backdrop—it’s a tool that can subtly amplify the mood, tension, or theme of your scenes. Done well, it can evoke emotions and foreshadow events without being heavy-handed. 

Melancholy:

The rain tapped against the window, steady and unrelenting, much like the weight pressing down on her chest. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, wishing the storm outside could drown out the one inside.

Restlessness:

The wind howled through the cracks of the old cabin, rattling the loose shutters. It wasn’t the kind of wind that swept things away—it was the kind that stayed and gnawed, a restless echo of her own unease.

A Happy Scene with Gloomy Weather:

Rain poured down in sheets, soaking her to the bone, but she didn’t care. She laughed, spinning in the middle of the street, her soaked dress clinging to her legs. For once, the world’s misery couldn’t touch her.

A Tragic Scene on a Bright Day:

The sun was too bright, its warmth mocking the cold numbness spreading through him. People bustled past, smiling under the clear blue sky, while he sat on the curb, clutching the letter that had just ended everything.

In a Chase Scene:

Fog blanketed the forest, turning the trees into looming specters. Each snap of a branch or crunch of leaves felt amplified, like the forest itself was working against him. He couldn’t see his pursuers, but he could feel them closing in.

During a Confrontation:

The wind picked up as they stood in the open field, her hair whipping around her face like a fury she couldn’t contain. Lightning cracked in the distance, illuminating the raw anger in his eyes. Neither of them would back down.

Redemption Arc:

The first snow of the season fell gently, covering the world in white. It felt like a fresh start, even if he didn’t deserve one. He reached out a hand, watching the flakes melt against his skin, and wondered if he could ever be that clean again.

Grief:

The fog rolled in every morning like clockwork, smothering the town in its heavy embrace. It had been that way since the accident, as if even the weather couldn’t bear to let go of what had been lost.

Loneliness:

The snow piled up around the cabin, burying the path and muffling every sound. She’d never felt the silence so keenly before, as if the world had decided to forget her existence entirely.

Isolation:

The heat hung heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe. The cracked earth stretched out in every direction, offering no shade, no solace. She was utterly alone.

Subtle Anxiety:

A bead of sweat slid down her back, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the heat or the unease that had settled under her skin. The humidity pressed in, making the air feel heavier, like it carried secrets she didn’t want to uncover.

Lingering Sadness:

The drizzle wasn’t enough to drench anyone, but it clung to her skin, a persistent chill she couldn’t shake no matter how fast she walked.

Weather isn’t just a backdrop—it’s a storyteller in its own right. Whether it mirrors your character’s emotions, foreshadows danger, or contrasts with the scene’s tone, it can elevate your writing when used thoughtfully. Just remember: subtlety is key. Let weather enhance your story, not overshadow it.

[greatpurpledumbass]

What the fuck is the point of reading anything if not either to create stories with many perspectives using them as guides (things like ttrpg rulebooks), examine a part of the human condition (something like poetry but also longer forms ofc), or hugely, to gain experience being human through learning shit via the fucking story? Countless other reasons to write, fiction, non-fiction, and the weird shit in between too but, examples is all.

Whatever this is doing, they're failing at the very act of reading, what is the point?! Do you want to experience more of what it is to be human? Or what a robot decides it is to be human?

Algorithms are kind of bad enough as it is, but they tend, for now to feed human experience to humans to experience it. (For now, godsend not just for now.)

Chat gpt to summarize literature, rocks fall you die.

what is HAPPENING

[transman-badass]

So what if I'm not good enough?

No, seriously. So what if I'm not 'good enough'?

Who am I hurting by not being good enough? No one. Writing is a craft that gives, not takes away. Even the worst stories in the world can give the reader something, whether it was meant to or not.

So what if I gain a reputation for being a 'bad' writer? So what if people avoid my work for all the reasons I fear? So what? No seriously. So what?

I own who I am. I write my own words. They come from my heart alone. I don't use the plagiarism machine. I don't lie about my ethnicity. I don't exploit other people. I don't harass others, or chase them off social media. I don't hurt people to lift myself up, or for my own selfish fun. I'm not an asshole, at least, I try not to be.

So what if I'm not 'good enough'? So what if you're 'not good enough'? There's so much worse things to be than that.

And at the end of the day, I'm pretty sure, the only person who thinks I'm not good enough is myself. I mean, have you ever once looked at another person, nevermind a writer, and gone 'you're not good enough'? I haven't. I bet you haven't either.

Maybe you and I, we should show ourselves a little kindness tonight.

[kudouusagi]

Pash Utsumi Hiroko Interview

It's sure to be a heartwarming, Fan & Fun experience!

It's about the moments you weren't able to see in the main series.

--Looking back at the scenario meetings, is there anything that stands out in your memory?

Like the fact that there was a longer version where (series writer) Ookouchi Ichirou, the producers, and I all came up with ideas for what to do in the OVA and decided on it, only to realize it didn't fit into the time limit plan I came up with myself and so it was rejected (laughs). Of course Reki and Langa are the main characters so they're going to appear in the OVA but we really wanted to include them all... and that would be difficult to do in one story so we made it into an omnibus format.

--What do you want people to pay attention to in this OVA?

I'd like it if you could check which scenes were shown in the PV. For example, Reki and the others play karuta, but what kind of karuta is it? Who's playing against who? Will Langa, who is bad at reading and writing, be okay?! In the part with Sakurayashiki and Nanjo set in the past, what was their high school life like? What were their fights like back then? How developed are Nanjo's muscles?! Also, the unknown life of Kikuchi, which was kept top-secret in the main story, is revealed...!?! And more!

--Please tell us about what you remember when looking back on recording the voices for this OVA.

I was happy to see that Hatanaka Tasuku-san, who plays Reki, and Kobayashi Chiaki-san, who plays Langa, were still the same Reki and Langa even though several years had passed. I didn't feel any time had past... ∞(eternal) Friendship! It was also memorable how Koyasu Takehito-san, who plays Ainosuke, struggled with a certain scene. Look forward to finding out which scene it was! It had been a while since I last did the voice recording for SK8, and it brought back memories for me, making me feel like SK8 was back!

--What exactly is the theme for this OVA...?

Since it is an omnibus format, there is no overall theme, but they're each filling a gap that wasn't able to be seen in the main story.

--In order to get to know the characters more deeply before the OVA is released, are there any behind-the-scenes details that you haven't revealed yet (that you couldn't show in the first season of the TV series)?

The different headband Reki is wearing in the OVA PV is a souvenir present from his sister Koyomi. It's shaped like an akabeko with a tiger pattern... it's quite unique. Reki only wears it at home. Langa doesn't care about clothes, so he'll wear anything that's comfortable to move in, so he's wearing something strange this time. Please check out the OVA to find out the details☆

--For those who are rewatching the first season of the TV series, what are some of the points you would like people to pay special attention to?

Don't miss anything! The relationship between MIYA and Reki, the outcome of Hiromi's fleeting love, the current fight scenes between Sakurayashiki and Nanjo, the vibe of the master and dog relationship between Ainosuke and Kikuchi, etc. The bond between Reki and Langa through the whole series and how it develops into friendship, keeps your eyes peeled on it till the very end!! And since the theme song for this OVA was created with the TV series in mind, so I'm certain it will improve your understanding if you watch the whole series and think of it while listening to it☆

--Finally, please give a message to the fans of "SK8". 

We're sorry to have kept you waiting for so long, but thanks to everyone who has been waiting that the day we can finally deliver it to you is fast approaching...! There's only a few more sleeps till the OVA is here ♬ How about going to the cinema to watch "SK8 EXTRAPART" as the finale to your New Year's celebrations? It's sure to be a heartwarming, Fan & Fun experience! Please look forward to its release☆

[embervoices]

I mean... I am frankly not the kind of person people make into main characters. That's WHY I write self-insert with a good deal of humor - I'm aware how bizarre I seem, even IN my own context, much less taken out of it.

So I figure I'm that one guest character in that one episode who was well-liked for the moment I was in, but way too specialized to be of use to the main plot arc as anything other than a strange detour.

As such, I probably become an obscure reference in other works that have nothing to do with the story I'm from that people put in as some kind of fandom shibboleth.

But I'd definitely be tidied up for the sake of mainstream sensibilities.

