#prompt: plot twist

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2024: Day 28 - Plot Twist

That’s not Philip:

Of all the engines who worked at the Big Station, Philip the boxcab was possibly the one who had the biggest personality. He was young, eager and entirely on the wrong side of too overconfident, much to the consternation of the big engines. The little engine had been brought in to help shunt coaches and trucks around the station, but unfortunately, he was distracted very easily.

“Gordon! Gordon! Race me!” “No Philip, I have to prepare for the express,” reminded Gordon, trying to stay calm. “But whyyyyyyyyy,” whined Philip loudly. Gordon’s eye twitched. The big engine moved to head to be refuelled, hoping Philip would get the hint. Philip did not. The little boxcab trailed after Gordon, whinging and whining about how unfair it was that Gordon wouldn’t indulge him in a race, especially cause they were the two fastest on the railway, surely! Philip could beat Gordon in a race, why wouldn’t Gordon race him?  

“I’m not busy, after all,” Philip added, trying his best to annoy the big engine into cooperating. Gordon wondered absently if he’d been too harsh on Thomas for being cheeky, all the way back in the early days. After all, even Thomas wasn’t this bad. “Don’t you have to arrange the express?” retorted Gordon. Philip snorted, his eyes lighting up with mischief.

“Nah! It’s not that important anyway – let’s go, let’s go let’sgolet’sgolet’sgo!” Gordon reached his boiling point, his safety valves popping as he erupted furiously.

“GO AND ARRANGE MY EXPRESS, NOW!” roared Gordon. Philip shook, stunned, before glaring defiantly back. “You’re a big meanie,” he snapped, sticking his tongue out petulantly before zipping away. Gordon sighed, and set about either finding another engine to fetch his coaches or getting them himself.

As Gordon left, he muttered under his breath. “I do wish Philip would learn some competency for his work.” And then he was gone, speeding down the line with headlamps swaying in the cool evening breeze.

Back at the Big Station, something was very wrong. Paxton, the other station pilot, couldn’t find Philip. The Class 08 checked everywhere, from the sidings to the harbour to the station and the sheds – but there was no sign of the little diesel boxcab. Duck joined in the search when he finished his last passenger run of the day, followed by Oliver, Stafford and finally Charlie, who told so many awful jokes that Duck very nearly shoved him off the end of the quay.

But still nothing. All five had to concede defeat and head back to the sheds, where they told the others about the missing engine. “Let him stay missing!” huffed James. “The yards ran smoother when he wasn’t here.” “That’s an awful thing to say,” snapped Duck. “Philip is just young – I’m sure he’s doing his best.” “Duck, please,” sighed Henry. “We keep trying to get along with him, but he just doesn’t care about doing his work. The smallest thing distracts him! You know where I found him last week?” “Where?” “On the mainline! He’d chased a butterfly half the way to the Junction and I very nearly turned him into a sardine can!”

Duck winced – he had to admit, Philip had done similar on his branchline, though that had been because he was following a sailboat as it made its way along the coast. He’d bumped right into Douglas, who’d torn the poor little boxcab a new one about railway safety.

It was not comforting to know he was not learning.

Duck was about to retort when the engines all heard Philip’s horn. The little engine rumbled into the sheds, looking very different. His paint was scratched all over, his number having been altered so it looked much closer to sixty-six as opposed to sixty-eight. His headlamp had been shattered by something, though what none of the engines could tell. And then there was Philip himself – his eyes were entirely the wrong colour, their former dark brown now a weird, almost red tinge. His almost always present smile had fallen flat, and they had a slow, calculating look about them.

None of the engines spoke for a long moment. “Philip, there you are,” James finally said. “You’ve ruined your paint. You need to go get it cleaned up at once.” “It should be fine,” ‘Philip’ replied, his words slow and halting, as if trying to predict what the other engines would do or say. Again, the engines all just stared, not sure what to say.

“Are you… sure?” checked Duck. Stafford and Charlie both cowered a little more behind the Pannier, a little spooked and afraid. ‘Philip’ considered. “Yes,” he replied, a little quicker this time. Duck hummed in consideration. “Well, you shouldn’t have run off like that. You made everyone worry for you. Now go get off the main road, Paxton needs to collect Gordon’s coaches when he returns.”

