#as stiff as some of my prose is

[ranger-kellyn]

trying so hard to remind myself that it's okay i'm not writing a masterpiece on the first go. i'm allowed to have some shitty sentences -- i am a multiple draft kind of writer. the fic's job isn't to be perfect it's to be written--

[uncanny-tranny]

Could you describe your gender using words that are not typically used to describe one's gender?

The wave of exhilaration I got when I finally thought of a story I want to write after being burnt out for over five years, or maybe novels from the romantic movement or the decadent movement, for the latter it would primarily be the manner in which people spoke with each other in The Picture of Dorian Gray

[theoxenfree]

IMPOSTER

possessed scholar!husband x reader |3.9k| 18+

In an unforeseen act of self-preservation, your family marries you off into an exorbitantly wealthy family, to a reclusive and reticent scholar who provides you little affection. He is suddenly called away for the handling of his late uncle's final will wishes and estate. He returns to you not himself, and with unquenchable lust.

warnings; dead dove do not eat; extreme dubon, explicit sexual content, mentions of (not explored, not described): orgies, heatplay, robbing a mortuary & drug use, masturbation w/ metal dildo, mirror sex & masturbation, hypnotism, power imbalance, murder, body horror, gruesome imagery, classism, detail & prose heavy, roughly proofread.

this is a concept piece, possibly preluding a full story! if you have any interest in having me build a larger piece out of this concept, PLEASE reblog + interact and let me know! I'm only going to go forward with it if folks express interest!

read to the end for author's notes!

In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under covers was not your husband. Once he had been, but now he no longer was.

The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, certain stiffness which seemed more alike to rigor in a days old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.

His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parent’s patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.

You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.

He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whomever was trying to speak to him.

Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.

At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared together. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.

“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused from tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will, therefore it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, letting you help him into his heavy, wool coat he left on a hook near the front door. At his side was a hulking suitcase; one he often used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”

You expected nothing less from him. This man who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate scripted vows he committed to memory, hold your hands, and kiss you at the altar for more than two seconds but less than five, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.

Right after, now as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, that he wouldn't have had at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.

At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk and ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.

“Write to me every once and a while,” was all you could think to say at present, managing your composure well enough as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing. If you find anything interesting. When you'll be coming home. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.

“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”

Once again, he left you behind without remorse.

Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of winter and a shimmering white-blue landscape outside your windows.

In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace coveting self-pleasure.

You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.

Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.

Sometimes, you were found the next morning by a maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You only needed to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.

It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped neatly over a bent arm, along with a warm and soapy rag in her hand, which she used to lightly clean you of dried fluids. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.

“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”

“No! No, that's alright.” You took the long, pale envelope from her once she revealed it to you, realizing that she was right. There was nothing to it. Light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.

You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.

She looked to be just as thrown.

“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”

“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I made a comment about it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”

You had found a letter opener on the desk nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.

“Almost? What does that mean here?” you raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual tracks of wax from the paper so that they fell to the hardwood below like pebbles shaken out of a shoe after a stroll through the yard. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”

The maid tried to subdue her intrigue of the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”

“What?”

You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.

The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the slither of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:

“Father Marius DuMonde.”

Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to magically flip something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection like he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.

Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.

“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”

The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although, I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”

“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”

That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.

You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed shape while leaning a cheek flush to frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.

Seldomly, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servants responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.

It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.

“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”

You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.

A while later, you entered the foyer to see most of the staff had already dispersed and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.

So, the rumor was true. There was something discomforting in that.

Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—

“Oh my… there you are, my sweet!” his voice was exactly the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But, all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”

Could this man really be your husband?

He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well to appear normal.

But, you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.

“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face up with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You startled from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”

As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.

He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue and teeth hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squeal like a sow.

He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them.

Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.

“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass, overall sounding very husky. There was something of wheeze that trailed the end of his every word, like he’d been patched for a long time. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”

Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and who you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed like you'd had several.

His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, cumming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.

The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstacy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely unprobable, unknowable to you.

You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and disgusting and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.

He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…

The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing that could happen with fabric.

“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on, his sallow complexion keeping a weird, waxy sheen to it. A mask that fits, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”

You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.

Everything else, you'd wanted to believe, was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.

Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.

“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and handed her a generous bag of coins from your own safe.

She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”

“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”

It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”

The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into cover of tree tops and then nothing else.

But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.

A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she or the old pony had made it out of the woods. The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them.

But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.

That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton, whereas a hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall.

The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.

He was faced the other way, his clothes back to you, completely unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for the thin breathing of sleep, the automatic rise and fall of his body, and yet he could've been mistaken as one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.

“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”

“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating to have your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me. Such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”

Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.

Your whimpers of pains were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.

a/n; this is heavily inspired from me reading the exorcist, recently. the section with the maid's head swiveled around was a nod to the scene with director having "fallen" from a height and dying similarly. a lot of my most recent reads have been extremely graphic, so my writing has been reflecting that and it's been interesting!

quick q&a!

is father marius dumonde the same father marius from your vampire priest fic? yup! if I go forward with writing the longer story, father marius will be a central character later on, and father shaw will make a reappearance as well.

what would the main differences be in a full story vs just this piece?

a) the husband would be given a more solid identity, appearance, and name. he'd have more depth to build an emotional rapport with his character.

b) existing scenes would be expanded, smut scenes grittier and more graphic, more development between mc and the husband, the maid would have a more important part and given an identity. essentially, most elements from this price would be fleshed out and expanded.

c) I intend to add a "mystery" element to this where mc tries to unveil what happened during the husband's stay at his uncle's estate.

d) I would open up multiple polls to help influence different aspects of the story such as the husband's name, appearance, overall disposition, whether the majority would vote for a happy ending with the husband vs the ending with the demon.

if you're interested in seeing a full story, make sure to reblog and share your thoughts with me!! I'd love to hear feedback on this to know what you'd like to see in the future!

[mrghostrat]

some tips for writing flow

i've had a lot of comments complimenting my writing style, most of which don't know how to explain or describe what they like about it. i never really knew either, but i've been paying more attention to the way i write things lately, in the hope of being able to understand and explain it.

a lot of this is "based on feel" with no hard and fast rules, but there's also very tangible techniques you can hopefully work into your own writing, if that makes sense? idk is this anything—

1 - sentence beats, and alternating them.

this is probably the biggest thing in my writing. i've realised my sentences can be measured in beats, based on their length and how many sections they can be broken into. the pattern changes often, and i don't have a concrete rule in how i fill a paragraph (again, i've only just put words to any of this), but it's probably the most important part of my flow. let's have a look:

1 beat: • this is probably the biggest thing in my writing.

2 beats: • i've realised my sentences can be measured in beats • based on their length and how many sections they can be broken into.

3 beats: • the pattern changes often • and i don't have a concrete rule in how i fill a paragraph • but it's probably the most important part of my flow.

it looks like a favour certain patterns, the only real "rule" i use is to construct a paragraph with various beats, and never put two side by side. whenever i'm struggling with my flow, it's usually because i've put two of the same beats next to each other and everything feels either stiff or crowded. i rarely put two side by side, unless it's for specific emphasis.

the other exception are paragraph breaks: these are a pause for breath, and allow us to reset the pattern. i often start and end my paragraphs with single beat sentences, and it doesn't feel like they're running on because there's that lovely breath between them.

2 - short paragraphs

the rule we learn in school is that new paragraphs are for new ideas. convert this to prose, and we can consider "ideas" to include the character's thoughts, new narrative tangents, and physical movement around a scene.

one of my biggest struggles reading "bad" fanfic is when paragraphs are too lumped together. crowley will walk into the bookshop, see aziraphale across the way, wander over to a shelf, select a book, then pour himself a drink all in one big chunk. i can't parse that. there doesn't have to be a new line break for every new action, but grouping the relevant ones together and breaking in between broad motions (i.e. walking across a room, acknowledging a character) can help ease readers through the scene.

paragraphs are a breath, not only for sentence flow, but for processing the action within a story. similarly, purposefully keeping multiple actions confined to a single paragraph can make them feel quicker, while breaking them up into multiple paragraphs will slow down the pacing (even if the amount of detail describing each action is the same). included some examples because i'm struggling to explain this one

3 - mixing metaphors

this might sound less flow related, but i used to struggle with it a lot as a young writer, and paying more attention to it has definitely helped clean up my flow and writing overall.

i love a good analogy, but it can be easy to get carried away, and this can bog down the prose. my personal rule is that i can get silly with my metaphors (see: the mon chéri magnet), but i can only use one at a time. no talking about the magnet in aziraphale's chest and the angel and demon on his shoulder within the same scene.

if i'm getting silly and long winded with a metaphor, i also try to limit the length of it to one or two paragraphs. paragraph 1: set up the metaphor, establish the analogy. paragraph 2: come back to the reality of the scene, then mention the metaphor once more to link it all together. if i'm feeling cheeky, then i mention the metaphor again ONCE in passing, a couple of paragraphs or even chapters later

the magnet was a fun one, because i kind of flipped how i would usually present a metaphor, with the long winded tangent coming last instead of being the set up. and even though i used the metaphor 3 times, it felt like 2 because the set up was really just a planted seed for what i'd be mentioning later in the theatre. referencing the "whispered curse in the dark" also helped tie the scenes together and keep the analogies neat and tidy in our heads

meanwhile i got a little more carried away with the space metaphor in postcards (i feel like there's probably a 4th and maybe even 5th mention during the bookshop scene), but each one was blink-and-you'll-miss-it brief that didn't slog down the prose.