[corviiids]

hello thank you for asking i am very flattered. i would be most honoured to give some advice that i am most certainly unqualified to give!!

ok advice 1: hey why does everyone keep telling me to read and write a lot

i think this is the most commonly given advice. i have always found it true but incomplete, because on the face of it this kind of focuses a little too much on volume. which by itself just isn't going to do that much for you, or it will, but it'll do it very slowly and ineffectively, because the second part of this advice i don't see nearly as much (and the part that makes it work for me) is that after you read or write something you need to do The Why Interrogation. what are you looking for?

when you like something, why do you like it? not just in terms of copying and learning an author's stylistic quirks or techniques, but in a more abstract way:

is it the narrative? that the premise is novel, that the progression of the story is unexpected and thrilling, that the stakes are high?

is it the characters? what is it about them? do they have compelling backgrounds? does the author spend a lot of time in their heads? is the pov internal in a way that lets you experience the story from their shoes? does their biased narration tell you more about them? or is it a detached narration that lets you see the characters in a way they don't see themselves, so the gap is intriguing?

is it the telling? maybe the prose is beautiful - what makes it so? sentence structure? unconventional use of grammar and punctuation? elegant, sophisticated vocabulary? or maybe the dialogue is sharp and human so conversation flows naturally. is the story paced carefully? does the author linger more in certain moments?

the same exercise is useful for what ISN'T working.

if your attention is drifting, what's making it drift?

purple prose? clumsy prose?

does the narration drag?

do the characters feel stagnant, and why?

plot doesn't make any sense?

maybe this sounds obvious, but imo it's a crucial piece of the advice that i just don't see as much because people tend to focus on volume of works consumed/created. the reflection and analysis is what makes that volume useful, otherwise you're just churning through content. the question should always be why, why, why. why did that work, why didn't it work, why did i like this, why does it suck. then proceed to: if i were doing this, how could i make it work?

advice 2: don't forget that all the words you need already exist.

this is more subjective advice. this is something that works for me personally. so ymmv. have you ever tried magnet poetry? you should try magnet poetry.

i always see writing as kind of a puzzle. if i have an idea in my head, the idea exists. the job is actually a translation exercise: how do i express the thing in my head as a thing other people can see? in this way it's like visual art, but it's also not like visual art at all. in visual art you choose where all the lines and colours go, completely freely. any line you draw is a brand new line.

in language, all your parts already exist. all the words already exist. (you can make new ones if you want but that's a whole different thing.) you are plucking symbols out of a collective understanding. it is like lego. all you are doing is selecting the most effective pieces and placing them in order. so for me, i am simply trying to find the 'right' words to fit each context as best as possible. it becomes a game of arrangement, which determines your expression.

then syntax and punctuation become your rhythm, which is how you determine flow. sentence length, word length, whether you omit words or use more, whether you want to be a bit unconventional. character also plays into this - i am not writing an advice 3 because i am getting self conscious but advice 3 would have been consistency of voice.

so i would prioritise vocabulary and timing. what are you trying to say (which words do you pick) and how do you want the reader to experience your words, how do you want the words to feel and sound (how will you pace your sentences)? remembering that all the parts are already there. it is the world's biggest game of magnet poetry.

advice 3 which doesn't exist: keep your voice consistent.

this advice doesn't exist. im not writing this i got embarrassed and stopped at 2. but if i did write this it would say, remember who you are. (remember who is writing your story. are you a character or are you god? remember how much you know. remember which feelings you have access to.)

[scorpioriesling]

GIRLIE i have been reading 4th wing and holy hell, why havent we got an azriel x fourth wing yettt? like just imagine, that man is literally perfect for ANY book crossover, I would pay good money to see Az beat the frick out of jack (ew)

Our Worlds Collided

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Azriel x reader

Warning(s): Violence... I mean, read the ask. Lol.

Summary: Living in a different place than your boyfriend is hard, and the moments you can be together, you don't want to waste. But, being in school, there are still obligations and tasks you must complete -- even if it means spending time with your man in a less-than-ideal place.

SR’s Note: This ask was *chef's kiss*. I've been doing so much lately with smut + the Invisible String series (which is finished btw, go read it if you haven't yet) that I haven't really got to write a cute little short story in a while. I hope this is what you wanted -- I'm happy with how it turned out!

Tags: @mellowmusings @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @kitsunetori @velarisdusk (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

"I'm so glad you made it!"

You threw your arms around your boyfriend, his tall but strong frame engulfing you as he held you close. Grateful for the familiar scent of pine and mint, you inhaled deeply.

"You missed me that much?" The low timbre of his voice was like a caress against your very soul.

Nodding wordlessly, he pulled back, only a bit to look into your eyes. His shadows danced around him in a joyful parade, signaling his inner happiness he so rarely showed on the outside.

"I missed you too, Y/N." He leaned down, pressing a kiss against your lips and smiling when you tugged him close for more. He slid his rough hands along your waist, settling on your hips while his lips moved against yours.

The moment, one you'd been desperate for for weeks now, was harshly interrupted by the mid-afternoon bell, signaling the end of classes for the day. You pulled back, watching your boyfriend grimace at the sound.

"Don't tell me you've never heard a schoolbell before, Azriel," you chuckled. His ears perked up at the sound, and only when it finally ended did he resume his usual, unassuming posture.

"I'll have to get used to the sounds here again." He says. It was true -- where he was from, Prythian, sounds were much softer as the fae hearing had adapted that way. But, in Basgiath, for your kind; it was quite the opposite.

"Yes... and the dragons." You'd taken his hand, making way for your dorm as he sighed.

"Ahh, yes. Almost forgot about those."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

He truly could not have come to visit at a worse time; not to sound ungrateful, you loved seeing your boyfriend and all, but between all the training, challenges, and courses you were balancing -- well, there were many hours of the day that you had to leave him to attend those duties.

But, you couldn't complain. Spending every evening, curled up with Azriel, your back to his chest as you got the best sleep of your life? You were counting down the days to graduation.

"So... a first year... that's when we met," Azriel says slowly, flipping through one of your library books. He'd chosen Basgiath's War College History, and was all the more quizzical.

"Yes," you confirmed. "That was when I took Ramir to... well, Prythian." You shrugged. "Accidental, of course, but, look what it got me."

He glanced up, chuckling as you threw him a wink. It was an unusually rainy Friday, and though you'd rather be exploring the town with Azriel, Emetterio had other plans.

"But, how were you even able to leave the college with your dragon?" He asks, frowning at the next. You wrap a few more strands of your braid, reflecting on the distant memory.

"Oh, I got in trouble all right." General Sorrengail had been furious with you upon your return, having clearly stated that dragon riding was for Basgiath-grounds only. "But, like I said -- at least I met you."

He doesn't look up this time, flipping the page and reading more of the text intently.

"So, now that you're a third-year," he starts, his attention only faltering for a moment when you sit down on the mattress beside him. "You can go anywhere you want?"

You nod in confirmation. "Yup. That's right -- Ramir doesn't particularly like long-distance flying, but he does just fine going to Prythian and back."

Azriel looks sidelong at you, and in the dim afternoon light, you can count every freckle on his face. His hazel eyes gaze at you, flickering between your eyes and lips. You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips as his hands slide along your upper thigh.

Your alarm buzzes from your phone, causing Azriel to pull back and cover his ears with his palms. You scramble to turn it off, leaning across your boyfriend to reach the night stand in the process.

"Sorry! I'm sorry," you apologize. Your movement to sit back down is halted; his large hands pulling you to straddle him.

He smirks at you, appreciating your cute giggle as you sit on his lap. His hands run up and down the sides of your waist, and in an instant his lips are on yours again.

"Hmm, quite handsy today, are we?" You mumble, eliciting a chuckle from him against your mouth. He enforces his feelings as his left hand lightly pats your behind, and you squeak.

"I wonder why you've got all this on, anyway?" He mutters suggestively. You peer down at him with a scolding expression.

"Though I'd love to have it all off," you punctuate. "I have to be in the training room in 10 minutes." His smile falters a bit, and you realize too late that you slipped up.

"Training room? For what?"

Realization hits you, and you hastily hop off his lap to grab your phone and boots.

"Uh, we have, umm..." You fumble, quickly yanking your boots on and tying the laces. "Training. Tonight."

He looks at you, unimpressed. "Really. Training, at 5 in the afternoon? On a Friday?" He raises an eyebrow.

You huff, standing as you adjust your leathers. "Y-yes."

He continues his blank stare, clearly not buying it.

"Don't worry, I won't be long -- I promise, I'll be quick." You reach for the doorhandle, making up for the time you you'd spent on your boyfriend's lap.

"And, safe." He calls, just as the door shuts.

As you jogged through the corridors, you felt anything but safe. Azriel hated when you got hurt, and of course, before the long weekend, Professor Emetterio was holding challenges. It made sense to choose tonight so injured riders could rest up before classes resumed Tuesday -- but given your situation, it really, really sucked.

Especially because of who had chellanged you; none other than Jack Barlowe.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"Girl, you're lucky Emetterio is running behind," Violet says, shaking her head as you finally make it to the training ring. Rhiannon places a light hand on your shoulder, making sure you're okay, but you only nod to her in thanks.

"I.... I lost, track... of time," you say between pants. Rhiannon nods in sympathy, but your silver-haired friend only smirks.

