#and as a new author i’m fretting about if i’m giving off the correct “vibes” or whatever

[mimicrygrievous]

Fanfic Attempt Snippet 2. Advice? Help?

Astilbes were third. Feathery crescents brushed into existence as partial rainbows of pastels resting right above the aforementioned eyebags, taking on the role of closed, heavily mascaraed sockets. Nightmare had been almost disappointed to realize that the fuzzy flowers didn’t feel as they appeared, though he certainly wasn’t complaining about the silky thread used throughout all of the mask. (Especially not after Error had reportedly verbally slammed Nightmare into the metaphorical dirt for being a ‘pįc̨k̸͝͏-̷͢͠i͏̢͞c̴̨̛̕k̡͘-̷͡icky ass P̵̷̽̕R̷̨̢̆ͣ̕҉͏͜I̟̔̈́͘͘҉M̶̝ͥ̚̕͟Á̛͎͟͞͠҉̸̛͞͠͏̨̢D̛̫̍ͯ͜͏̨́́̀͏̷O̴̡̩̊͑͞͏̡̧Ņ̴̨́̀͟Ņ̵̛̘ͦ̀͟͜͢͜͠͞͝Ạ̵ͤ who’d B̶̵͜͝Eͪ̀͝T̶̴̶͗͘̕͞͡͞͝Tͮͨ͡҉̶҉̸̛̀͞E͂͜͡͡͏̵́́͡͡Ȑͭ be grateful I’m bothe̡͜͜͝r͡-̸̧̧͡e̸r̡-҉er̶͝ing with this S̷̡̡̛̬̅͘͞Ļ̵̸͡͏͟IͮP͈̤͘P̡̨̋͢͡E̸̛̛̱ͤ̀͝͠͞R̨̘̖̔́͢͝͠Y̬̦͒͟͞ ̷͉̺̕B̯͚͟҉̨̡͟U̧̦҉̛L̸̸̡̧̢̡̖̭͘L̷̛̤̼͟͠Ś̸̨̨̩H̶̨͔́͡I̴̴̘͏̷͟͟͞T̤̺̀—’)

{“We have grace, refinement, and hardiness to start with what’s already been listed.”

“At least you’re consistent.”

“It’s difficult to find complete deviations when one is scrolling through lists of ‘top twelve plants for so-and-so category’ whilst wishing for the best. Forty-eight of the leading specimens didn’t make the final cut, just an FYI.”

“How thoughtful—” Laughter choked back and substituted.

“The main draw behind the addition of Astilbes is this phrase that’s soundlessly associated with them.

“Be careful not to share their trade secrets with me, then. Wouldn’t want to disrespect their vow of noiselessness.”

“The quote goes—”

“Dream. Don’t.”

“—as so: ‘I will still be waiting for you.’”

“A cold-blooded snitch, through and through.”

“Unless you’d prefer to spend our whole day doing this, call me a sweetheart and let me finish. To summarize—”

“Despicable hearteater, betrayer of all trust.”

“Patience, dedication, promise, understanding, and the power of love.”

“I must lack understanding and dedication because I promise my love isn’t powerful or patient enough to grasp the concept of being related to you.”

“We should go back to mutually ignoring each other. You were much more tolerable when we both refused to acknowledge that the opposite was even alive.” A notebook aggressively shut accompanied by a surly glare.

“I agree. If I desired to be brothers with a greeting card, I would’ve bought one at Dog Dollar Greens.” Nonchalant insolence.

“Let’s duel, Night. Immediately.” Standing in indignance.

“What about the remaining two—”

“Now!”}

Fourth. Impatiens. Multicolored floral leaves invading the basins left in the wake of the astilbes, overthrowing any notions of ordinary darkness in favor of advanced prismatic eye shadow. Sporadically spotted and shredded powdery petals sporting an air of fragility, draping along pale lashes in a misty mimicry of a threadbare cloak. Touch-me-nots feebly coiling and committing themselves to the safeguarding of the feather flowers, heedless of their own apparent weakness.

{Rather possessively placed, are they not?” Inquiry.

“I thought you couldn’t breathe anymore.” Attitude.

“I recovered. Go on, now. Disregard my chatty nature. Onwards with your exposition.”

“No. It’s my bedtime. Night, Night.”

“Dream.”

“Mare.”

“ . . . Please?” Manipulatively adorable eyelights speckled with fuchsia stardust.

“I hate you.” A frustrated frown of surrender.

“Isn’t that typically my line?”

“With your usual emotional control? Hate would be too passionate a feeling for you to dare convey, apathetic brother mine.” A clearing cough of preparation.