4 - avoiding repetitive pronouns

we're all going to struggle with this, and i don't have a secret hack for avoiding a wall of "he this, he that, he then," and i honestly try not to beat myself up over it too much. but there are two things i check to make sure it's not getting too repetitive:

1. looking within a paragraph

apparently everything revolves around paragraphs and the breath between them lmao. i don't have a strict rule like "use the character's name once per paragraph, then 'he' for the rest" or anything like that, but it's in that kind of vein. i simply pay attention to one paragraph at a time to watch for too much repetition, and if i notice it's been one or two whole blocks without switching from 'he' to a name, i'll chuck one in to break it up.

2. paragraph starters

this is so picky. and i don't know if it does ANYTHING, but it bugs me when i'm writing and i notice every paragraph starts the same way. maybe it has no effect on the flow at all. but i like to make sure my paragraphs aren't starting with the same "he" "he" "he", and that forces me to go back and switch around the pronouns in recent sentences, so the next paragraph can flow on more smoothly.

5 - use interruptions appropriately

edit: sneaking this one in here as a final thought! i just want to mention the use of em-dashes, semicolons, footnotes, and parenthesis mid-sentence. it's common to favour one in particular, but each have spectacular uses and can add miles to the pacing and flow of your prose.

em-dash (—) interruptions, cutting off dialogue— pausing to make a point — like this — in the middle of a sentence.

semicolon (;) helps with making lists and continuing a compound sentence that doesn't really link with 'and' or 'but'; when you want to pause, but a new sentence would break the flow of things.

footnotes (¹) these should be optional additions to the text imo. you should be able to keep reading without looking at the footnotes and not lose an ounce of story. they're additive, not necessary.

parenthesis ( () ) a great way to interrupt yourself (less sharply) than with em-dashes, include longer pieces of information (like what you might put in a footnote, except more crucial to the narrative that you don't want people to miss!) and adding sass (lol) and tone to your prose.

[physalian]

When To Keep Your Writing Stiff (pt 7)

Part 6

Part 1

Gonna shoutout a specific fanfic, “Salvage” (ATLA) for writing that is even leaner than mine is, and mine has zero fat whatsoever. This was really good. I particularly like how some scenes were only 2 or 3 lines long as an example of what I’m going for here.

When I say “stiff” in the following examples I’m specifically talking about a lot of the same syntax, few similes and metaphors, few ‘said’ synonyms, very little, well, “life” in the prose. And this can be good in a few situations.

1. Your narrator is in shock

Shock doesn’t all look the same, but the kind of shock I mean is the one where the person is really quiet and un-emotive, they’re probably not speaking or reacting much to whatever catastrophe just happened and probably not responding to their name or anything spoken to them. Their body is pretty much going “uhhhhhhhhh factory reset!” when whatever it is, is too much to process.

A asks them a question. Once. Twice. B stares ahead. There’s a brown stain on the wall that looks like a thumb.

So if they’re narrating, they’re probably going to be giving the absolute bare minimum, need-to-know information and won’t be thinking about the best adjectives and adverbs. Especially if you normally write with fluffier prose, a jarring shift like this can really help sell the shock and dissociating of the character, something so traumatizing that it effects how the story is told.

2. Your narrator is depressed

Somewhere between New Moon’s 4 pages of just Months to show Bella did absolutely nothing in a depression rot and normal prose (though it was effective, particularly in the movie when they could draw out the words on the screen for longer and did the whole spin-around-her-depression-chair montage).

January came. It rained a lot.

They’ll probably either narrate very thinly, or listlessly. They might focus on a random detail and start going on a long ramble about that one detail that isn’t at all important, but it’s either all they can think about or all that can move them to feel anything in this moment, like:

On the bedside table, that coffee mug still sat there in a thin sheet of dust. What had been liquid now long since dry and gluey. It still sits there, collecting cat fur.

This might be the best place for sentences that all sound and flow exactly the same, but use it sparingly.

3. Your narrator is having a panic attack or trapped in a traumatic situation

Different from shock in that while they are physically capable of moving and interacting, they can’t let themselves describe what they’re seeing and feeling in grand detail. Maybe they’re moving through the horrific aftermath of a battle and all they can describe is the mud under their feet and how it squelches. Or they simply say that “there’s bodies everywhere” because looking too long or too hard at who those bodies belonged to is too much.

4. You’re writing something that has incredibly fast pacing

This post was inspired by a fic I just wrote that spanned about 5 months in about 18k words. Narrative was skipping days ahead between paragraphs at some point as my character was processing the end of an abusive relationship. It sped up and slowed down where necessary, but compared to its sequel that I also just finished (22k words across 7 days), I’d covered a whole month in about 2 sentences in the first one.

See nearly any part of Salvage (or my fics if you feel like it)

What happened in that month didn’t matter, only what was before and what’s different now and how this character realizes how their life is slowly changing, some things they never noticed that are suddenly right in their face or things that quietly slipped away.

—

TLDR; sometimes the lack of emotion and sensory details and frenetic, dynamic syntax is the point, that can sell the reader on the narrator’s mental state far better than picking the juiciest adverbs. If it’s so impactful to them that the physical telling of the story is changed, you’ve done your job.

[moodymisty]

I mean you got anything sweet for Blood Angels...

Though my brain keeps jumping to Flesh Tearers but I feel like that's just me trying to get myself to write for Flesh Tearers (and Lamenters)

(Rambling idea below)

I mean lets be honest Blood Angels are ultimate predators for humans... being so handsome I mean Sanguinius was often called ethereal and other worldly with his beauty. So of course his sons are handsome and all so well bred for the arts... easy to lure in many humans to just listen to their prose or see their paintings.

Just don't show up during your period because suddenly a lot of the poetry is about blood or blood adjacent... they can't seem to find the right red paint... and why do so many of them look at you like they are dying of thirst?

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author’s note: Do I have something for Blood Angels- BOY DO I! Enjoy! I didn't exactly do your idea but I've had this plot in my head for weeks and wanted to use it and you're ask was the only one that let me /sob Not my best work by far, but I hope you enjoy.

Relationships: Unnamed Blood Angel/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Oral, Period blood kink/menstrual kink that type of stuff, Is this too weird? maybe I dunno you guys all seem like freaks so hopefully this will go over well? If not I can just return to my dungeon

"Why are we going this way?"

This is a long way around, though some of the Red Tear's maintenance areas. He doesn't answer you however, and with disgruntlement you let the question lie as you return to more civilized parts of the Red Tear.

This whole interaction has been odd, since he had picked you up to escort you back from your duties. Normally he doesn’t act like this; He's stoic and lacks a good bit of emotion yes, but you almost feel as if now he’s taking you to your execution.

"I thought you were missing,"

You had jokingly said, walking closer to him. This planet had been pleasant enough after the Blood Angels brought it under the Imperium, but you're quite eager to return to Terra. Or at least the Red Tear.

He ignored your little comment and stepped closer, but you noticed his face change when he got close enough to touch you. His body became more rigid, and you furrowed your brow as you looked up at him.

"Are you ok?" You say as he clears his throat and nods stiffly. "Yes. We should return to the Red Tear. Our work here is done."

You look up at him again try and get any sort of hint as to how he's feeling, but he only has that same, stiff expression; Though slightly more irritated than usual.

You round yet another corner to see a group of freshly armored Blood Angels leaving one of the armoring rooms. They all perk up at the sight of you, staring at you like something fierce. You get more than a bit uncomfortable under their gaze, until your supposed guardian grabs your arm and swiftly pulls you down the hall past them. He glares at them to keep their distance, and you grab at his gauntlet to try and relieve some of the pressure. You're arm is in pain from how tight he's pulling you along, until you stop in front of a room he opens.

It's not your own, so you presume it's his. He shoves you inside.

"Stay here."

As a diplomat you technically reside outside the command structure of the Blood Angels, but no one in their right mind would disobey an astartes. Especially one that is looking at you with such fire in his eyes. He turns to leave, but your sudden question makes him turn towards you again.

"What is all this? Why are you-" He grabs you tight at the shoulder, and you gasp in pain as the force of it pins you to the wall.

"Why do you smell like blood?"

You pull at his hand and grimace in pain, and at his oddly specific question.

"What? It's just normal, It's that time of the-" He lightly shakes your shoulder and despite speaking relatively quiet, his voice still hits you in the chest with out seething it sounds.

"Every one of my brothers on this ship can smell you. You're lucky I got to you before one of them did."

Even if they did, why does he speak of it like something would happen? Like he avoided it for a reason? He's talking as if you would be in danger if they found you, for something seemingly so simple.

“What would happen if they did?”

You quietly question, watching the expression on his face instantly change. He looks conflicted, like he’s nearly lost in thought. For awhile you think you may not even get an answer from him, until you finally see his lips shift.

“I, assume you’ve heard mutterings of a curse in your time here.”

You have vaguely- even he had cursed it once. At the time you'd assumed it some sort of unfamiliar swear or perhaps just an odd phase adopted by Blood Angels, and so you'd paid it little mind other than the initial confusion. When you hesitantly nod, he continues.

“The curse is real. It has changed our legion. And,” You figure he’s about to speak a secret he shouldn’t to someone like you, so you stay quiet.

“It makes the smell of blood, tempting.” He continues. “It sates a hunger only we Blood Angels possess, and keeps us from going raving mad.”

He quiets, and you feels his gauntlets shift on your shoulders. He changes the subject to something adjacent; You assume he probably feels guilt for confessing a chapter secret to you.

“You’re not hurt?” He says confusedly. You aren’t particularly surprised he knows little about such things, though explaining it to him in this state would take far too long and be far too unfruitful.

“No. I'm fine.” He hums. You think you hear him mumble about hearing such a thing from somewhere, a woman's illness, and the comment would make you laugh if he wasn't looming down on you so intensely.