"Mhm, I'm sure you did. Too caught up with the Shadowsinger?" She teases. Rhiannon gasps.

"I didn't know Azriel was in town!" She beams. You roll your eyes at Violet.

"Oh, like you've never been late before," you grin wickedly. "Too busy playing with shadows, and such." Rhiannon claps a hand over her mouth, giggling at the insinuation.

Violet can't help but laugh too. "Oh please -- we know you love your boyfriends little playmates just as much."

Just then, the training room door swings open as Professor Emetterio walks through. He walks straight to the center of the room, clipboard in hand.

"Students!" He bellows, and the entire room hushes. "I have the list here of challenges for this evening -- now, I want to remind you all, the goal of these scheduled fights is not to kill, but rather build your own strength as a rider against an opponent."

Your eyes flicker to that familiar head of blonde hair across the room. Bile rises in your throat as he snickers, whispering something to his friends before meeting you with a menacing stare.

You look away.

"...we'll try to make this quick, as I do understand it is a long weekend and most of you have plans." He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses on his nose and squinting down at the first names.

"Ridoc and Merlin -- please step onto the training mat!"

Everyone clears off the mat, instead lining the outer edges to get a view of the impending battle before them. You stay close to your friends, your attention interrupted by Violet's voice in your ear.

"We've always kind of had the same type, haven't we?"

Rhiannon giggles again from her other side, and you loose a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"We do not -- for example, I would've never dated a guy like Dain." You quip. Violet groans, stratching her forehead.

"Okay, that was definately one mistake," she says. Rhiannon glances between the two of you, counting the similarities on one hand.

"Hmm, tall, tan, brooding shadow masters? Yeah, I'd say your type is the same." You blush, thinking of the handsome male waiting for you in your dorm room.

Violet chimes in. "Don't forget about the tattoos."

Rhiannon nods, holding up another finger. "Right, right -- definitely can't forget the tattoos."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Three more pairs are called after the first fight, and you're so caught up in conversation with your friends that you almost miss your name being called.

"Y/N and Jack -- please take the mat!"

Violet looks to you in horror, as Rhiannon gasps.

"Y/N! Why didn't you tell me you had to fight-"

"It wouldn't have changed anything." You glare ahead, watching Jack's pompous, blonde head part through the crowd of onlookers.

It was true, your friends couldn't have done anything to change the fact that Jack had challenged you. In a twisted way, you kind of wanted the opportunity to punch him in the face -- but, the niggling fear of him punishing you to the near brink of death had you mostly thinking otherwise.

Taking the mat, you watched as Jack sized you up, smirking and rolling his lip between his teeth before taking his beginning stance. You mirrored him, fists raised, though they shook.

"Begin."

Jack wastes no time, slowly stepping around the ring as he continues to look at you menacingly. You move in opposition, trying to keep as much distance as you can.

"Awww," he coos mockingly. "Not so tough now that were in the training ring, are we?" He smirks.

You glare at him. "I've always been tougher than you, Jack."

He chuckles, lunging forward and clicking his teeth together in front of your face. You step back, your boot stepping onto the cold concrete floor outside the training ring. Emettario clears his throat, before breathing out a sigh.

"Y/N, please. Step back onto the mat."

You take a half step onto the mat, it's surface not much more forgiving than the concrete it sat on. Jack snickers, backing up to allow you an inch of room.

"Y'look scared to me, Y/N." He moves, slow and stealthy. "Almost as scared as Baide when I-"

"Shut the Hell up." You grit out, glaring hard at him. Reflecting back to the moment that caused all this to begin with, your blood boils. Finding Jack out late that night last week, all of those weapons, how he had mistreated his own dragon-

"Ooooh, hot are we?" He sneers, ignoring the fearful faces of your friends standing just outside the ring behind him. "That's the difference between dragons and us -- they are easier to control."

Rage bubbles over the surface, your own words drifting into the back of your mind. They're no different than we are, you'd tried to convince him that night. They deserve our respect.

You lunge at him, respect be damned for the asshole before you. Adrenaline pumps through your veins at the silent victory; your fist had hit him exactly where you wanted it to. He staggers back, clutching his face with one hand as he gasps, his other hand raised before him.

"Fuck, you!" He growls, making to grab you but you're too fast. You snake to his side, kicking your boot against his stomach. He doubles over, falling to his knees in pain.

The memory of Violet in this position from your first year sends you reeling, remembering the horror of watching your best friend beaten and bruised so badly that Xaden had to come finish her challenge for her.

You grap him around the neck, flexing your arm at a 45 degree angle in an attempt to put him in a headlock. He'd never hurt anyone again; not you, not your friends, not any dragon, whether it be someone else's or his own-

His hands grip your arm, pulling you over his back and slamming you straight onto your back before him. You let out a cough as the wind was knocked out of you, your vision blurring as you tried to refocus on the ceiling above you.

"Shouldn't have fucked with me, Y/N!" He shouts, scrambling to his feet, only to land a harsh kick to your ribcage. You cried out in pain, grabbing your side as you felt his boot shoving against your ribs, and fingers, again.

"I do what I want with my dragon," he grunts, ramming his shoe into your side over and over again. Pain explodes across your body, your fingers cracking beneath his repeated blows.

Black spots begin to fill your vision, the overhead lights blinking out as the last sounds feel your ears. You're blacking out. You're surely blacking out.

You try again to rise, weakly as your arms shake beneath you. It's no use -- his foot connects with your hipbone, sending you right back to the floor. The shouts of your friends, Emetterio's calling, the world around you; it all begins winking out.

Curled onto your side, you heave one last final breath, waiting for the final hit to send you into darkness.

But, it never comes.

You crane your neck, confused as the shouting around you grows louder. Wincing in pain, you make it onto your back, only having to turn your head to watch as the horrific scene unfolds from the other side of the mat.

Tall and terrifying, you watch those familiar scarred hands throw the blonde to the ground, his body literally bouncing in recoil at the impact. Large, tanned muscles yank Jack back up; only to twist his arms behind his back, the angle unnatural.

Your enemy cries out, writing in pain as the wispy black shadows hurl punches of their own at the bastard. Dark, large wings flare behind the male; the talons enough to send anyone away screaming.

"Please... you don't have to do this, I-"

Azriel punches him clean in the jaw, Jack's head jerking as he falls limply to the ground. The growing crowd around the mat erupts, their screams so loud it felt deafening.

You now understood why Azriel hated the sounds here so much.

The black dots clouding your vision increase, your heart rate slowing before you finally black out -- the last thing you see are his familiar leather boots stalking toward you.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"She's going to be just fine."

The light from the overhead bulbs is blinding as you squint your eyes open, muffled voices and beeps becoming more distinguishable. You blink a few times before everything comes into clear view -- the white operating bed, the heart rate monitor beside you...

...the brooding, winged male in the chair across from you.

"I... what..." you look side to side, taking in the mender watching over you. He begins to grab his things, preparing to leave.

"Your challenge with Mr. Barlowe left you with a few... injuries," he settles on the word lightly. You don't miss his quick glance to Azriel before he continues. "But, not as many as he recieved himself."

You swear there is a hint of a smile behind his words.

"I'll leave you two for a moment."

No sooner than the door shuts behind him, Azriel is on his feet and approaching your bedside, opting to sit next to you on it as he looks down at you. Concern etches his features, underneath the unassuming mask he puts on; then, the memories of what happened start coming back to you.

"Why would you step in like that?" You say angrily, and Azriel huffs.

"Seriously, Y/N? Why would I step in?" He raises his eyebrows. "Maybe because I wasn't comfortable watching the shit get beat out of my girlfriend, that's why." He takes your wrapped hand in his, though his brows still knit on his forehead. "Why didn't you tell me about the fight beforehand?"

You relax your features a little, your heart softening as he rubs small circles against the back of your palm with his thumb. "I didn't think you'd particularly like it, or understand-"

"You're damn right I don't like it." He says, giving your hand a small squeeze. "What would have happened had I not been there?"

His hazel eyes stare right into yours, and you bite your bottom lip. Truly, what would have happened?

"I-I don't know, I guess, Emetterio would have-"

"He wasn't doing shit, Y/N." He sighs, leaning on his elbow to cocoon you in an embrace. He presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck, and you find yourself relaxing a bit more against his warmth.

"I don't like that you have to go through these things." He says after a moment of silence. His voice is softer now, his hand lightly running along your bandaged side. "I don't like to see you hurt-"

"I have to do this though, Az. It's part of training." You turn to face him, wincing in pain as the fresh bandages do little to ease you. "And, I'm much tougher than you think."

A ghost of a smile graces his lips, his rough fingers reaching out to brush a piece of hair out of your eyes.

"I know you are. I just... I don't want anything to happen to you. I love you too much for that."