“How could I forget?” A halfhearted return.

“Did you know that I tried, at first, to find flowers—well, actually the original attempts targeted moths, but nocturnal pollinators evidently have nothing in the way of symbolism—with high amounts of toxicity? I thought it would’ve been quite fitting, if not for the heinous storylines attached to their poisons. Ultimately, jewelweeds are the only flora weaved into this blackout mask that evoke any illnesses out of mammals, and they simply cause vomiting at worst.”

“Terribly dissatisfying. I’m immeasurably distraught. My own bone and marrow is far too soft to cast me as the supreme harbinger of mammalian death as I do deserve. Dishonor and dish dirty upon thee.”

“And that display is exactly why Ink and Blue beg you to join their D&D nights.”

“Pass.”

“For shame. Ooh! I think you’ll approve of this next little quirk, though! Snapweeds grow seed pods that, when ripe, explode! Well—They erupt exclusively when touched, hence the nickname touch-me-nots. Initially I assumed—”

“Are you not aware of what ‘they say’ about assuming?”

“—it was a defensive mechanism, which honestly would’ve better benefited my bristly brother narrative here, but I digress.”

“When don’t you?”

“The real reason is seed dispersal. Setting into motion the evolutionary advantage of explosive dehiscence in order to produce enhanced odds of reproduction whilst simultaneously avoiding competition with the mother plant.” A smarmy smirk that anyone less familiar with Dream would call uncharacteristic.

“Blast it. Why didn’t we develop such instantaneous methods of departure upon being birthed?” A disdainful huff.

“Mistakes were made.” Arrogance raising his chin.

Twin titters at another’s expense before reverting back to business as usual. “I’ve noticed that I’m hearing a lot of sesquipedalian terms elaborating on the intricacies of plant pregnancies, yet not a peep concerning the embodiment their fables allegedly attribute to my personality.”

“Oh, pardon me! Did I accidentally pass over my allotted allowance of big words for this month? It is unacceptable that I’ve uttered paragraphs of plant jargon conceived by a mind with greater diversity in information than your highness in incompetence? Are you—”

“You’ve thoroughly demonstrated your point, Athena. The faster your cranky cranium relays aloud what you’ve so painstakingly written on my behalf, the faster I allot you bedtime allowance.”

“I’m going to strangle you in your sleep.”

“How fortunate I am to lack lungs.”

“Lovely. They represent the enduring and nurturing affection of a mother. A perfectly apt comparison of utmost regret, indeed. Just like our mother. What a dreadfully maternal brother I have.”

“Someone must keep your fire contained, and trees have scientifically proven themselves on a multitude of occasions to be ill-suited for the task.”

“Their primary namesake, impatiens, is a L—”

“—atin term that blandly translates into impatient. Yes, I’m aware.”

“By the—Whatever. I don’t care.” Airy irritation. “I was getting mixed messages on whether or not impatient actually meant impatient, or if symbolism was having an opposite day, because on one distal we’ve got a section saying anything worthwhile requires tireless intervals of tenacity, and an alternative article claiming that the speed and eagerness exhibited by the seed pods are obviously a sign of plain impatience.”

“Perhaps whoever published the page wished to ensure everybody could sufficiently comprehend the base source before introducing a concept as complicated as prefixes.” Slithery sass.

“Thank You. Nightmare.” Hitched hissing.

“You’re most welcome.”

“Maybe it’s the duality aspect of the flower coming into play. Emotional balance, ya’know? Corroboration and contradictions proffered in equal measures.”

“Maybe you’re trying to reiterate how you find me to be Janus-faced as a misguided means of manipulation—”

“I Am Not In The MOOD!!!”

“—and subconscious compensation—”}

Last. Alternantheras. Leaves. Shrubbery in lieu of inflorescence; a laurel in lieu of a wreath. Washed out edges in hues of heather, the dyes deepening into indigo towards the center. Verifiable blades crafted in the image of opal-touched galaxies. One final adornment—a circlet of capability—to hint at intensity lurking beneath sparkly shallows.

{“Nickname: Purple Knight. Beautiful. Striking. ‘Tough-As-Nails.’ Glamour With Character. Joyweed. Needs So. Much. Light. To Survive. Herbal Histories. Royalty. Luxury. Wealth. Dignity. Pride. Success. Admiration. Tradition. Purple. Something About Coats And Cloaks. A Dozen Different Aliases. I REFUSE TO WASTE ANOTHER SECOND ENTERTAINING YOUR LATE BLOOMING TENDENCIES!!! YOU CAN TAKE MY NOTEPAD!!! HAVE IT!!! READ IT YOURSELF!!! FIGURE IT OUT!!! I’M DONE!!! PLEASANT NIGHT, NIGHT!!!” A journal thrown at his counterpart’s skull and the fading sounds of stomping calcanei.