‘Philip’ smiled; it wasn’t quite the huge beaming grin that the engines were used to seeing on the little boxcab. It was smaller, less natural and more calculated. “I can do that,” he said. “They go in the… coach sheds, right?” “Carriage sheds,” sniffed James. “What did they even try to teach you young engines?!” The little boxcab hummed lowly, and slunk away to wait for Gordon. The moment he was out of earshot, the shed erupted in chatter.

“That’s not Philip, it’s an imposter!” exclaimed Duck. “We need to do something!” “Like what?” “An exorcism maybe? I don’t know!” Duck wracked his brain for an idea, but none were forthcoming. “If only Edward wasn’t being overhauled, he’d know what to do!” There was a long pause, before finally Henry spoke up.

“What if we… did nothing?” “Did nothing?!” “Think about it,” Henry went on, ignoring Paxton’s outburst, “Philip is completely clueless and causes us so much trouble – but this new engine, whoever it is, seems like they’ll do their work. All we need to do is keep an eye on him and try our best to steer him into being a really useful engine so that we don’t have to deal with Philip being an idiot and nearly causing us yet another accident.” “Edward wouldn’t agree to that,” Duck reminded Henry sternly. “Well then it’s a good thing Edward isn’t here,” Henry retorted. “If anyone asks, he had a long think about his future on this railway – we might just make a good station pilot out of him yet!”

“This seems immoral,” Paxton said quietly. “That’s because it is,” came the blunt addition from Duck. “You’re suggesting we do nothing while the real Philip is… is… what is even going on anyway?” “He might be… uh… possessed,” said Stafford quietly, the other engines straining to even hear him. “Trevor told me about it – it’s when evil spirits sneak into a person or engine and take them over. They’re supposed to want something… but I don’t know why they’d want Philip.”

The engines all shared a long look, none of them really wanting to admit it…

… but they all wanted to wait and see what happened.

‘Philip’ seemed to change overnight. After a few days’ worth of slightly painful adjustment, he seemed to click into what was needed. Trains ran smoother than they had in months. ‘Philip’ was a natural at shunting, zipping through the sidings and doing the work asked of him with ease. Even Sir Topham Hatt was impressed!

“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “But you’ve really smartened up, Philip. I’m rewarding you with a new coat of paint.” ‘Philip’ just smiled his weird, slightly stilted smile. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. He was repainted the next day, getting a very smart new livery that he barely cared for at all, instead focusing on his work. James could have wept for joy when he realised his train was arranged and prepared before he’d even gotten to the platform for an entire week.

But none of the engines at the Big Station told anyone about what had happened on that odd night, keeping it a closely guarded secret. The weeks passed, and the engines kept up the charade. It was clear to them that this engine was not Philip – he had the wrong accent and his horn sounded vaguely like the screams of the damned – but they had grown fond of him, of having their trains on time and of having an orderly yard.

‘Philip’ was good at his job, kind, quiet, and when he did speak he had an absolutely brutal dry wit that had even Gordon howling with laughter.

“I still don’t like it,” muttered Duck one evening, nearly three months after ‘Philip’ had shown up at the sheds. “We don’t know why he’s here at all.” “Oh shush,” huffed James, his eyes focused on the TV the crews had left in the corner of the sheds for the engines. “The big plot twist is coming – I bet he’s been sleeping with her sister.”

Duck rolled his eyes – James was way too invested in a recent Mexican telenovela which a local channel had been playing. “Aye, it is a devil in my husband’s skin!” Duck and James both stared at the television as the major plot twist turned out to be that the husband was secretly possessed, and had been engaged with the maids, the sister and a weirdly attractive uncle of the wife.

“No,” Duck snapped. “You are not going to suggest Philip should act like that.” James just chuckled. The two looked over to the shed doors as they heard a familiar rumble.

The little boxcab rounded the last bend and raced into the sheds, much too fast.

“Hi guys! It’s been weird – I was lost! But I’m back now – the vicar told me that he ‘helped’ me but I didn’t understand. Who wants to race?”

James and Duck shared a look; Philip was back.

For a few days, all was quiet. The engines once again were forced to carefully navigate this unfamiliar engine in Philip’s body, only this time it was the original once more. And Philip hadn’t learnt a thing despite having spent six months possessed. He still raced about far more than he ought to, not really focusing on his work but rather the first thing that intrigued him. He ended up in all sorts of crazy positions, including somehow getting shunted onto the middle of the Midnight Goods and going halfway across the island behind a slightly peeved BoCo.

But… Philip wasn’t stupid. Naïve, perhaps. But not stupid. And in those few days, he began to notice something; he began to see it in the corners of his eyes when the other engines thought he wasn’t around.