Your heart practically bursts out of your chest at the sentiment, and in that moment, you snuggle closer to his chest.

"Good thing I have a big, strong male that I love to protect me then."

[astracora]

Turning Point - Part 5

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability, mentions for Rafayel stories, and myths, violent imagery and arguments.

Word Count: 5456

Written: 9th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. Rafayel is so hard to write for a lot of reasons, but also is one of my favourite characters in any story because he's just... contains multitudes. I also feel like he's the one who struggles most with all these other people in MC's life. I also feel like he's so fixated on pain, and struggle, that he forgets kindness can be offered to him with no price. Anyway, I enjoyed working on this bit a lot even though it was hard. Enjoy! Also as a side note, the song of choice I can only partially explain, Rafayel out of all the boys makes me think of regency romance on a level I truly cannot explain. (even though he doesn't have a dancing scene... YET!!)

Now Playing: All I Want, by Kris Bowers

Masterlist AO3

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Rafayel loves you. That is never in doubt. He finds himself bitter and aching that there is so much you have shared that only he remembers.

Sometimes it comes out in harsh words or lies. Even though he knows it is unfair to punish you, when you can't control it.

Mostly, however, he tries to enjoy moments with you. Hoping that something will spark, and you will look at him and see long years of history.

Remember his longing and his love in all its forms.

Remember all the facets that make him up. Perhaps it's cowardice to want your memories to fill in the blanks that he is too scared to tell you. Blood on his hands, heart offered up. He does not want to see your expression change. For you to fear or hate who he is… who he can become.

He thinks about beautiful blue seas, and the breath stolen underwater.

When he finds himself thinking of the beach he waited at, every year, he pushes himself into his work.

Now, he spends most of his days at your side. In case you need him. He watches closely, because he's used to you hiding your struggle from him. When you're sick, you've hidden it, he's reminded you that you're not a superhero. As much as you put on a brave front for every kid that sees your hunter reels.

Rafayel has watched this version of you for a long time, before he finally met you again. Properly.

He has seen so many renditions of you, no matter who you have been… he has loved you. He has and will love you for eternity and beyond, even if it might be easier not to.

Rafayel has finished most of his work for his exhibit, as he stares at the final piece that is missing something that he cannot find.

Sun blends with sea, as the tides recede. As silver bones are left behind to bleach.

He stares and stares and nothing comes. Just that vague, irritating feeling of incompletion.

"You're going to burn a hole in it, fish."

"Sylus, leave the man alone, he's actually working."

Rafayel huffs… and therein lies his other problem. Your consortium of bizarre attachments. If he were less observant, he could pretend they see you as a friend only.

But he is a man who can kill another, who can plan his revenge, who can hide in plain sight. Who is capable of sneaking up even on the N109 Zone Leader.

So he can see and he can't ignore. He also can't ignore that they comfort you as well.

You have teased him for being childish, and he thinks the irritating feeling in his gut, that demands he steal all of your time, that you are his bonded partner, confirms such a claim. He is not possessive of a lot… your heart is his.

He tries to ignore the doctor and the crow. Staring straight ahead, hoping that answers will come to him, but he cannot. He can feel their presence and it is on the edge of his consciousness. Poking at it.

Like he is a crab on the beach and a child wants to watch his pincers clasp.

"Maybe you should take a walk, get some fresh air."

"Do you want the fish to suffocate, Doctor?"

"Truly, you are incapable of not prodding at others aren't you?"

He huffs this time, turning his face to look at the two. Zayne is typing on his laptop, barely looking up to converse, while Sylus is on his tablet, glasses on the end of his nose.

The two look eerily similar like this.

Rafayel tries not to compare the doctor to the crow, it's unflattering. At least the doctor can heal your wounds.

When he speaks though, his irritation comes out in the snippy tone he takes, "Your opinions are noted, dumb crow. Then swiftly discarded."

The man does that irritating little laugh he does, that is more a puff of air than a real laugh. Like it's too much effort to feel anything, and Rafayel wants to pluck his feathers.

How you can tolerate him, he'll never know.

At least the hunter is quiet…

Still, he wants to get out of here, they make it harder for him to think, and he can't make progress like this. So he stands, shrugging at them and heads towards the door, as he goes to make through he almost collides with you and Xavier returning from the hospital. He isn't surprised when you move out the way just in time, you're a hunter and your training has made you capable. Still as he greets you, you hesitate, before tugging at his shirt before he can leave.

He looks down, your hand holding onto the fabric, not tough enough to tear, but enough to halt his movements.

"Are you alright, Raffy?" 

It shouldn't surprise him that you notice the tick in his jaw, or the stress under his skin. It isn't the first time, and you've shown many times to have been able to pick out when his mood has dropped. You're observant as part of being a hunter, you're careful, you pay attention. You're smart.

You care.

About him, about his mood… about his life. His irritation settles, soothes at the edges, and his smile is easier, "I need some fresh air. Want to come with?"

You hesitate and he watches the fear enter your eyes. Wavering. You walk between the hospital and the apartment when you don't take Zayne's car, but that's the extent of your journeys. He wants to pull you by the hand… make you see the sea with him.

"Where are you going?"

"Whitesands."

It's far enough removed, very few people visit it, and he will get a walk somewhere familiar. Perhaps it's familiar enough for you to follow him.

He extends his hand, carefully, trying to keep the need from bubbling to the surface. If he could take you away far from here, he would. Take you to everything he's ever seen, so he can see it with new eyes. Yours.

Your hand stretches out, and your fingers tremble, before you finally take his, "Alright, if it's quiet." Your request is one he'll happily grant. Both of you alone, he can't think of a better way to spend his time.

The walk is kind to him, as they head towards Whitesand Bay, he gets to keep your hand in his, listen to the song of the world, and watch as your steps become lighter. You stop staring down at your arm and checking around you, eventually focusing on the sky and him.

As feet crunch on white sand, and approach the edge of tides. You let go of his hand to walk a little further out, and he watches. As you crouch, as you reach fingers to the water.

Rafayel paints everything he thinks is beautiful, tragic, or brings pain to his soul. You hurt him too, in ways he aches for. Like he is placing his hand in a burning flame, and holding it there, because the longer he holds it, the closer he gets to what he craves.

Like there is an answer there, waiting over the edge of agony. If he tumbles after it, he'll find what eludes him.

There's a feeling in him that wants to drown you with him. He could swim out, with you in his arms, and pull you under. On the edge of the question of life, before he gives you the means to breathe alongside him. He's warned you of the nature of sirens, and you've looked him in the eye and told him you don't fear him.

You should, though, he knows. You should fear the ocean's grasp as well as his own, because he wants your heart for his.

As you turn your eyes back to him, soft smile tugging the scar on your face, his heart thunders and then stills. Flames and agony. The need to touch and hold it in his hand… Lit against the contours of your face, and the glimmer in your eyes.

His inspiration is always closer than he thinks.

—-----

Rafayel dislikes your companions.

The prince gets to spend all of his time with you, working together, protecting each other. Where Rafayel had to convince you to be his bodyguard, just for a fraction of that time.

The doctor is who you trust with your injuries and your wounds, he is who you go to when something hurts. You hid your sickness from Rafayel before now, so he didn't doubt your capabilities.

The crow… the crow gets under his scales. Like a tick. Biting and bleeding and ruining his skin. Yet you trust him, a man who built all his life on violence. Who has blood on his hands. Who is open about his sins… While he cannot tell you for fear of the look in your eye changing.

It is safe to say the crow is his least favourite. The one who grinds at him most, who plucks and pulls. Like a hook in his upper lip. He dreams of drowning the man… he would if the look in your eyes didn't stop him.

So he hates them, he thinks. The anger and irritation and the childish petulance. He wants your attention and he fights for it, he wants you to trust him most. It took too long to gain entrance into your home, reminding himself that time builds strong bonds. That he should be patient. He did not want to scare you, to startle you. Like you are a small fish and he is a bigger… hungrier beast.

There is no peace when they are around, and normally pain brings him inspiration, an answer on the end of a paintbrush. A vision in the agony.

Whatever feeling they inspire is not pain, and it brings him no art to create, no feelings to share in blues and greens. Nothing to show for it.

He has thankfully, however, finished his final piece. So there is a relief in him, even as the crow looks down at him, eyebrow raised.

Rafayel ignores the man, looking straight ahead, signing his work. Paintbrush steady. Steadier than the racing heart in his chest.

He will not lose a game of chicken with an overgrown bird.

So when the crow turns to walk away, he is relieved, and so smug, until he hears a crunch. Looking over quickly, and staring down at the floor.

"Ah, what a shame."

One of Rafayel's paintbrushes snapped in half by the stupid crow's foot.

He levels a glare at the man, "Are stupid crows clumsy too?"

"Are all fish messy? Your things have spread across the apartment."