“Very well.” He shifts his jaw a bit, the scars along it shifting. He seems to have run out of things to say, though it also seems like he can't pull himself away from you. His throat and jaw are tightly wound, like he's holding something back.

“You want some… Don’t you?”

He seems surprised oddly enough; Perhaps by your bluntness and stupidity. Many legions would not take kindly to you assuming things about them, but Blood Angels are remarkably kinder. He is remarkably kinder.

“I," He grimaces. "I would owe you a great deal. Our superiors look at those with the Red Thirst as little more than a danger.”

The Blood Angels have been nothing but kind to you, in their own way. To even just be on the Red Tear is a safety and security you couldn’t repay.

It helps that it's him; You haven't ventured far around the Blood Angels ship alone, and you shamefully feel yourself beginning to get attached. If this curse can be sated by something so seemingly menial to you, then you have no reason to refuse.

“Ok.”

You move to take off your pants hands shaking just barely in nervousness, as he drops to his knee with one heavy thud. The sound startles you, just as your pants fall to the floor.

Once they’re off, and just your underwear remains, you hesitate for a moment. His stare is so intense, and you don't know how to describe it other than hungry. Given what he's told you, it makes perfect sense.

After what feels like and eternity of you being frozen, you finally manage to regain enough control to peel your underwear away. He viscerally reacts to the presumably iron filled scent, and the sight of blood against your now bare skin.

You see the way the knot in his throat bobs just above the black skinsuit beneath his armor.

With a speed that has you almost letting out a scream he grips your hips pulls them forward enough that the angle feels precarious, but he has a solid enough grip that leaves no chance of you falling. He throws your right leg over his shoulder next to open your thighs, your foot pressing against the front of his jetpack.

He hesitates for a moment, and you look away from the sheer intensity of his expression before you feel his hot breath on your skin.

You feel the moment he finally takes a taste and you can barely hold in a whimper, it coming out a tiny squeak as you feel the way his hands shift and tighten against your hips. Any hesitation he had is gone near instantly, as he presses his mouth against your cunt.

His armored hands grip at your hips with a strength that makes you ache and fear bruises, easily keeping your legs spread with minimal effort as his tongue laps at your folds. You can see the blood smear across his face, though he pays no mind. He acts as if this is the first meal he's had in ages, or the last he'll ever have.

But while perhaps your pleasure might not be at the forefront of his mind in his quite literal bloodlust, the way his tongue slips between your folds and teases you still makes shivers go up your spine. Your hands grip his hair and attempt to steady yourself, as his strength pushes you around. It's impossible to stop the way your hips push forward trying to get closer to him, gasping as he briefly brushes around your clit.

Suddenly however he pulls himself away, mouth stained much the same as your cunt and upper thighs are. You can see his eyes are glassy his throat bobs.

"I should stop."

He mumbles something to himself about loosing himself further to the Thirst, as if he's treading a line between sating his hunger or falling victim to it. You, perhaps stupidly, encourage him to do the exact opposite.

"No, no just, just a bit more,"

You breathlessly whisper and attempt to pull him closer. He silently resists for a moment, before the knot in his throat bobs and he returns his mouth to between your legs. You can't stop the loud moan you let out into the barren room, damning the consequences of anyone hearing you.

You're so close to that peak you only need a bit more, and the way his teeth scrape against your skin and nose presses against your clit gets you there. Your hands tighter in his hair and you inhale, trying not to cry out. But even after you start to come down he continues, his mouth overstimulating so many little nerves you feel on the edge of tears. Your face is hot as your fingers grip at his armor, desperately whining for him to simultaneously stop, and never stop.

He pulls away again, and gently emoves your leg from his shoulder to let you stand and wobbly attempt to yourself. Your knees feel weak and so many of your muscles are sore, even though he was exceedingly gentle with you.

Realizing his face is a mess, he uses the fabric of his cape to wipe it; How fortuitous the fabric is red.

"You should still keep clear of my brothers until this, passes. You never know how close one of them is to loosing themselves and hurting you." You'll heed the warning. If they're anything more than what gusto he already displayed, you wouldn't be surprised angels more lost to the thirst would be dangerous to you. He displayed a remarkable degree of restraint, you could tell.

Though, a curious part of your mind wonders what he'd be like if he hadn't.

"Do you at least feel better? I don't know how the Thirst works but," He nods.

"Yes. It is nice to not have my head so clouded. I... Thank you."

You smile, before accidentally letting more words tumble out of your lips that you should've allowed. It seems his presence always seems to makes you accidentally forget how to not act a fool.

"Always happy to help." He takes your phase at face value, though you suppose you wouldn't refuse him if he asked again. It wasn't as if this ended badly for you.

"You are kind, offering yourself to a Blood Angel. Not many would."

Beyond their sophisticated veneer they are still dangerous predators more than capable of killing you with the slightest motion, you understand why any few who learn about their supposed defect would fear them.

Maybe something is clouding your judgement, but you don't fear him; At least not yet.

Adjusting your clothing you watch as he rises to his full height, his cape flowing behind him. You grip your own fingers nervously and look around.

"But, would you mind bringing my back to my own quarters? I'll admit I have no idea where on the ship you brought me, and I'm still a bit woozy." He offers a gentle but stoic smile.

"Of course."

[wannaeatramyeon]

A national boyfriend day fic with Gun & Goo? >///< (Separate if that's ok!)

Ever so slightly late. Just a touch! To all my other requests, sorry for some reason my brain wants to work backwards 🫠

Happy National Boyfriend Day! Goo Kim, Gun Park

Goo Kim

"No, why did you put that?" Goo whines and you erase your last couple words.

"Say I'm the best instead. Put that down." He scans over your caption, leaning closer to the screen with each passing second before reeling back and jabbing a particularly offensive part with his finger.

"There's a typo there cupcake!" You quickly correct it. "And are you using that picture? That suit was last season. Here, let me send you a better photo of me."

Goo starts to tap away on his own phone. You hear the tell tale ping of a message sent, and he slings a smarmy grin your way too.

With a sigh, you change the picture and redo the entire caption so it finally, finally passes his royal highness's scrutiny.

It's live. Thank fuck for that-

"Sweetheart~" Goo sings songs, elongating the vowels and you feel a headache come on, "Did you get me a present too?"

You want to snap of fucking course you did. He's been dropping hints for the last couple of months. Getting more obvious with each passing day, until he just came right out and demanded the specific item.

Which you would have gotten for him of your own accord, but this fool has no patience and no subtlety.

Thinking of the packaged box in tasteful gold wrapping, well tasteful by Goo Kim's standard anyway, you point wordlessly to the walk-in closet and he scampers off with glee.

You suppose you can't complain, after all it is his credit card you used.

.

.

Gun Park

"Happy National Boyfriend Day," you say somewhat shy, handing over an envelope.

Neither of you are big on celebrating these silly little made up holidays. Actual birthdays, anniversaries you are both more attentive to.

At least you are, then Gun took your lead after the first time he missed a particular occasion of something or another and you didn't speak to him for days.

He has learned his lesson since.

It didn't take much to make you happy, anyhow. And each time he remembered a date, your eyes lit up - that was even before giving you a gift and taking you out. So how could he deny you such simple pleasures?

"Thanks," he responds, a little stiff and taking the item from your hands. Because he definitely doesn't care for National Boyfriend's Day and thought you didn't either.

"Open it," you encourage with an excited smile, and he follows your instructions obediently.

Inside the envelope is a card. Printed on high quality cardstock. Dark and matte and heavy, with a simple heart design on the front.

"You can read it!"

And Gun does.

He's never been one to be affected, positively or negatively, by media. By prose or poems or songs. Words are frivolous, especially for a man who lives by action and violence.

But as he reads over your tidy, neat writing. Recalling your favourite memories together, your love for him, the future you see together.

Gun can't help but be touched. 

Feel his eyes soften and a small smile tug at his lips. Want to pull you into his arms and hold you and cradle you like you're the most precious thing in his world.

"Thank you," He tells you again, and this time he means it.

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hiya, I hope youre having a good day!

On your advice for stiff writing, you said to 'avoid purple prose'. Im just wondering what that means? Sorry if I missed something from an earlier post.

Purple Prose and How to Avoid It

"Purple prose" is what we call writing that is "flowery" or ornate to the extent that it's melodramatic and pulls the reader's focus away from the actual story. Some things that contribute to purple prose:

1 - Overuse of Elegant and Elaborate Words

Normal Sentence: Clara stepped to the balcony and looked out over the crowd, finely dressed and buzzing with courtly gossip.

Purple Prose: Clara traipsed to the wrought iron precipice and gazed upon the throng, opulently clad and susurrous with scandalous hearsay and scurrilous palaver.

The problem: One of our biggest goals as writers is to effectively communicate the stories inside our heads, and we do that by making sure our prose is generally clear, direct, and precise. The overuse of elegant and elaborate words in the second example defeats the clarity because the reader is constantly having to think about what each word means, and maybe even look them up. When you read "balcony" you don't have to think about what that is. But "wrought iron precipice" requires a little more time to work out. "Crowd" is straightforward and clear where "throng" isn't. Everyone knows what gossip is, but "susurrous with scandalous hearsay" is just... whut.

The Solution: Most of the time, try to use the clearest, most direct words to communicate what you're trying to say. Don't constantly run to the thesaurus to find a fancier word. Ornate words should be saved for times when you really need the special impact.