They sighed more, when they saw him. They pursed their lips at the sound of his horn, as if hoping or expecting a different noise to come out. They scowled at his perfectly polished paint that he loved, having made his driver repaint over the smart livery with his own preferred, zanier one.

Engines like Gordon and James had infinitely less patience for his antics than before, as if their slight fondness for him had been replaced by disdain, barely masked behind a veneer of indifference. Engines like BoCo, Bear, Charlie or Oliver who had been supportive of his attempts at learning the yard before now just watched on silently, as if what they saw in front of them didn’t quite line up with what they had in their minds.

Something was wrong.

The worst thing for Philip was seeing the shift in Duck and Paxton. The two had gone from being perhaps the only two in the entire yard who genuinely liked him to being little more than distant colleagues. Whatever had happened during the time he’d been lost, wandering through an infinite woodland with a million different places to explore, it had given the others a reason to just… watch him.

Always watching, always judging. None of them seemed to like the outcome of these judgements, always pretending to be looking elsewhere whenever Philip caught them. All of the others would attempt a smile, but it felt weak. Lacking.

Philip felt rather alone, and it hurt.

It didn’t take him too long to find out why. Philip had been heading back to the sheds after another disheartening day, rumbling quietly alongside the sheds, when he overheard the engines inside.

“It’s not the same,” hissed Gordon. “He’s not the same!” “Why did the vicar have to fix it,” agreed James. “The yard was finally running so smoothly!” “Well, it’s done,” snapped Duck. “And we have to live with it. The other Philip is gone, and we need to get used to this Philip again.” “I wish we didn’t have to,” admitted Charlie, almost silently. “He doesn’t even try and learn, he just flutters about. I miss the other Philip.”

Philip fled from the sheds before he could hear any more. He couldn’t take it – all his friends had said they preferred another Philip, that they weren’t happy with him. They didn’t want Philip, they wanted a different engine. They wanted a different engine wearing his face, working with his engine. They wanted a version of Philip that he wasn’t. They didn’t want him.

His friends didn’t want him.

His friends didn’t even like him, they just dealt with him while missing a ‘Philip’ only they had met.

Philip ran to see the Fat Controller. Surely he would be able to do something! But when Philip entered the Big Station, all he saw with Sir Topham Hatt shaking his head as he poured over a spreadsheet.

“And he was doing so well the last six months,” the Fat Controller sighed. “I’d hoped Philip was finally being really useful – perhaps I was too hasty.”

Philip hid in the carriage siding, his mind whirling. None of his friends wanted him. His owner preferred a different version of him. They spoke of a him that had existed when he was lost as if he was better, more reliable. More useful.

The Fat Controller wasn’t sure if he was really useful or not.

Philip went to the yard foreman the next morning, before any of the other engines awoke. He was in tears, barely able to speak around the painful lump in his throat. He was transferred that same day, grabbing some empty trucks and vanishing out of the yards.

Philip would end up working in the diesel yards at the far end of the line, where Douglas had found Oliver so many years ago. The diesels here just snarled and growled at him every time he tried to introduce himself, snapping orders and glaring at Philip until he completed them. In time, a different engine passed by, heading for Sodor. He looked like a truly ancient steam engine, his paint rough but showing signs of recently being touched up. He had a stern look on his face, though it lightened some as he vanished out the other end of the yard.

Philip had been entirely replaced now; his friends and his controller had even bought a new engine to take over from him, to finally give the Big Station the care and attention Philip hadn’t had the capability to give before.

He gave his new yard far too much attention, scuttling between rusting hulks, constantly forced to keep his cab down and moving. If he even considered trying any of the many fun activities he’d enjoyed back at the Big Station, he was verbally ripped to shreds, the other diesels sneering and rolling their eyes whenever they caught sight of him.

Philip should have stayed in that infinite woodland, chasing butterflies and enjoying his life. Why had he ever left? 

Philip cried himself to sleep, and never stopped sobbing.

Back to the Master List

[luna-azzurra]

Twist Prompts

Reveal that a character thought to be dead is actually alive.

Have a seemingly minor character turn out to be the main villain.

Unveil a hidden talent or ability in your protagonist.

Introduce a plot twist where the enemy becomes an ally.

Have your protagonist discover they’ve been manipulated by someone they trust.

Reveal that a significant event was a dream or illusion.

Have a character switch sides unexpectedly.

Introduce a shocking family secret that changes everything.