"I'm working!"

"Quite diligently I see, despite galavanting off to the beach. Inspiration was it?"

The look on the crow's face is too level. It's too calm. He does not respond to the rise of Rafayel's voice. He does not flinch at the glare in his eyes. He does not move, from where his foot is still on his brush.

It is a feeling of irritation that burns and scorches where it stands.

He has to tolerate and bite his tongue. He has to think and be careful. He has to share, where he does not want to share.

You are his heart, why does he have to look at the eyesore in his vision, and think about his hands on you too.

His anger bubbles and froths and overflows. A pot that has been left, and forgotten. You will forget him too, in favour of a crow! A stupid. Foolish. Irritating crow.

He stands and presses forwards, fangs bared and sharp. He is a predator of the seas. This man is nothing. He is a god of the tides. This man is a petty criminal.

Rafayel knows you better, he has seen more incarnations than this man can even comprehend, and he dares to play at favour?

"If you wish to be drowned, crow, I am happy to oblige."

Eyebrow quirks at him, a look in his eyes that Rafayel can't make out, but it glitters and twinkles, "I'd love to see you try, fish, but I'm afraid you couldn't hope to kill me."

"I am more than willing to try."

"Then you'll simply be hurting your 'beloved bride', wouldn't you?"

He snarls, a low noise in the back of his throat, hand reaching out to grab at the man's throat. To snap it, bite through it, to cut his voice permanently, he isn't sure. It will hurt, and he will deserve it. For calling you what he cannot. Too many memories that you cannot hold in your heart.

The crow steps forwards, as if daring him to try. To wrap his hands around his throat and twist. To slice his throat open with a dagger. To see. To show him if it's true.

"Raffy?" Your call comes from the side, stumbling in, voice wary.

His hand hovers, he debates. Thinks for a moment. Stares at the crow's adam apple as the man swallows his laughter down. The dare is there, waiting for him to take… and they both know he won't.

So he rips his hand back, offers you the kind of smile that shakes at the foundations, "Hey cutie, I was just going out for the exhibit."

You open your mouth to speak, and he shakes his head, grabbing his canvas. Lifting it far too quickly to be safe, and turns on a heel, "I'll see you later."

The speed he leaves the apartment leaves the door frame shaking behind him. Heading out, running from the place. From the crow's dare, from the wary look in your eyes.

From the inadequacy… the guilt… the irritation. The pain.

What lurks over the abyss could just be nothingness. A world where you don't want him, or need him. Where without your memories you do not look at him, hear him call you his beloved bride, and love him as you once did. Where his bond with you is not enough, and he simply has to experience the heart that cannot beat for anyone but you.

That he has lied and hidden and kept from you for too long, that a criminal with blood on his hands who does not hide… claims your heart for his.

His heart…

There is pain behind his art and in his soul. A reminder that he cannot always be with you in every life, and he prays this is not one of them. An alter of suffering that he would cut his chest open at, if you would always look at him.

—--

You cannot stop thinking about the look on Rafayel's face.The agony in his eyes as he'd darted from the room. You'd asked Sylus who had shrugged, "I broke his paintbrush." But not explained further.

You'd seen Rafayel break his own paintbrushes in his studio, stepping on them, falling over them. Resulting in a trip to the hospital because of how messy things were.

You help Sylus clean up some of the mess, containing it in a corner with the rest of Raffy's things, hoping it would alleviate some of the feeling you can't seem to shake in the air. A stagnation. It feels like decay, and you can't open enough windows to air it out.

If Sylus decides not to share, he won't. You've known him long enough, pried at his secrets enough, that you don't waste the strength anymore. He shares what he wants, when he wants to.

So you abandon the effort and go about your day. It drags. Waiting for time to pass, working through your exercises, before you have to leave.

As the time approaches, the clock hand moving, it begins to click harder. The sound impending.

You think about other exhibits, the amount of people, the noise…

It cuts through the excitement, the peace of the wait, the boredom.

You pause as you're getting ready, staring at the prosthetic arm flexing in front of you. The movement of metal fingers, the clear indication of your injury… your failure.

You're going to see Rafayel. A man who people will be looking at. Commending.

Taking photos of.

Do you really want to be stood next to him like this? To draw attention to yourself and him?

An icy chill runs up your spine, and you stop. You have to get these clothes off. You have to cancel. You can't go.

You can't be there.

You feel the chain on your ankle, it tugs and it pulls, and it drags you back. The beast that settled, has woken up. It is hungry and it is angry, and it is laughing at you for trying.

A mistake, this was a mistake. You made a promise to someone you care about, and now you're going to hurt him. Either way, you're going to hurt him. Make him look stupid. Make him hate you.

You're going to break this fragile peace. Bring that agonised look into his eyes again.

Take from a man who gives you so much. Love, affection, kindness, warmth, acceptance, joy.

You are ripping all those things from his hands, and returning nothing.

"Kitten?" You stumble, when the voice startles you out of your thoughts. Falling back onto the bed, looking up as Sylus enters, not bothering to wait for an answer. Ever since your mission had gone wrong, he has been far less hesitant. If he could ever be said to be hesitant.

When he sees you sitting, tears in your eyes, he approaches you, kneels in front of you. Hands on your knees. Soothing your skin. His skin is so warm, it's like a brand. You almost pull away. On fire, itching, hurting. He notices your flinch and pulls his hands away. The relief of the cool is intense, and you choke on the feeling.

You're the mistake. Too fragile to be touched. Too useless to be helpful. Too much work.

He takes in your rumbled clothing. The shirt half pulled off, the jacket thrown away from you, the trousers unclasped. You are shivering, and shaking, and while you can see his hands twitching. Yearning, needing to soothe, he knows he can't. So he tries to speak, hesitant now, "Don't you like them?" You think about the time he spent, finding things with Rafayel that are easier to wear. Clasps that can be done easier with one hand, or buttons bigger for your unsteady metal fingers.

Things that require the least amount of struggle. If he could not find them, he had them made.

The two of them, you think as you try to fight through the fog, are dangerous.

You shake your head numbly. "I can't go."

It doesn't require much more from you, even without his eye, Sylus reads people. He reads you. He's said sometimes he cannot understand the workings of your mind, but he improves everyday. It is terrifying to be seen by him. Terrifying for him to look under the rough exterior, to the rougher interior.

You wait for the moment that he realises you're not worth it.

"You'll be with us." He starts, and you look down at where his hand twitches towards you, then back. "You won't be alone."

You haven't been alone, you think. In all the time you've spent with this. This weight, first on your back, then on your ankle. They have come to find you. Looking.

Just like Caleb did.

Is it enough? This could be that wakeup call.

"Rafayel wants you there, he's excited to see you." It is odd. It is hearing Sylus say 'Rafayel' and not 'fish', that jolts you back. Just like the moment you saw them in your kitchen, arguing. Just like when you saw them all walk through that door when the blanket was your only defence.

It is a realisation of how odd this is. How bizarre they are.

It almost makes you hiccup a laugh. The idea of Sylus speaking for Rafayel. You think about how warm he is to you, how he takes your hand easily.

I will always want to look at you.

"What if it's too much work?" You finally manage, the agony lightening so you can speak, no longer tearing at you. Though you can feel the creature on your ankle. Tugging. Like a dog with a chew toy.

"The important things are worth it."

Important.

Learning to use your prosthetic is hard. Learning to trust is hard.

It was with Caleb, it is with all of them. It is a constant struggle. A constant weight. To try.

They catch you, with a security net. Give you space to breathe, so you can stand back up again.

You think about what you want, think about what will make you happy… what is worth living for.

It is the reason to keep getting up.

You want to see Rafayel's work, you want to see the people you care about. You want to keep your promise to a man who values you. A hesitant shaky hand takes Sylus' where it hovers. The way you can watch him heave a sigh, the tension in him easing, as he clasps yours between both of his. Tight, but not suffocating. He grounds you, and it doesn't burn.

"What do you think, Kitten? Do you want to try?"

Sylus has never belittled you for tears, or made you feel your emotions are a mistake. When you are drowning, he offers a hand. When you anger and hurt, he is there, either to join you in your hurt, or to help appease it.

He offers you a choice, and he means it. If you truly do not want to, you know he will accept it. If you want to, he will help.

"I want to try."

He nods, pulling you up with him, to stand, straight into his chest. So that you can feel his uneven heart beating against you. "Then let's get you ready."

—-----

He should never have left so early. He should have stayed with you.

Rafayel left the apartment in frustration and anger and now he stares at his phone, hoping to see your name pop up.

It is an agitating feeling. To be stood on the edge of the cliff and not know if there's water below.

He has forced himself to listen to Thomas, to go through the motions, to ensure his exhibit is set up correctly. He has sat under too bright lights, feeling himself drying up, as he waits. As the clock hand moves, as he thinks, and he struggles.