2 - Overuse of Long Sentences

Normal Sentence: The finely dressed crowd buzzed with courtly gossip. (8 words)

Purple Prose: The throng was opulently clad and susurrous with scandalous hearsay and scurrilous palaver. (13 words)

The Problem: A variety of sentence lengths creates a cadence that helps your story flow. Since purple prose usually adds unnecessary words ("susurrous with scandalous hearsay and scurrilous palaver" takes seven words to say the same thing as "courtly gossip") you end up with more long sentences than short or mid-length sentences, if any at all, so not only do you not get that cadence, you often end up slowing the flow of the story.

The Solution: Keep an eye on your sentence length. If you see a lot of long sentences, see which ones you can tighten up. Not only will this help eliminate purple prose, but it will give you a nice variety of sentence lengths that will give your prose cadence and improve the flow of your story.

3 - Overuse of Figurative Language

I'm fudging the example here because I'm tired and my brain can't do figurative language right now, but it's things like metaphor, simile, hyperbole, idioms, symbolism, onomatopoeia, euphemism, and alliteration.

The Problem: Figurative language isn't usually the clearest, most direct to say something--though once in a while it does add much-needed clarity--so it's definitely not something you want in every sentence. Another issue with figurative language is it can be tricky to come up with something new or not over used, so a lot of figurative language falls into cliché territory. ("Their muscles were hard as rocks," "It was the calm before the storm," "They woke up on the wrong side of the bed...")

Solution: Make sure figurative language is used with intention and purpose. Before you use it, ask yourself what the figurative language accomplishes... how does it enrich the story or the reader's experience? Is it being used in a place that needs the added impact?

4 - Overuse of Adjectives and Adverbs

Normal sentence: She tiptoed down the steps and melted into the crowd, hoping not to be seen.

Purple Prose: She walked gently down the steep steps and quietly melted into the bustling crowd, desperately hoping not to be seen.

The Problem: Quite often, adverbs can be replaced by active verbs. There's no point in saying "walked gently" when you can say "tiptoed." No need to say "said loudly" when you could say "shouted." No need to say "drove quickly" when you could say "sped." And sometimes adverbs just don't add anything. If she tiptoes down the steps and melts into the crowd, isn't it kind of obvious that she's really reeeally hoping not to be seen? Describing that hope as "desperate" doesn't necessarily tell us anything useful. And in much the same way, while adjectives can certainly help paint a picture, when they're being over used, it's a good bet a lot of them aren't doing anything important. Why do we need to know the steps are "steep"? Is that going to be important later?

The Solution: Make sure you replace adverbs with active verbs whenever possible, and try to save adjectives for when they serve a purpose--either to flesh out description in important ways or tell the reader something they need to know for later.

5 - Overuse of Emotional and Sensory Description

Normal Sentence: She hoped no one saw her but couldn't fight off the feeling someone had. The fear made her heart pound and left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Purple Prose: She was absolutely desperate not to be seen, would pass out from shock if anyone saw her. Sweat streamed down her neck and pooled at the small of her back. She was so nervous she shook like a leaf, tasting bile in her throat as her heart pounded in her chest. The incessant chatter of the blathering crowd was almost drowned out by the frightening rush of blood in her ears.

The Problem: There's just too much going on. I love sensory description, but it doesn't have to be ALL the senses. And emotional details are great too, but she's desperate, potentially shocked, frightened, nervous... it's too much emotion. It's melodramatic.

The Solution: Use emotional description only when it's necessary, and don't forget you can also illustrate emotion by using physical and internal cues. Sensory description is great, too, but don't feel like you have to include all the sensory details in every description.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[bunnygirllover45]

Do you have an editor for Something Rots? Like for text and writing I mean. To look over for grammar/spelling/typing mistakes or inconsistencies. Just curious. Some people also prefer not to have editors or only want people they know to look over their stuff, I'm just curious where you land.

I do have some friends helping me since I'm a non-native English speaker. Everything I write is first written in the language I'm most comfortable with, then I translate it to english— my writing style uses a lot of weirdly structured prose to help that feeling of confusion, and that is really hard for me to translate without making any mistakes in the process. I'm still learning to translate my drafts and not making them sound stiff or machine-translated, but thankfully I have great friends that help me to correct any mistakes I might forget.

[mecachrome]

fic writer questions

haiii thank u @bright-and-burning for the tag :') nobody is online so i will Reflect and return with a worse image...

how many works do you have on AO3?

20 (16 on my main account, 4 on my sports account)... and then 15 more on dreamwidth 🥲

what's your total ao3 word count?

175.5k T__T

what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

gurllll. no one needs to see my 11th grade k-pop fic like that

do you respond to comments? why or why not?

i try my best but i have a difficult relationship with my writing so i often block out that i wrote a fic at all after some time and it hinders my ability to acknowledge commenters directly ;__; and then i always feel awkward responding like 6 months late to someone so i just let it go even though i know no one actually minds... i really do appreciate every comment i get though and deeply cherish everyone's kind words and generosity!!!

what's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

i don't really write angsty endings tbh i just write vaguely bittersweet ambiguous stuff... perhaps sharl character study i wrote for a friend's birthday would be up there because the whole thing is just inelegant whump LOL

what's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

for my own birthday a couple of years ago i wrote an extremely self-indulgent k-pop fic with all of my favorite tropes and also coded elaborate interactive html/css elements with multimedia messages and notifications you could tap on and the whole thing was just sweet secret relationship toothrutting fluff 💗 anyway extremely cringe but i enjoyed myself and thought it was mostly cute

do you write crossovers?

i haven't for any fictional fandoms... the concept is fun though!

have you ever received hate on a fic?

not directly 2 my face !!!

do you write smut? if so, what kind?

i'm an ambiguous fade 2 black kind of guy even if i do try my best at times... TT i'm just too repressed 4 this life unfortunately. pwp writers have my major respect it really is sooo difficult to write cohesive compelling comprehensible porn 

have you ever had a fic stolen?

idts but i have had oomfs/people adjacent my circles turn out to be plagiarizers which is always an unpleasant surprise!

have you ever had a fic translated?

yasss shoutout to anyone who has translated my random fics to russian or spanish 🧡

have you ever co-written a fic before?

yes ! i wrote a bnha au for a k-pop ship with my friend once lol she wrote most of it and i kind of just contributed a scene and the concept but it was still really fun, she's a much better writer than i could ever hope to be... also helped friend finish a fic for a fest once because it was overdue and she tapped out so i was up until 6am filling in scenes randomly for her. oh to be 18 again <3

what's your all-time favorite ship?

unfortunately in f1 it is simply landoscar... all-time i don't know!!!��actually i do but i don't want to say it. nvm

what's a wip that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

arghhh... all of my 814 wips at the moment honestly. especially my kidfic verse that i'm deeply attached to but tragically incapable of working on TT and the jb81 that i totally gave up on!!!

what are your writing strengths?

this is an oxymoron.... i have never written anything good in my entire life. i love to beta read other people's fic for grammar though that's always fun

what are your writing weaknesses?

poor/stiff dialogue, horrible romantic development, inconsistent scene lengths, completely flat plot, no concept of good writing practices in general, a horrible tendency to purple prose, inability to write any actual conflict, i could go on

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

ehmmm i had a lot of strong opinions on this in k-pop fandom LOL and then it was funny to see the same thing happening in f1 but just with different languages (so much random french/german dialogue...) but i think there are untranslatable or commonly recognized words that can be sprinkled in verbatim, like in k-pop it makes sense to use certain honorifics that don't have english equivalents but i draw the line at not translating existing terms like "mom" lol... but i have a lot of thoughts on how languages are communicated in fic in general (perhaps too many), like i also overthink how to communicate grammatical structure - so if i'm writing a french character speaking french but presenting the dialogue in english or same with korean in k-pop fic i usually try to make it flow in a way that is as grammatically reasonable as possible, which goes beyond simple semantics but into the actual logic of syntax + verb order... ok i'll stop actually

what was the first fandom you wrote for?

i was writing crasy fanfiction in middle school 🧡 earliest i remember though is probably naruto circa 6th/7th grade... honestly hard to say because i purged a lot of my ffdotnet output out of shame in 8th grade lmfao

what's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

I Forgor...

what's your favorite fic you've written?

for my sports fics i'm partial to my latest 814 fic because i feel like it's just generally inoffensive and not plainly awful 🤔 in general though i'm attached to some of my like most niche audience_of_2 dw fic that i've written for nugu boy groups with literally 0 fans. like a level of total nobodyness few can comprehend........... we were in the trenches

no pressure tagging @piastrisms @chelemlem @miamimaiden @liamlawsonlesbian if it would be of any interest ! 🥰

[ranger-tater]

Quivers! (but jumbled because I’m writing this at work before the thought leaves)

Probably one of my favourite things to talk about next to the bows and arrows themselves. It’s a topic that’s been beaten to death by just about every archer on the internet and I’m no exception. Just instead how it relates to my beloved silly guys instead of historical accuracy or trying to gatekeep ‘real archery’ (cough Lars Anderson cough. He’s problematic as it is anyways.)

All quivers have issues, there’s pros and cons to all of them, and just plain personal preference. As well as what the task at hand is. (Shooting from a relatively fixed position, horseback archery, hunting, skirmishing, etc.) Also the quality of the quiver, but that isn’t as much as a point at the moment. We’ll assume that our beloved fantasy archers are capable of making a quiver properly. (Not too stiff, holds the arrows nicely - like collapsing in on itself, having clips/slits for the shafts - Being made to fit the body, and can move with it - especially important for back quivers)

Also extra points for pouches! Love me a quiver with a nice pouch on it. Even more points for a lil knife on the quiver strap!

I believe back quivers are more or less perfect for rangers. Regardless of if it’s Flanagan or Tolkien’s. I’m sure there’s other media that has a bit of emphasis on rangers, but I am yet to digest it in any meaningful capacity, and I can purple prose the hell out of my archery in DnD. (Also there’s not enough I can judge in most top down crpgs that I’ve played.)