“Muahaha—Dream—Wait—Muahaha—I’m sorry—I love you—Muahaha—” Uncontrollable cackling sprinkled with adoring particles of aubergine.}

Nightmare jolts back into reality—visor wrapped snug around his crown, metacarpals smoothing over the sleeping mask held in his hands—as Dream slams the trunk, urging Nightmare to swiftly shove their combined bedstuffs into a pile pressed against the rearseats’ left door. When Dream walks up to the now half-blanketed window, he momentarily ducks away from sight. When he reappears in Nightmare’s line of vision, withdraws a step, and begins to glow with the telltale honey hue of his magic, Nightmare opens the latch.

Everything falls out of the car, but nothing hits the ground. It all lands in the ethereal radiance emanating from within the entrance of Dream’s life-sized duffle bag. The lemony luster disappears along with the rest of their nest accumulated creature comforts, and that’s Dream’s cue to zip shut the tote.

“I guessed you wanted to forgo your mantle today? Since you didn’t have me ready any of our normal sun precautions ahead of driving?” Dream prods for approval whilst tossing his brother his staff, then effortlessly slings his gaudy, ink-covered inventory sack securely across his shoulder. (Nightmare can barely lift the duffle himself if the need arises; Dream’s always been the athletically superior twin. Even before he took up training with the professional powerhouse that is Blur.)

“You guess correctly. I crave the demolition of the sun, not the suffocation of myself.” Nightmare affirms whilst Dream extends to him a helping hand as to exit their vehicle, then mutters an accusation. “I notice that you didn’t grab your staff.”

“Do you wish to carry the bag?” Dream questions with false sugar—salt—as they match each other’s stride. The mosaic pathways memorized, thus snubbed.

“No.” Nightmare acquiesces. He readies his wand as they reach the portal of their mother’s cottage. (A literal portal, in a sense, but it’s usually just a simple door.)

The slumbering scepter has a shaft in shades of ametrine—gold and iris—but Nightmare cannot be bothered to remember whether or not that exact gemstone was actually included in the creation of this artifact. Similarly, the chiseled crescent moon and apple-shaped orb affixed to the respective apex and base of the rod seem to share a resemblance with fluorite. Predominantly white, bleeding into borders colored of onyx, turquoise, amethyst, and citrine.

Ultimately, no matter the pigments, the spirituality their mother embedded into the crystals contains no authentic benevolence directed towards Nightmare. It was always ‘positivity,’ perfection, and oneirology with that woman; never anything personal. So unlike Dream, who manages to trace absolutely everything back to his twin in some manner. Of course Nightmare’s memory would favor his brother’s more sincere fascination for symbolism over Nim’s shrewd shortsightedness. It’d be delusional of Nightmare to even deliberate on an alternative sentiment.

Shifting his stance, Nightmare taps into his mana with an appropriate amount of belligerence, forcefully tugging at his plasma until he holds the majority of his bodily ‘fluids’ in his palms. His bones are left bereft and vulnerable, but if he stumbles, Dream is sure to support him.

With a strenuous shove, Nightmare pumps his lifeblood into and throughout the lunar rod, flinching a tad as his magic meets the ambient daylight. Not an abnormal reaction, but Dream is still quick to raise some miscellaneous veil in an attempt to shield his twin’s sore and unprotected MP as it’s used to activate and fuel the nameless wand. It doesn’t really make any difference, but Dream doesn’t need to know that. Nightmare appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

The strokes of disjointed flax solidify into bands of gold as clouds of lavender flood into Nightmare’s baton, strips of gilt spilling into the atmosphere that mold themselves into rectangles revolving around the pole’s centerpiece.

Honestly, it’s an absurd surplus of figurative hair-whipping flair for an endeavor that is fundamentally nothing but a waste of energy.

Geometric frames spin until the entirety of Nightmare’s lended vitality is wrung from existence. In the emptiness left behind, topaz returns to its rightful place alongside heather.

“Open Siamese.” Nightmare quips boredly as the board of wood—no doubt exotic in some capacity—opens. Shocker.

Dream snorts mildly as he snatches Night’s staff in order to store it out of sight. (Read: Bag.)

writing is hard ya’ll. ugh. i’m trying here. got two little arts and crafts things i’m going to reblog to this a bit later for reference for the little eye mask and staff thing. i’m no artist but just having a rough little view to work off of really helped me with my attempt at fancy word visuals