If he keeps running, will you stop chasing him?

As his exhibit starts, he checks again, only to see a message from the doctor, 'Good luck today'. He doesn't respond. He stares at it. It's unsettling. He doesn't want the doctor to wish him good luck. He doesn't want his comfort.

He doesn't need it.

Even when his agitation settles a moment, and he hides it from Thomas who asks him why he's smiling. He's not.

That doesn't mean anything.

He does not wave at Xavier as he walks through the door, milling around the paintings quietly. Avoiding the bigger crowds. He tries not to think about the fact that he's come to see.

It doesn't matter.

As time passes, Rafayel fidgets.

Stares at the door.

Fidgets.

Stares at the door.

He walks around the room, passes Xavier, who hands him water quietly, then walks off. He stares down at it, but he's parched, the crowds are tiring him out, the people are talking like they understand him, and he just wants to be somewhere else. So he downs it, and lets the relief of the chill settle in his throat.

He talks absently to people he doesn't really care to listen to. Thomas gives him a talk about doing his duties.

Irritation settles in his stomach. He doesn't care about his duties. He cares about seeing you.

He checks his phone, and is relieved, though irritated, when he gets a message from the crow, 'We're on our way'. He sends back a thumbs up, though it is through a shaky hand. Excitement makes it unsteady.

It is when he is not staring at the door, when he hears your voice behind him. "Raffy?" Pulling away from where he is avoiding Thomas' lectures, he takes you in. Your hand is grasped in the crow's, eyes darting around the room. You're wearing your prosthetic, a dark blue jacket over your shoulders, painted with green and blue flowers. Flared trousers and a light shirt. He absently thinks that the crow's style isn't too ridiculous, if it means you visit his exhibits like this. Like one of the flowers in a garden he wants to take you.

"Cutie!" It is relief and it is the weight of hundreds of years that shed. He waited, he waited, and you came. He takes your hand away from the crow, not without giving a smug little smile, which receives him a smirk, and kisses the back of it. "You made it."

He watches your eyes glisten, he can feel the heat off your cheeks. Not all embarrassment, he knows some of it is stress, but it is enough. "You don't have to stay long." He promises, it doesn't matter how long you stay. You came. You came, no matter what.

You came, and he knows it wasn't easy.

The laugh you release, it trembles, like your hand, but it is accompanied by the small smile he is learning to draw with his eyes closed. "Show me your work?"

"I'll go find the prince, call me if you need me." The crow offers, he leans, kissing your temple, before he leaves. You blink after him a bit, touching where he kissed with your hand, pulling it from Rafayel's grasp, and then look at him. He glares after the man, but doesn't offer much of a response.

"Come on then cutie, you're mine." He doesn't look as he grabs your hand, and he knows he is grinning at you. Pulling you forwards with him, darting to where his art calls for you.

He doesn't notice the chill in your hand, until he eases his fingers over it. Feeling grooves and edges. He almost releases when he realises he has grabbed your prosthetic, you are staring down at it with him.

Rafayel looks at you, tries to read the look in your eyes. It is soft, and awed and gentle. So he raises it to his lips, kissing the wrist. You tremble, blinking, before tightening your grip just a little.

It is the soft, warm look in your eyes, as you tug him forward a little bit more, a laugh bubbling out of you. "Come on Raffy."

He takes you around all of his paintings, and just watches you.

You don't offer him opinions or thoughts often, he has learned if he gives you space to look, you can tell him how you feel. What his art brings out in you. If he looks closely at your face, he can watch it. Trembling in your eyes.

As you flit amongst paintings, like a butterfly amongst flowers, tugging him along with you. He follows willingly.

There are moments when you stop, and your hand twitches out. Like you are holding back the urge to run your fingers over the paint. Tracing shapes, touching at his heart directly.

He wants to tell you that you can do as you please. That you are the one who he wants to understand him most. That his art, and his soul are yours to do with as you like. That you could tear images from his canvas, and he would still paint more for you.

Finally you find yourself in front of his struggle. Bleached bones on the beach, tides easing out. Leaving scars behind.

At the edges of the horizon, the sun rises again. Painting the once dreary sky in a rainbow.

You are the sunrise that greets him, that reminds him that time moves forwards. That there is something to see after the night.

That tomorrow has a chance for better than today.

You bloom like a flower before his eyes, a sight he could never have seen beneath the waves. A reminder of why he came to visit the surface every year. A reminder of all the wonders of land that he idolised as a child.

"Beautiful." Is exhaled, and he is unsure if it was you or him. The twinkling in your eyes, perhaps it was both.

Eventually he feels the strain in your countenance, the exhaustion, so he sneaks with you out of the exhibit. Escaping into gardens that are quiet, and closed to others. A locked gate has never kept him out of anywhere, however.

It is the quiet that settles you, and he settles alongside you. No longer wearing a mask he does not want for people who come to stare at his work. He pulls you amongst flowers, fields of lilies, and whispers of petals.

Secluded and alone. The way he feels best with you.

Lying down in the grass, to look up at the sky, stars twinkling.

It is with the view of the stars that you speak, voice tinged in a guilt he wishes to chase away, "I almost didn't come. I'm sorry Raffy."

His eyes turn to you, to read the draw of your lips, the pain in your eyes, the way you tighten your grip on his hand. Cool metal against skin that reacts to you more than any other. Sensitive, aware.

Your touch will always alight his senses.

He knows the hesitation, he thinks about the way you wavered on the edge, hand extended to you as you feared to take it. He knows that you are adjusting. He regrets asking you to promise, to put that weight on your shoulders.

He is relieved you came. To see him, to stare at the workings of his heart, and yearn to trace it with fingers.

His patience and his need fight often. His awareness of pushing, his desperation. It is hard to balance.

"What changed your mind?"

You edge a little closer on the grass, so that the heat of him spreads over the sensors of your prosthetic. Alongside the gentle stroking of his thumb over your hand. "Sy told me you wanted me to be here… and I wanted to be here for you."

Rafayel's first instinct is the kind of reaction he's seen cats get to water. Hissing and jumping up. Shaking himself furiously.

There is great dissatisfaction at comparing himself to the demons.

There is greater dissatisfaction at the crow, helping him. In any way.

It is a feeling of being pulled back by the scruff of his neck, away from the abyss he seeks out. The fall into the ocean.

The agony on the edge of the conscious.

You poke his cheek with your other hand, then brush hair back and his heart settles its seething. "I'm glad."

"Glad?"

"That they care for you." It is whispered, and it is tentative, and he sees the worry in your eyes.

The fear at his arguments before. The anxiety that you are causing distress.

Forcing them. Making them clash in enclosed spaces. Like caged beasts.

It is the wary voice that calls out to him, tries to ask the question about the pain in him, the voices and the agony ripping and pulling and hurting. The pain that grants him no inspiration.

They care.

A message sent to wish him luck. A quiet presence bringing him water when he dries. A fool giving you the push to move forwards to lead your feet to him.

You have not stopped looking for him and at him, and he has been holding you like a toy he does not wish to share…

It is a feeling he isn't ready to digest or question, not when the stars are bright and you are safe next to him. It is one he will think about in days to come, as he watches the doctor help him clean. As he is offered a pillow the prince favours in order to sleep better.

When the crow argues with him, but gives him food that satisfies a hunger he forgets to appease for himself.

When you do not look at him any less. That he has not lost anything, he is not lesser.

It is a feeling for later.

To help paint canvas he wants to share one day, though pain is absent, and something else glimmers in the sea.

[princesscolumbia]

As someone who writes about aliens, I'm just going to say it's not a big spiritual deep-dive to write about them, either. Space aliens, illegal aliens, trans-universal/timeline aliens, cybernetic beings that are technically alien life...you name it, you can write about it with research and...

(Goddess help me, I just used a Spongebob meme!)

There's a post that circulates about how Tom Clancy has never served in the military but writes remarkably accurate military fiction. When asked, he explains that it's pretty much just him thinking through, "What would happen if abc did xyz? How would we handle it through a military lens?"

Of course, this requires that you put enough in your head so you can think through these kinds of questions in a logical and reasonable way, so this, also, requires research. It won't always look like what you think it does.