By side quiver I am referring to quivers attached at the belt or close to the waist, suspended vertically and . Quivers slung over the shoulder that sit more or less horizontally by the waist are a separate matter, but similar criticisms can be applied.

I might be slightly biased, or at least come off as biased. I almost solely use a back quiver when I’m going out. If I’m just target shooting then I usually have my arrows in a tube on the ground, in my bow hand, or laying on the ground. Sometimes in my belt. The woods that I frequent are extremely thick, and I imagine thicker than the average wood that we find in Flanagan or Tolkien’s worlds. Especially the former. I have had issues of my arrows snagging on branches and such, but that’s more a problem of being 6ft and not bending down low enough when I passed them, rather than entirely the quiver’s fault. But with a side quiver, I’d likely be getting more snagged on things, as there’s plenty of saplings, plants, and bushes, as well as deadfalls to try and avoid. Especially if the quiver, and thus arrows, are held at more of an angle. If the quiver is straight up and down then there is less issue in that regard, but there’s still some problems.

Ultimately Using a quiver, regardless of style, in any thick, overgrown area is going to be a pain in the ass. (We’re excluding bow quivers here, because they’re relatively modern and also wouldn’t be ideal for any fighting.) Just going through it with anything but the bare minimum of attire would be a problem, add a strung or even unstrung bow, quiver, sword belt, and a cloak, and you’re in a world of hurt. In Halt’s Peril this is a rather important part of the story, where a cloak and all of the gear with it causes trouble in an egregiously dead and thick forest.

I personally enjoy how free my hands are when using a back quiver, I might have to tuck it under my armpit when crouching through brush, and pay extra mind when I’m passing lower hanging branches (which I have to do anyways) but I think it’s worth it. Also I can comfortably run without having to worry about being tripped by my quiver, and I don’t have to hold it to my side in case arrows want to try and spill, or back in this case. I usually do hold the strap when running, but that’s a matter of personal comfort. I also think that back quivers are simply much more comfortable for travelling, and period photos/artwork of native Americans seem to have the same conclusion.. and most people. Bags are usually worn on the back or at least slung over a shoulder. We generally seem to agree that weight is best supported on the shoulders and out of the way. Even at a walk, having a quiver at my side is extremely uncomfortable past a few yards/a short walk, and I’m constantly fussing about it.

Though most of my own issues are personal preference, and things I’ve noticed that can be problematic in my time in the woods. This is only about my take on rangers/general hunters and woodsmen. There’s a lot of things that side quivers are perfect for! There’s nothing wrong with liking them or other styles of carrying arrows as long as they aren’t dangerous to you, your bow, or others.

Finally, onto the rangers, Ashitaka, Ötzi (guh he’s so sexy), and some miscellaneous things.

Flanagan’s rangers mostly use back quivers throughout Ranger’s Apprentice, in connection with a cloak. Which wear their quivers beneath cloaks, and probably have a flap on the cloak that opens to reveal the arrows or a slit (or both.) I am not entirely certain, as I haven’t read the books in a bit. Just going off of my own personal preferences, and usage. It seems pretty functional for them, but tbh I don’t think it really matters much about their quiver orientation, they’re written to be overpowered and close to superhuman lmfao. I think it’s safe to say though, that their quivers are probably in a Howard Hill or Bryon Ferguson style, if not as wide and a bit more compact, just going off of the capacity and such since we know they don’t use arrow bags. In The Royal Ranger it seems everyone’s pulled a Will Treaty and transitioned.. just to side quivers instead of something hot. Bleh. Of course for shooting off horseback it would make sense, but alternatively. Put arrows in the bow hand, or put the quiver on your saddle (I think that happens in TEY 1? But I might be misremembering. I for some reason remember Halt placing his quiver on the saddle pommel when driving off that Scotti raid.)

Aragorn! I’ll be going off of the movies here. Since Viggo is handsome. From my understanding, rangers like Aragorn are more or less wandering law bringers? They defend/patrol a significant portion of the lands, travelling light and on foot, and mostly providing their own food in place of rations. Aragorn himself wears a back quiver, which also stores his bow, he might have a separate sleeve for it but I don’t think so. It makes sense, travelling light, and as a swordsman mostly, he doesn’t need either getting in his way. Though his quiver is definitely a bit low, and he’d probably have to pull on the strap to get it all the way to comfortably draw an arrow, but that makes sense! There’s some longsword guards that you wouldn’t be able to perform with arrows in the way.

Ötzi the Iceman! My beloved discovery. His quiver was likely worn on the back, with an interesting design of a flap that covers the upper portion of the shafts, and can be easily enough flipped away to access them. Aside from looking so hot, the arrows are protected entirely, rain, mud, snow, and other muck can’t get in there and cause problems, or dampen feathers until the time to shoot. Ever a good feature to have. Imo a design that would be perfect for rangers/hunters/woodsmen/ or men herding sheep/goats like Ötzi might have done. (The man in the Ice, by Konrad Spindler mentions this as a possible occupation for the iceman.)

Ashitaka is a ranger and I won’t hear otherwise. He is practically perfect for it. His quiver design is much like Ötzi’s but without the flap or extra bits of storage. I also think the strap is much longer and of varying lengths he can tie. Seeing as he wears it slung across his shoulder in a sort of side quiver configuration when he’s mounted during the first fight with the samurai. All the same it’s functional and I love it and Ashitaka.

Indigenous cultures have a good amount of diversity in quivers. There’s everything! Back, side, over the shoulder, in a sort of belt across the waist in all manner of ways, Bow cases and bow sleeves in the quiver itself! There’s a lot of amazing stuff there. There’s a good few different styles of asiatic quivers as well, but I’m not so well versed in those! They’re just as cool and I would again recommend looking into them! Please ask me questions. Please.

Edit!!! I forgot to mention noise! If your quiver is made well, and holds arrows correctly, and you’re not running at a full sprint or jumping around. Then the fletchings aren’t likely to rub together too much, and even when they do, it won’t be terrible. There’s enough noise out there it might not be heard as long as the fletchings aren’t constantly brushing one another.

[wordy-little-witch]

Not me looking at your Polycrossguild convenience marriage au thinking about the wedding vows and how fun it would be if trough the entire “convenience to lovers” pipeline, that’s the thing they just can’t seem to get right while they all sit together and practice them like one would do trying to remember lines for a nativity play. None of them are into it, it all looks incredibly forced no matter what they do. No matter what they change or how much they practice it’s just…. Awful. Stiff. So obviously a marriage of convenience thing it hurts.

But after a whole lot of confusing feelings and low key romcom shenanigans the wedding happens and they are all so done they go off script… and it works… kinda. Because if you read their vows on paper they would read like the most horrid vows you ever seen. Mihawk only speaks a few words, Buggy’s stutters out his and it seems like a weird tangent and Crocodile…. Basically straight up passive aggressively insults his husband’s through the entire thing…. But it’s by far the most genuine “performance” of their vows these three have given.

Hawkeye doesn’t say much, he rarely does, but when he squeezes his soon to be husbands hands it’s clear to say anything more would be unnecessary . Buggy is flustered and in love and is trying his damndest to get over himself trying to express that, using a metaphor only the three of them would get because Mihawk used it as a snippy commentary about this shit show when they first started practicing together. And nobody has ever seen Sir Crocodile smile so fondly at anything that wasn’t a Bananawani, even as he expresses annoyance at the men in front of him.

Iiiii dunno if I’m even making sense here, just got struck with the mental image of Crocodile smiling at Buggy and calling him “My beloved little pest of a clown.” And Buggy looking up at him, smiling just as happily while trying to blink away the tears from his eyes.

OKAY LITERALLY THIS

Like. They're Idiots, Your Honor. They absolutely try EVRYTHING to make it seem "authentic", and so Mihawk's papers are written in calligraphy, with verbose prose that boios down to some Gonez Adams Level of simpage but lowkey because he has a reputation.

Crocodile's is written like a damn business agreement, with clauses and edited areas to update and revamp it. He cannot for the life of him find that middle ground of Decently Organized and Genuine.

Buggy's filled no less than three full journals in WIPs of it, and almost all are scribbled on, torn out and crumpled up, or nearly burned bc he raged and threw it into a bon fire.

Finally, day of, they're scrambling and losing their MINDS and suddenly Nobody Can Find The Vows. Everyone is panicking. Something may be on fire.

Ritchie is found with glitter gel pen on his muzzle.

They're gonna have to wind it.

They're all McLosing It.

At least, they were.

Then they catch sight of one another, and suddenly.... the world has stopped.

None of them are exactly traditional, but they make it work. Mihawk is in ruffles and frills, accenting the sleek lines of his body in black and ruby, with slim cut pants and high boots which only serve to make his figure that much more imposingly ethereal. Crocodile opts for suits on a normal day, but this one is different in the cut and style, muted but bold, glimmering but softer, a much more subtle display of wealth and poise which makes him ooze charisma like snake oil. And Buggy has forgone a suit all together, opting instead for a gown, a mermaid cut dress which hugged his curves perfectly, fabric shimmering between violet and red depending on the light with a silvery blazer openly draped and held across his shoulders via a rainbow of beads which matched the colorful hair pins holding his curls from his face and neck.

All three are breathless when they see one another, and suddenly the words are there - odd to an outsider, certainly, but true to the heart in a way visible to all.

Mihawk's short vow is met with a bark of laughter from Crocodile, a silvery giggle from Buggy.

Buggy's rambling stuttered mess becomes teary and he's suddenly bitching about his eyeliner running. Mihawk and Crocodile both crack smiles, even as Mihawk wordlessly passes over a handkerchief and Crocodile makes a comment on looking into waterproof liner later on together - mascara too, he mentions casually, because the brand Buggy likes released a new line a exile back, they'll look into it.

Crocodile's is bemoaning his taste in men, but it's oozing warmth, and when he catches himself getting a little too mushy in public, he actually blushes and scoffs. Mihawk and Buggy look delightfully on with impish smiles.

It's weird and off and anything but typical, but it feels so incredibly real to those involved.

Maybe a little too real to some...

Of course the shenanigans that ensue during their "honeymoon" are another thing entirely.... 👀

[w0lp3rtinger]

Becoming

*screaming*

ANYWAY HI I'VE BEEN REALLY EXCITED TO SHARE THIS! This is the piece I wrote and submitted for the @shadamyzine! In fact, @deadrabbithq on tumblr did illustrations for it! They turned out awesome! alskjdflsj I DIDN'T KNOW THEY WERE GONNA DO THAT AND I'M SO HAPPY!!! THEY TURNED OUT GREAT <3 <3

Okay so this piece is weird. You know that Jacket Shadow has in that calendar piece? The one where ShadAmy fans, accustomed to crumbs, lost their shit because Shadow and Amy were next to one another on the calendar and had matching cherry blossom motifs and Shadow had That Fucking Cherry Blossom Jacket??? THAT JACKET??? It has a GRIP on my SOUL can you tell can you fucking TELL?????

BECAUSE THIS WHOLE PIECE- IT'S AN ABSTRACT PERSONIFICATION PIECE IN PURPLE PROSE... FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE JACKET.

(I can't find the actual official art but in lieu of that PLEASE go check out @kuroiyuki96-art amazing piece here and maybe you'll understand how I went Fucking Feral over it.)

Anyway XD

Hats of and huge thanks to @shadowsfascination and @killingthecringe! They are the ones who beta-read this!

YOU CAN READ IT ON ARCHIVE HERE! (but I REALLY recommend reading it on the Zine which you can find HERE!)

---

It comes about in a slow series of moments, the act of Becoming. 

Like the rain that drums its lazy fingers atop the roof of the warehouse, then the attic window, then the storage shed. It is a measured tattoo across the decades of time just as much as the footsteps of the mice, the fluttering of the moths, the creeping of the yellow across pristine white leather and gentle fading of brilliant reds. 

It is moved from box to box. A game piece in the shuffling and settling of affairs. Something to be bartered and sold. It’s neat and tidy for a while. Then, a business closes. An estate liquifies. The box is suddenly adrift on tides of time and paperwork. 

This Prenatal Dark seems to stretch forever, but then, it always does. That is the way of things. The Becoming cannot happen yet. The Wait must occur. It is the silence Beforehand, the Eternity predating the Infinity, and the Infinity is the Rest of Existence in Becoming. 

Because eventually, there is light. Eventually, there’s a young woman who peels back the cardboard and runs her hands down unyielding buttons and a stiff wool front, and the smile she gives outshines the sun. 

That’s where it starts. 

Infinity unrolls in the hours she has taken to looking at the future, walking around still-creased edges thrown over her mother’s dress form. Sometimes she’s sketching on scratch paper, face scrunched like all of the discarded waste around her bare feet. Sometimes, she’s holding up threads against the faded reds and yellowed whites, clicking her tongue as she checks the morning, the afternoon, the evening light against the colours of what is and the colours of what will Become. 

But Infinity is a long time. Becoming is not easy, and eventually, the Becoming takes on the tune of maple seeds pelting her open bedroom window in a breeze that smells of coming summer. Meanwhile, the ground outside is littered with browning pink blossoms. 

She wears it, thinking of the Past, thinking of Eternity, and she’s crying. Her tears are salty on musty cuffs. 

When her mother comes in to ask what is wrong, she talks about being Late, about taking too long, about overthinking everything. 

But there is never a Too Late in Becoming. 

Her mother says this to her, and it can be felt in every Fiber of Being. It sinks into the Stitching of Everything, along with the salty tears, along with the heavy smell of late spring. 

There’s Hope in Becoming. 

She tries again. Tries harder, truly, this time. There’s a shaking in her hands against the flat of red wool as she traces her twirling thoughts out in soft chalk against the wide expanse of space, Immortalized as a part of the Becoming, taking form one stitch at a time across Being. 

Her Learning Hands guide the Change, to a point. 

Some things, they happen Intentionally, with Purpose. Some things, they happen by chance. Perhaps they could be called Accidents, but she has Learning Hands. She leaves no Accidents. 

She adapts, and just like the branches she stitches, she Grows.

There are no silken threads. They are solid quilting threads, this shape of Becoming that spreads out between her fingers. From limb, to branch, to twig. From each petal, stamen, anther. They are built to last with a Heart that wields Love like a hammer. 

Sturdy. Strong. Real. 

There’s mass to that sort of Love. It sits in the chest and in the palms of hands as a comfortable weight. It solidifies the Infinity of Becoming in a way nothing else can. 

It rests astride the shoulders like a set of warm hands. 

It says, ‘Become whatever it is you will to Become. I will Love you anyway.’ 

And so, such things happen.  

And eventually, they are Blooming with so much Becoming that they put the spring outside to shame. Gilded in brilliant Colour and Texture, they are so Full that they threaten to burst from it. When she wears them outside one day when the world is Pristine and Still under moonlight, they blister like a solar flare against the white. 

And she’s whispering. It’s the darkest night of the year, here out in the cold, and she’s whispering into the cuffs.

“You will take care of them.” 

She keeps repeating, gripping them tight in her hands as she holds them to her mouth. She keeps repeating with her eyes wide on the moon, watching the movements of something that cannot be seen. She keeps repeating. It’s something between a hope and a wish and a threat. 

“You WILL take care of them.” 

And it’s Love. 

Love. It’s all Love. That’s all it ever was, the all of it, the everything, of Love. It makes so much sense now, the Everything of it All. 

It rings in the still silence of deep winter. It shakes the snow from distant trees and sends the night birds into the sky. 

But then, there is more Wait. 

And it is a long Wait. 

So busy and bustling was the Becoming that they had almost forgotten the Waiting part of it all. But there’s a Fear that must be thawed out. 

It could almost be missed, but it is there, slow-moving in deep waters, far below where the sunny disposition shines. It is there and it drifts but slowly, all husk and tatters and old wounds. It takes a long time before bravery can thaw those waters. There are many talks over the kitchen table. There are many hours of baking in the kitchen, of turning the eggs into frothy whites, stiff as snow drifts.

She wears her Effort and her Love through it all, as though her own Becoming takes place from the outside in, but that’s not how this works. It has to come from inside first. That’s one of the core tenets of Becoming. 

Nobody can Become for you. You have to Become for you. 

The Planning, the Stitching, the Waiting. Maybe they were the acts into which she thrust herself, threw herself upon the task, but the Becoming still happened on the inside of all of that. 

For every Action, there is an equal and opposite Reaction.  

For in your path of Creation, you Become. 

Snow drifts melt. Spring is brave. 

All the world comes into a dawn of oranges and pinks and baby greens, all dig deep down one last time before leaping up, like a heart in a throat, like a pitched voice, like a question, like a- 

She never Plans when she holds her Heart out, not really. It’s just the brute force of her thrust forward, stitched there in red wool, where each thread rises like a crocus from the frozen ground. What is done cannot be taken back. 

You cannot un-Become. 

The Still that follows is deafening. The Waiting of an instant feels like a lifetime, a cable of steel splitting it down the seam between their wide and watchful eyes. 

And for all their winter, for all their waiting in the silence, in an instant, it becomes so clear- 

Of course they Love her. 

Love her, Love her, for she is Becoming, as they are Becoming. 

And it gilds the shoulders, protects the back and arms, shields the heart by splitting it wide open down the forward facing front, towards the sunrise, towards her bright and shining eyes. 

A Safe Haven, enabling vulnerability.

What terror. 

What bliss. 

They have Loved this entire time. 

And here, now they Become One.

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/5/2024: INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE (1994)

I'm sorry, but this movie fucking sucks. I hadn't seen it in decades and I thought it was probably "OK"; I devoured the books as a kid and I didn't remember hating the film, but I should have realized that it was a red flag that I didn't love it. I have now discovered that it's bad enough that it failed to thrill me when I was a morose little horror dork who was really the target audience, and as an adult I can hardly stand it.

Daniel Molloy (Christian Slater, dressed up as Art Spiegelman for some reason) interviews for-realsies vampire Louis (Brad Pitt, still looking like he spends a lot of time in the sun) about life with his master Lestat (Tom Cruise, who knows why) and their eternally-childlike daughter Claudia (poor li'l Kirsten Dunst). Suddenly I feel like I don't know what to say about this, as I'm writing, even though I enjoyed the book and also the superior-in-every-single-way TV show. You know. Louis is really sad about being a monster. Lestat is really happy about being a monster. Claudia is really mad about being a monster. They have interpersonal problems. Later they meet some other vampires, and have interpersonal problems with them. At the end Louis is angry with Daniel for not getting the point, but maybe neither did I.

To some degree the problems of the movie are the problems of the book, but on the page they're basically forgivable for various reasons. I'm probably not going to refresh my memory, but as I recall Anne Rise has a way of really drawing you into her world, which is so literally-sensational that it makes up for her boy-crazy humorlessness. Everybody basically has one characteristic, outlined above, but the visceral pleasure of the prose takes over--and to be totally fair, it was novel at the time. It was the vampire story we had all been waiting to hear. (Ok, so the book is from 1978 but it still felt fresh in 1994) But when you port all that to the screen and leave the telling to these actors who are almost universally miscast, it all just lies there, dead.