I have a project that (minor spoilers for those reading my stuff) has a plot thread that concludes about 400-600 years from now where humans are basically hybrid beings, nearly equal parts nanite and organic tissue. Not cyborgs, the synthetic bits aren't something added in, they're born with them, having received both the genetic material AND the nanites from their parents. By the time they're born, the nanites from both parents have reconfigured to be unique to the child's nanites as an amalgam of the nanites from both parents. The nanites basically make the humans immune to any previously encountered disease, repair ALL damage, even just the damage caused by aging, and allow the human to learn to control the nanites to directly shape their own body. In this transhuman future, the human consciousness isn't even necessarily confined to that particular body because it lives just as much in the nanite swarm as it does in the blob of tissue that forms the organic parts of the body, so even the total obliteration of the physical form isn't necessarily lethal so long as they have a connection to a network and enough time to escape through that connection. (Surprise ground-zero nuclear explosion or teleportation to the center of a star would do it, but even said nuclear explosion could be escaped with a fast enough network connection.) Said network connection can be always on, and for most people it is, simply because it gives them access to all of the rest of humanity no matter how alone they may be IRL. Since the nanites are simply part of the person's entire framework of who they are, the build instructions for new nanites would be constantly updated in the person's...person-hood framework in their consciousness 'blob' on the network. If the person had to do this kind of jump, they'd simply find the appropriate machinery connected to the 'net to build their nanite swarm, which would then seek out the appropriate organic components to build them a new body and they just move into that.

While I was workshopping this as an end-point for this particular series, I stumbled onto a series on ScribbleHub that...sadly seems to have languished, because I'd love to see how the stories in the series end! But, the central premise is about humans making first contact with an alien intelligence that is based on mycelium. They're a complex multicellular life form that exists in a networked-by-default state. The individuals exist inside a collective consciousness as distinct individuals and have their own cluster of cells in the colony, but they have a somewhat loose relationship with the physical world because they can simply grow custom tailored bodies from the cellular colony and then inhabit said body, break it off, then go about their business. They can sever their connection completely or keep it going remotely, and everything we would do with tech and tools they do by just growing whatever tech and tools they need from their own collective cellular mass.

The two ideas smashed together in my head and I realized something...

Individuals exist untethered from a single corporeal form

They live connected to others as both a community thing and a survival thing

They can exist as nothing but a concept but prefer to be tethered to a physical form, regardless of how instantiated it is or how big or small the physical form is

They can build themselves bodies from the ground up so long as the resources and network connection exists

The smallest unit of survival for propagation is a single cell. Sure, that single cell may not be able to do much and may not be connected to the collective, but it can replicate, and from that replication, create enough more of itself to rebuild an entire civilization if necessary

The collective is just as important and invaluable as the individual and everyone in the community is incentivized to maintain their collective since that's where they keep all their stuff. (And by "stuff" I mean "all the memories and experiences and everything that makes me 'me' is at least backed up in part of the complete whole of all the everything else about my people and my community")

Their perspective shifts from time scales of years and decades to centuries and millennia

Life experiences and knowledge and even basic empathetic understanding can be transmitted to others easily because it's just data and data can be copied and sent easily

I realized that between what Murbellass and I wrote, there's a convergent evolution happening on the galactic scale.

It all comes back to crab mushrooms.

(While this creates an interesting setting, I didn't really have anything but the setting until @machoestofmen showed me some humanoid automata monsters from Dragon Quest XI that trap creatures in the cages that make up their lower halves and look like dresses and they suggested, "What if this but forcefemme?" and I'm all, "Sounds like a mechanical version of HDG...wait..." and now I've got ANOTHER damn plot bunny in my head where all of these ideas come together in a story that takes place about a thousand years from now...)

MY POINT is...I don't know any mushroom people. To the best of my knowledge, no mycelium are connected to the Internet for me to ask, "Hey, how does this work for you?" But I don't have to. By exposing my mind to new stories, new ideas, new things to research that I've never encountered before, I'm able to imagine how such things might happen, what occurs when xyz meets abc, and then extrapolate the 'What happens next?!' from there.

if you’re white and wanna write a poc character and feel awkward about it i implore you to ignore any twitblr stuff treating it as a massive ethical burden and instead come in more with the same mindset you’d have if you wanted to write about idk firefighters but didn’t know anything about firefighters so you do... research. Like fuck off with the weird kinda creepy calls for spiritual introspection you’re not writing about god damn space aliens you’re writing about humans and if you think you need more perspective of different life experiences just read?

[the-kingshound]

I loved the update just because it exists. I loved the bit with the mounts (especially Arthur's trying to ground MC) but my tiny bit of concrit is the "I know you're a mage" convo feels...shoehorned? Like we get the panic attack and Arthur just says he doesn't think the same way as Uther and it's just...It feels (imo) that the Hound once more just accepts Arthur at face value again? I loved the rewrite making the Hound more wary of Arthur, and this kinda felt like a slip? Idk it just feels like there could be...more there. Or perhaps Arthur will try to revisit the topic? Cause like idk about you but if I was just told "I don't want to do anything to you buuuuuut people in my court might," I'd feel threatened and like...I wouldn't believe a single word prior to the "my court might" part. Cause like the Hound is a political prisoner, the nobles (Our sister in law is amazing) made that clear, so it's just another chain Arthur is adding, a little "Be careful love, you don't know what SOMEONE might do if they found out you're a mage :) :)", you know?

And as someone who played as a Hound who is absolutely dreading this marriage (they literally feel like a prisoner) that whole thing kinda felt as if that wasn't an option? Like for example, the walking into the church thingy you have: I feel better, I'm not alone, and the "I am strong and proud" options, but no real option for...just numb? I personally just headcanoned the Hound was disassociated to the point they won't remember the day at all. (I kinda hope we might just get to breakdown with our brothers, or idk alone in the dark)

Also I forget, but is this a game where we have to rack up romance points to lock in? Or one we choose the route? Because I honestly didn't feel that my Hound would want to talk to anyone during what is (to them) a celebration of their collaring/house's defeat.

BUUUUT I truly do hope you take this as constructive. You won't please all of us, and you shouldn't try to. I love that you gave us even this and you are incredibly strong and lovely for pushing through everything. If I am out of line, feel free to ignore or tell me off and I'll just smash my Hound into a better mold for the story lol. After all, it is your story, tell it how you want.

I would really like to give you a long response to your very helpful feedback, but I fear I am lacking the energy to do so. I just want you to know that I hear you, and in truth you make really good points.

1) yeah I do admit I was getting close to burnout with writing in this update, and that scene in particular might have suffered for it. I'll revise it, and hopefully try to not make the interaction feel so jarring. (Note: did you try to pick the more... aggressive option? It goes in a different way, maybe it is less weird?)

2) you are totally right on the options for the marriage - especially because you can play a very numb MC. I'll either edit or add that option. Ohh and the breakdown with the siblings is peak idea. I'm writing that down.

3) as for the romance points: this game is focused strongly on MC. You can choose the pace of the relationship your Hound develops, and for romance, you need to first have some platonic points with said RO. Platonic means in this case that MC wants to spend time with them, and doesn't have to go further than what will become a lifelong friendship.

You do have to pick at least an option to have platonic points with a RO, but you won't get locked out of anything in this game. Every choice shapes your personal Hound's story, this is not a game that punishes you, or that is focused solely on romance.

Thank you for sending this in! This kind of feedback, especially if worded clearly and kindly lik you did, can be so helpful and I love getting it even if it makes me pause and rethink some things.

[nikethestatue]

It was staring us in the face all this time, but it just dawned on me yesterday. Better later than never, right?

But Elriel WAS always endgame. From the very beginning.

We've argued for 4 years, pointlessly, but it was always right in front of our eyes. How?

Good, old Moriel.

Mor and Azriel.

Moriel was always the answer.

Now walk with me.

In ACOMAF, we have 3 couples seemingly established. Feyre and Rhys (a given), Nesta and Cassian (essentially a given, since he is crawling towards her on the floor with shredded wings when she is thrown into the Cauldron), and then, suddenly...Elucien. 'You are my mate' Lucien whispers to Elain. Done deal, right?

Who does it leave as 'available' at the end of ACOMAF?

Azriel and Mor, of course.

THE supposedly torrid romance of the last 500 years. But now, Cassian is out of the equation, because he met Nesta, and Mor and Azriel are free. Nothing stands between them.

So, if Moriel 'was the original ship' as so many claim, and Elriel were never meant to be, then the question arises:

Why didn't Sarah J Maas make Mor and Azriel a couple????????

Not only does she not make them a couple, she veers into a completely new and unexpected trajectory. She makes Mor absolutely unavailable to Azriel as a love interest.

SJM crushes Moriel in one fell swoop. ACOWAR, which should've been a Nessian and Moriel romance starter pack instead becomes a Nessian and Elriel starter pack.

Not only that, but SJM ships the newly minted mate Lucien away from his mate, and leaves Elain with...Azriel. And then proceeds to write complex and intimate scenes for Elain and Azriel.

She goes further--to drive the point home that Moriel is never going to happen, she makes Mor gay, and she also introduces Vassa, who has a much bigger story tied to Lucien than Lucien has with Elain. Additionally, SJM puts a cherry on top of that messy cake and reneges on Lucien's paternity, so he could be a spell cleaver.

Nothing, and I mean, absolutely NOTHING stopped SJM from writing Mor and Azriel. If she wanted to have them be endgame, she could've easily gone that way. And for those to claim that she made Mor bi/gay for some kind of DEI quota and 'diversity', she could've just as easily make Amren gay. In fact, Amren already implied that she preferred the female form, so the easiest and most logical thing to do was to have Amren say that she chose the female body and her sexual preference is also towards females. No one would've been surprised.

But no. Elain, even with a MATE, has been firmly attached to Azriel at the hip since ACOMAF.

Moriel was always a possibility, but not for SJM. She never changed her mind about one thing, and that is Elriel. There is no doubt that Elain and Azriel were always going to be endgame for SJM. Nothing's changed. There's never been any other options.

[mono-dot-jpeg]

three hot professors - jayce, viktor

summary; a story about the three hot professors who work at piltover university

genre/extra tags; oneshot, comedy, fluff, modern au, piltover zaun kind of exists, but it's more like good side of town and bad side of town kind of, started this idea at 3am, some sexual themes, i say some but i literally write moments of the sex, jayce viktor and reader are in fact the hot professors, everyone wants you three but they cant have yall ‼️, viktor FUCKS and im tired of pretending he leans sub, I SWEAR I LOVE JAYCE BUT IM SO ASS AT WRITING HIM, SORRY JAYCE ENJOYERS </3 HIS PART IS SO SHORT, reader is implied to wear some type of makeup but during sex mostly

[nsfw] [gender neutral! reader]

[warnings and mentions: oral, everyone is a switch, dom leaning! viktor, sub leaning! jayce, vers! reader, sex toy, viktor grabs ass in public /hj, mean viktor (i say mean viktor but im so bad at writing mean), hickeys, lipstick... kink??? marking kink?? idk how to warn this correctly, degradation??? , praise, pet nicknames (puppy, good boy, etc.), somehow no p in v involved or p in ass. can you tell i dont write smut]

word count; 1.01k

a/n; i got a little horny seeing some fine fan art of them as professors. like what else do i have to say. i can't stop minors from reading this, but i cant say i didn't warn them. also this is kind of not my first time writing nsfw, but as a neutral feeling towards sex asexual, it's always a little awkward for me to write for stuff like this. so if it's like kind of odd, im blaming it on that and not my questionable writing skills. HAPPY 2K FOLLOWERS LMAOAOAO this is my celebration post /j

everyone in piltover knows about the staff of their prestigious university. it's kind of common sense as the university is the pinnacle of everything.

but the interest of the professors was usually the highest. whether it was because of how good they were in terms of teaching.. or how hot they were.

some liked mr. talis. jayce talis. a man who had an affinity to connect with his students and guide them forward. he was lovely as a professor or a person. he was definitely the golden man that people looked up to as he was an alumni.

the man of progress, the teacher for the people. that was jayce talis.

he was strong, sweet, compassionate. he was built strong but he was humble. he had so much love in his heart. he was a little gullible at times but he was loved by you and viktor all the same. you both teased him everyday and he never got mad. he was truly a golden retriever at heart.

he was always excited every time either of you entered his office, even if it was to make him so needy and scrambled until the day ended. most students don't exactly know where those new lipstick marks on his neck come from but some can see the leftover lipstick on your face as you wipe it off with a satisfied grin.

"isn't he so pretty like this?" viktor hums, his bad leg rests over the shoulder of the larger male. "he's- ngh.. so eager. so desperate. ah.."

"he's so good for us, vik." your hand gently guides jayce to keep going down on viktor, soon trailing up on viktor's inner thigh with a sensitive touch that has the male shivering at your nails. "he's making you shake, love. you see that, jayce? you're such a good boy." you praise. viktor loved and hated when you both ganged up on him like this.

his pale hand wraps to hold the back of your neck before he dives right to littering your neck with hickeys and wet kisses. his free hand cups your waist, tugging you closer to let him comfortably attack your neck like a hungry vampire. you give viktor your fair share of kisses, your lipstick stains viktor's face and neck. it would definitely take more than a few makeup wipes to take it off of him. or maybe he would leave some stains behind. it must be known that he clearly belongs to you.

jayce pauses when he realizes he's not getting the attention he wants. he whines into viktor's thigh, looking up at the man with pleading puppy eyes. viktor looks down with a mischievous glint in his eye. "our dear puppy wants attention.. perhaps we shall give him what he so desires..?"

you look down at jayce with a much softer look, hand cupping his face so gently as he leans into your touch. his face was wet from taking viktor's cock in his mouth.

"please," he begs as he moves to crowd your lap, tugging at your delicate lingerie. his heated breath hits your thighs as you let out a breathy sigh. "i want you and viktor..."

"look at him, love. how can you deny such a look?"

it was no secret that you, viktor, and jayce were the faces of piltover university. viktor, being sharp faced and sculpted with love, you really could trace over his body for hours and admire every part of him. it totally wasn't the innate artist in you, drooling over how he was just so utterly paintable. he could've been in a renaissance painting and no one would bat an eye.

viktor was a beautiful man. he was intelligent, passionate, caring, mischievous.. oh, he was just something unreal. he never let his body stop him from helping others when he could or teasing you and jayce when he felt like it.

he'd never say it outloud but you and jayce know that he just loves to play around. play doesn't seem like the right word when he subtly brushes his hand to grip at your ass in the middle of a university wide event where all the students and teachers were gathered around.

or when he uses his cane to hook jayce around the waist and nearly tug him to sit onto his good leg and be the sweet lapdog jayce always was for viktor. sometimes he also grabs at jayce's ass because you don't give him the cute yelp that jayce does whenever he gets teased by either of you.

he was as beautiful as he was domineering when it came to you and jayce.

"vik- viktor- please.." your voice is weak and breathless as you squirm against jayce's hold. his body pressed around your back as he gives you the soft affection while viktor ruins your body. his skinny hands tease and trace at your wet body, one hand holds a small vibrator before pressing it against the edges of your hole. he teases your body relentlessly with a sly grin on his face.

"viktor? i don't think we agreed on calling me that this time around, sweetheart. you don't want to be a bad sweetheart, yes?" as he continues to tease you, the vibrator almost slides right into your needy hole with how wet it was. it makes viktor chuckle lowly, "sweetheart.. answer me properly.."

"s-sir.. please let me cum.."

"i don't know.. should we let them?" viktor asked jayce as if pushing him to be a little mean to you as well. "they're all ready to cum without us even entering them." viktor tugs the vibrator wire away, leaving you to whine and crumble in jayce's arms as you beg incoherently.

jayce looks at your tear stained face and he can't help the need to tease you and ruin you the way viktor does. "i think we should teach them how to cum with only our cocks." you can feel a heavy familiar warmth that rests on your lower body and upper thigh. you're about to be taught a real lesson.

[storm-and-starlight]

okay I really love this take on it, and I'd like to add in two more possible factorsI could see as influencing this: 1.) the modern increase in popularity of fandom/fanfic and former fic authors and 2.) Sturgeon's law.

The first one is bc fanfic is very often directly based off of a visual property -- if, for example, I'm writing Doctor Who fic featuring the Tenth Doctor, then I'll probably do my best to directly convey David Tennant's particular physicality because it's such an integral part of the character, which in prose often translates to detailed descriptions of how he's moving in every instant, and that carries over to other characters in other fandoms. If you transfer from fandom/fic-reading/fic-writing to original fiction, it makes sense to me that that habit would also transfer (eg: the problem I have with trying to convey emotion and thought by describing where the characters are looking in every single paragraph bc I'm so used to thinking about How This Actor Conveys This Emotion, and gaze is big in acting but not so much in prose), and generate that same focus on character actions without describing their interiority, as well as that over-description of every little movement.

The second one is "90% of everything is crud". Out of every category in existence, for every really good example you're gonna get a bunch of bad ones -- unless you have some kind of gatekeeping process in place. (To be clear: gatekeeping = bad) This was the reason I was once given for why fanfiction was seen as "low quality" for so long: trad publishing had the publishing house screening through submissions and pulling out the ones they thought were bad, so only the 10% got actually published. Since the barrier for posting and sharing is so much lower on the internet and there's no one going around rejecting fanfic for "not being good enough", you didn't just get the 10%, you got all of it, from the incredibly crazy good stuff to the bottom of the barrel. I bring this up bc lately, it seems like self-publishing is becoming more and more popular (to be clear: THIS IS GOOD), which means that you're getting less of the screening publishing houses used to do, so just. more of the crud slips through. There have always been absolutely terribly written-books (pretty sure "crucifix nail nipples" (if you don't know what that is the story is on thebibliosphere 's blog) predates this trend and. uh. well.), we're just seeing more of them lately because it's getting easier and easier to share you're writing without someone else deciding if it's "good enough".

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters��� outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.