I thought my hesitation about rewatching this was related to my petty aversion to Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise specifically. I really don't enjoy either of them in general, and I also felt like they were profoundly wrong for the roles; neither of them could be less goth, less tortured, less otherworldly. It feels criminal to fill these classic queer outsider roles with alpha males who seem like they would have beaten up your weird gay friends in high school, and their performances are not remotely good enough to make up for this impression. Kirsten Dunst is perfectly awful but like...you just can't have a 12 year old playing a person who is any older than 12. It cannot work. It's not her fault, it's just a bad idea.

The only guy who is any good at all in this is Stephen Rea, a staple of director Neil Jordan's films, who I almost didn't even recognize because his Santiago is so uncanny and dynamic and fun despite having very little to do. I love the way his look references LONDON AFTER MIDNIGHT, it made me wonder how much more could have been done by subtly comparing Rice's vampires with their cultural predecessors. Rea lights up every scene he's in because he's so mischievous and unpredictable, and he's also almost the only person with any standout stunts--which helps me segue into the other main gripe I had with this movie, that it is incredibly stiff and static. It's like a prison. Everyone is totally weighed down by their giant ridiculous wigs and seven layer costumes, so even though the movie is supposed to be all sensual and shit, it's like nobody can even move.

Dealing with INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE is making me realize that I'm not quite sure what I think about Neil Jordan. I have this kneejerk reaction that he is Great because THE CRYING GAME is such an institution, and MONA LISA is real good too, but I might have found all of his other movies kind of humorless and stiff and like, beautiful but not altogether meaningful. I really struggle with THE COMPANY OF WOLVES because of its terrific FX and handful of fun scenes, but there is something about it that fails to connect with me. Sometimes it's overly pretentious, I mean paralleling a maiden's coming of age with the blood on the white roses is like...pretty gross, dude. But overall there is something about it that just lacks substance, despite its relentless and oppressive Symbolism. It seems like this problem should have been smoothed out for INTERVIEW since it was shot from Anne Rice's own script, but according to me, it really does not work out.

[magodangretsus]

I have fanfiction ideas but I can't write them prose form, so I'm gonna write my idea in a tumblr draft so it will exist in some form even if I never get to actually writing it.

Follows from the last episode of Tiger and Bunny, can be either au or just decide that Yuri survives and is found.

Also it is clear to me that Kotetsu and Barnaby are married in all senses but (maybe) legal. And it's also obvious to me that some time during s2, Barnaby approached his husband about opening the relationship after reconnecting with Matias, which Kotetsu allowed.

And so this is when Kotetsu, having come around on that whole polyamory thing, perhaps considers pursuing a second partner as well.

Yuri is taken to the hospital, confesses while there, and eventually is sentenced to several years of prison and a good deal of mandatory therapy. During his hospital recovery which would preclude his sentence, Kotetsu and Barnaby, but especially the former, would pay him visits, which is a bit surprising but appreciated.

So either this is an au where Yuri is talked down from burning himself alive and jumping, or he is found alive afterwards. Either way, Yuri is convinced to live (you realized it's wrong to kill people for being "bad", this includes yourself, also if you feel bad for doing bad things, you can make up for it by doing good things from now on, etc), and so decides to turn himself in and face justice for what he did as Lunatic.

Yuri goes to prison, the heroes are reinstated and the NEXT returned to society, and Stern Bild gradually rebuilds after the destruction of the X outbreaks. Kotetsu, by popular demand once again, is allowed to continue working as a hero despite no longer being NEXT, and he along with the disabled Barnaby share their dream of inspiring weak and non-NEXT to see themselves as heroes too by being crowned Buddy Heroes. It's rough, but being used to only having access to their powers for 5 or 1 minute at a time before, it's surprisingly manageable. (Sorry Kaede, your dad still isn't coming home, but you sort of figured that already.)

Yuri hears about much of the above by Kotetsu, who is visiting him regularly in prison. This confuses Yuri, who is not entirely sure where they stand considering their former professional relationship and hero-villian rivalry. But Kotetsu has his reasons. One is to reassure Yuri that since losing his powers, even though he clings to his work as a hero, he isn't going to become like Mr. Legend. Another is to make sure Yuri is okay - he nearly killed himself before the prison sentence, and during his interrogations it became known that his mother was recently murdered, and that he's been suffering from psychotic visions for years. Kotetsu knows enough to understand him, even when they've disagreed with each other, and that means he cares enough to meddle (as Bunny would say).

So they talk, almost weekly, over the next several years. Kotetsu goes to the prison with Origami sometimes. And while Barnaby doesn't share the same impulse to get further involved with Lunatic, he can see where it's coming from, and is happy for Kotetsu when he talks about their regular chats, how their old director has started being less stiff around him and maybe even cracked a joke the other day.

Eventually, Yuri is released (with parole). For all the murders he committed, it feels soon, but he cooperated extensively during his sentencing and did help save the city.

Kotetsu is there when he's released. He invites him to drinks. Yuri accepts.

They go drinking, and mostly talk about what's next for Yuri. Yuri, guard lowered by alcohol and the many conversations they've had, thanks Kotetsu for being there for him all this time, and says he may not have believed in a future for himself without him, or had the strength to reach it. Kotetsu puts an arm around him, he cries, and Kotetsu offers to take him home because they're getting to be emotional and drunk messes.

Kotetsu wakes up in bed with Yuri. Shit.

Yuri wakes up hungover in bed with Kotetsu, who is panicking severely, because he is in a committed relationship with another man. Yuri takes stock and concludes that they did not have sex, but does remember making out pretty heavily before falling asleep in each other's arms. Knowing this was not intentional on Kotetsu's part, he offers to never speak of this again and pretend it never happened, an offer which Kotetsu eagerly and gratefully takes.

Kotetsu makes him fried rice for breakfast, says the fat helps with the hangover. It tastes very good. Kotetsu hands him his wrinkled shirt off the floor. Yuri feels some things and promptly ignores them. They part ways.

Kotetsu returns to work, and Barnaby asks how Yuri's release went, and Kotetsu does the dumb thing where he gets extremely nervous and suspiciously stammers a vague answer. He is sort of hoping that because they agreed never to speak of it again, that also means he doesn't have to tell his boyfriend about drunkenly cheating on him, because that is scary. (Barnaby is also in a relationship with Matias, but Barnaby asked for Kotetsu's permission before pursuing a relationship with him, and Kotetsu has not done that because he didn't think he was attracted to Yuri.)

The problem is - Kotetsu is still thinking about it. And, he knows he prioritizes his relationship with Barnaby, but he still cares about Yuri, and still wants to be there for him as he reacclimates to life after prison, especially when he was such a public figure both in and out of his mask. There is still definitely some worrying about his mental health, even with the therapy seeming to go well recently. Kotetsu worries. He is Kotetsu.

(Re: worrying about his mental health and still caring about him, Yuri probably calls Kotetsu at least once after a Hero TV broadcast ends just to hear his voice, prove to himself that he's safe. Living with the voices of the dead and losing family suddenly both will make you worry about this.)

Kotetsu assumes what happened there only happened because of the alcohol and heightened emotions, and Yuri is so cold and serious, surely when we're both sober, there won't be any kind of mood or opening for something like that to happen again!! Right!! If I just see him again, the atmosphere will be so different and I'll stop thinking about this!! He probably already has anyway!!

... It's normal, at first. Yuri is deadpanned and serious, but there's a humor to him now, one they formed over time; Kotetsu over-acts and Yuri plays the straight man, sometimes giving a sarcastic quip or a little smirk at his antics. Kotetsu can throw an arm around him and feel neither icy glare nor vengeful flame. But, uh, usually he doesn't glance away with a blush on his face. Uh oh. Uh. This silence is getting a little long. Oh no. Oh no, they're both thinking about it.

... Kotetsu tries to bring up Barnaby to assert how Normal things are. The atmosphere gets worse. This isn't good.

Kotetsu finally tells Barnaby about what happened the night Yuri was released. Barnaby is understandably not thrilled, but believes Kotetsu when he says he never anticipated or intended on that happening, and that nothing has happened since. But uh. So, Bunny, you know how you asked about opening our relationship..? I totally get it if you aren't comfortable with me doing it, especially considering what I just told you!!! But... Uhm...

Barnaby is a bit reserved, but ultimately decides that he can't possibly expect Kotetsu to be alright with his relationship with Matias if he can't be comfortable with Kotetsu seeing other people. With knowing consent. And it's been a few years since Matias was added to their relationship - they had some road bumps, Kotetsu was insecure at first (and didn't voice his discomfort because of said insecurity), but they've had many conversations since and both clearly know their rules about this kind of thing. So, okay. I know how much you care about him, and I know you're a stubborn old man so I doubt I could change your mind. Hmph. Love you too.

So, permission gained. Kotetsu no longer needs to feel guilty about these thoughts and memories that don't go away. Now the challenge is actually broaching the subject with Yuri.

Soooo, Yuri, want to get drinks again someti- oh, you're busy? Okay, well, when are you next free? ... You're not sure? Well, I mean - you're taking breaks, right? I know you overwork yourself! That's a bad habit to fall back into, I know things must be pretty overwhelming right now; I know, let me help you!! I insist!!

He forces his way in. Yuri is tense, and light small talk isn't lightening the mood at all. Yuri has already caught on that Kotetsu has something he needs to say to him, his guard is up for whatever it is. Kotetsu is so bad at hard, adult conversations. But. Soo, Yuri... Uh. Oh, how's Bunny? He's good! He and Matias! The three of us have been going out more as a trio, actually, and I still feel a little awkward being so much older than the two of them, but Matias is a nice guy, and we're kind of figuring out a dynamic! Not like, a romantic one, but - ohh the atmosphere in here feels like it's getting very cold very fast. He's not looking at me.

Ahem. Speaking of that. I, uh, I talked to Bunny. About the other night. When we went drinking. He wasn't thrilled, obviously, but, uh... Well, we do have an open relationship, so, uh... I, uh... If you'd... Y-yeah, I am suggesting that, if you wanted to, we could also... Yeah, yeah he's okay with it. Uh. No, I, don't think you'd have to go on double dates with the three of us. Like, they probably wouldn't mind? Bunny likes you by now! No you don't have to. But uh. Does that mean you....?

Kotetsu and Yuri get together. The relationship progress is very slow, which Kotetsu is able to be patient for because he still has Barnaby. Kotetsu doesn't know how much it'd be weird to talk to Barnaby about it, but he shares some of his worries with Matias, who has some insight about being introduced into a really strong, established relationship as someone on much unsteadier ground. Kotetsu dotes incessantly on his new boyfriend to try to reassure him, and Yuri insists he's not insecure, just unused to... Expressing himself. Not comfortable with it yet. But... Appreciates Kotetsu's patience, and, does love him, even if he's still learning to show it.

Things continue, and Barnaby gradually settles on curiosity. It's just... Hard to imagine the Director interacting comfortably with anyone, let alone someone as loud and brash as Kotetsu.

The first time he sees them interact, Yuri is just frozen. Awkward. How do I act around The Husband. I'm still getting used to flirting in general, how do I do it in front of other people, especially this person??

Barnaby: The old man isn't giving you a hard time, right?

Yuri: ... I think we communicate fine.

Barnaby: ....

Yuri: ....

Barnaby: Well, if you do ever have any trouble, you can come to me. I have some tricks for handling him.

Yuri: Thank you, Barnaby.

Barnaby: .....

Barnaby: I hope you know you two have my support. And I'm glad you seem to be doing well.

Yuri: Thank you, Barnaby. And it would not have come to this if I was not aware of your consent.

Barnaby will later complain to Matias at how painfully awkward it was. He'd started to feel bad for the guy. Kotetsu got worried about the atmosphere and kissed Yuri in front of him to try to reassure him it was okay, and it only made him more stiff. Kotetsu is an idiot. (No, Matias, they don't seem bad for each other, I think Kotetsu will be okay, it's just... That man. He's just like this. But I suppose opposites attract?)

And that is my fic idea, oh no it's past 1am

EDIT: More scenes

Also after they get together, Kotetsu is like "do you want to meet my kid?" and Yuri, who has several varieties of parent related trauma, and is also a known murderer, is like "uhh are you sure you want to do that?" and Kotetsu does because he wants to introduce the people he loves to each other.

Except, uh, as we've covered, Kotetsu is bad at having Important Adult Conversations. And the whole "explaining polyamory to my 13 year old" thing seemed... Listen, when Barnaby first got together with Matias, Kotetsu sort of felt like he was being traded in for someone younger and smarter. That obviously was never the case, and he's gotten past that, but he wonders if Kaede will worry that Barnaby doesn't like him anymore and he's just living in denial. So he never told her about Matias.

But now he wants to tell Kaede about Yuri, which means explaining polyamory and that Bunny is okay with it (she knows he and Barnaby are together), and the best way he can explain that is that Barnaby was the one who taught him about polyamory in the first place. Which means he's going to be throwing a lot at her at once.

Kaede is initially overwhelmed, but this is still less shocking than her dad dating her celebrity crush, she can handle anything at this point. Yes dad I'll meet your second boyfriend.

And then Yuri is on a video call with her, or meeting her in person, and he doesn't consider himself very good with kids but... Kaede, I love your father and I believe he's a good man. But my father was once a good man before he started losing his powers. If anything ever happens, know that I will defend you.

Kotetsu: ... I don't know whether to feel touched or threatened...

Kotetsu: I mean, I already lost my powers and I'm still a good man, right?? Right??

Yuri: You are, or I would not be here.

Kotetsu: Right!!!

Kotetsu: Ohhh Kaede, also be careful touching him because he's a NEXT and his power is very dangerous!

Yuri: ....

Okay NOW I'm done with my extremely ambitious fic outline I may or may not write one day (after I do quite a bit of research into how parole works).

[epitomereally]

heavenstruck! wednesday wip snip

no one tagged me but i am putting the finishing touches on the next chapter of Heavenstruck! and I am SO EXCITED that we're doing a wednesday wip snip. This chapter fulfills the 'first there's porn, then there's plot!' tag of the story—fast sexual burn, slow emotional burn is my forever beloved.

Would love to see what y'all—yes, YOU!—are working on, if you're seeing this! Am also tagging @oflights for their delicious non-HP wip, @garagepaperback for theirs which I just started LAST NIGHT AND IT'S GORGEOUS, and @mallstars because I love their eighth year wip (just started today!) and love to see their gorgeous prose ahead of time. as always, completely unbetaed, with notes to myself and all!

They somehow made it to the locker room with no one seeing them—not even Proudfoot was sitting in his office, waiting to pounce upon Harry. Perhaps he could sense the mountain of shit Harry would leave on his office chair; not even the chair wanted to eat Harry in this state.

When they get there, Malfoy pulled out his wand, shook his head, and imperiously Vanished the shit on his face and hair and hands. Considering, he looked at Harry, who let out a groan of rage, and spelled his face minty clean. He said, “Not even I want to see you like that, Potter.”

Harry pulled his hoody over his head and dropped it in a sodden, shitty heap on the ground. He said, “Why didn’t we do that immediately?”

“Well.” Malfoy pulled off his robe, turned it inside out, and folded it up neatly on the bench. He doesn’t quite meet Harry’s eye, looking a bit shifty. “Maybe we just Vanished some of the evidence, but…”

Harry snorted. “I’m not about to turn you in, Malfoy. I also don’t like my face covered in shit.”

“Oh?” Malfoy smirked slowly, and then propped a long leg up on a bench, untying a brogue. “What do you like your face covered in?”

Harry groaned, but couldn’t suppress a smile. He pulled off his shirt next. “Oh, piss off, Malfoy.”

“Just”—Malfoy stripped the sock off his foot, showing off the graceful curve of his ankle, the slightly-dark blond leg hair, his elegant feet. Christ, now Harry was even thinking Malfoy’s feet were fit. He might be about to die of sexual frustration—“consider my offer if you don’t yet know what you like your face covered in. That’s an experiment I would be more than happy to run with you.”

Harry barked out a laugh, and couldn’t ignore the tingle of heat zinging up the back of his legs. He toed off his trainers and suddenly realised exactly where he and Malfoy were heading—both towards the showers, towards being completely naked. Harry was doing his very best not to think about the proposition, not that Malfoy was making it easy with his sexual innuendos and the slow unbuttoning, mercifully spared the ravages of the Portaloo by Malfoy’s robes. Harry’s jeans had known no such mercy, stiff as Harry roughly unbuttoned and shoved them down.

Pink [stained] the tips of Malfoy’s cheekbones as he propped his other leg up and slowly rolled off his sock. Harry was down to just his pants now, feeling scrawny and uncomfortable, except for the way Malfoy was sneaking looks at his legs, his chest. Harry was sneaking the exact same looks at the glimpse of Malfoy’s chest, stomach that he could see through his open shirt. And Harry sure as hell wasn’t going to take his pants off while Malfoy was stood there, still almost fully clothed. Absolutely not. He might be unfortunately interested in Malfoy, but not enough to do that without some kind of assurance this wasn’t all some cruel joke.

Malfoy stood up, shook an arm out, and started undoing his cufflinks, his hair falling loose on the sides of his face. The looks were getting bolder now. Harry was full on staring, shifting foot from foot, arms crossed over his chest as goose pimples crawled their way up his flanks.

Distantly, Harry heard the door to the locker room clang open on the far side, behind the row of showers. The clatter of laughter skittered over the tiles—it was Zacharias fucking Smith. Smith and his whole cohort of mates. Probably most of the Auror trainees by the stomp of shoes.

Harry looked at Malfoy. Malfoy looked at him. Smith grew ever closer, his crude jokes echoing around the corner from the showers.

Harry was down to his pants. Malfoy was in his shirtsleeves, buttons ajar, and his posh wool trousers. They both still had remnants of shit licking their temples, dug under their fingernails. Harry knew, suddenly, absolutely, that Smith could not find him and Malfoy in here together. Not like this. Malfoy didn’t sell Harry out to the Prophet, but Smith would. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind.

Grabbing Malfoy’s hand all in a whirl, Harry pulled them both into the nearest shower. They barely fit, but Harry manoeuvred his hand to turn the water on behind them. It came steaming out of the head, hissing and sputtering and filling the stall with mist.

Malfoy smirked, slouched there against the wall. “I didn’t expect you to take me up so quickly—”

Harry shoved his hand over Malfoy’s mouth.

Zacharias Smith came around the corner, his loud guffaw crawling under Harry’s skin. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, a huff of air from his nose on Harry’s hand. He glared at Harry.

Fuck, Harry was just now taking in their positions. Harry down to his pants. Malfoy still fully clothed, but his posh white shirt plastered down his chest, his trousers clinging wetly to thighs, clinging to his cock which Harry can basically see. Fuck. Harry’s cock jumps in his pants. The shower stall was so small, they’re basically pressed together. Harry knew Malfoy could feel it against his thigh, against the rough wet wool of his trousers. Steam continued to stream from the shower. Malfoy’s hair clung to his delicate skull. Harry pulled his hand away from Malfoy’s mouth like [it was on fire]. They were both panting.

Malfoy shoved Harry up against the wall. Harry let him.