Reveal that the protagonist’s memories have been altered or erased.

Have your protagonist realize they’ve been pursuing the wrong goal all along.

[rae-butter]

Honestly, I love it when characters relapse. When someone who’s gotten over their anger issues falls into a situation so out of their depth they fall back on their old habits. When someone who’s learned to open up becomes a recluse again in order to cope with something outside their control.

There’s just something so horrible, so toxic, about watching a character grow and then slip back into their old selves in order to cope, bc you know they still care, that they’re the same inside, but watching them hurt so hard they don’t know what else to do brings a sense of catharsis.

[medusas-graveyard]

Can I have like,, an au where Danny & Damian knew each other while they were tiny kids (whether or not they're brothers or if Danny was like. A kid from one of Raa's servants) where, while Damian is now a better version of himself, Danny has fallen from grace.

Picture; Danny that isn't as op but concerningly smart????? Mad scientist Danny? Mad scientist Danny. Who've been betrayed for too long so now he just... Snaps.

(TW: IMPLIED SUICIDE. CONTINUE WITH CAUTION.)

Gone was the scared teenager that went through loss after loss, after loss. The teenager that was betrayed by the people he served and the 'parents' that took him in, the boy who lost everything. Now, as he stood beside his creation— the one who will end the world itself, Danny is eerily calm, as he looked at Damian that stood across him with a gentle, soft smile. There's acceptance in that smile of his; and he couldn't help but reel on how they both can still change.

But Danny—the sweet, sweet boy that he once knew, simply chuckled and shook his head.

"And this world is merely a dot in the vast universe. Then, our souls will wonder about the vast stars, isn't it beautiful?"

"Bshoufak, Dami." He smiles, "when Time will inevitably reconstruct this universe to a new one, and taking us with it—"

"—I hope, fate will be kinder to the both of us."

[jump-in-the-whump]

Imagine a heavily injured whumpee, they breathe heavily and can hardly stand or even talk. Their trembling hands can barely apply pressure on the wound, and because of this they are almost completely covered in blood, which doesn't stop from flowing freely.

Then imagine the caretaker approaching them, desperate and out of breath. They repeatedly ask whumpee how they feel, how they can help them, as they extend their hands towards whumpee.

But then whumpee retreats.

For fear?

Anger?

Embarrassment?

Pride?

It's up to you, but whatever it is, this scenario annihilates me every single time

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Types of Plot Twists

7 Types of Plot Twists

Anagnorisis

Means "discovery."

This type of plot twist is when the protagonist suddenly recognizes something about his or herself or another character.

Deus ex machina

Latin for "God out of the machine,"

Deus ex machina means the introduction of an unexpected event or person that solves the problem.

Because it's artificial, it's rarely used in modern fiction.

False protagonist

The main character is not the true main character.

He or she is killed off early or unexpectedly.

Peripeteia

Means a reversal of fortune, typically from good to bad.

The opposite of peripeteia is eucatastrophe, where things elevate from bad (very bad) to good.

Poetic justice

Occurs when a character is rewarded (or punished) for their actions.

Poetic justice is often used to deliver sweet payback to a villain.

Red herring

The red herring plot twist is all about misdirection.

The reader is following a false direction but doesn't realize it until it's revealed.

Unreliable narrator

The unreliable narrator is someone who seems believable and trustworthy at first, but after a startling revelation, is revealed to be untruthful.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Maddy watched her son as he chatted with his friends at the kitchen table, homework and after school snacked were scattered across its surface as Danny told his friends all about his new crush.

And that was exactly what it was. She recognized those soft pleading puppy dog eyes, those dreamy sighs and of course the way that Sam girl was bending the cutlery in her grip as she gritted her teeth.

If she hadn't tested her multiple times she would have thought Sam was a ghost! Now there's a funny thought! A ghost! Under thier noses the entire time! She could have laughed!

Bringing this up with Jack made him have the same conclusion as her. They needed to go to Gotham to capture this Red Robin boy and make sure he wasn't an evil ghost in disguise and if he isn't then they needed to give him a good shovel talk anyway. This was the baby of thier family after all. Thier little angel was the sweetest, most innocent child on the planet and they wouldn't let anyone hurt him!

Meanwhile Danny is whispering to his friends about how he had reanimated like 800 hot dogs and set them loose in Vlads business tower when Bruce Wayne was supposed to be visiting. They had little guns, swords, battle flags and everything

Maddie later realizes the Robin of the less red variety was also her sons "type" and tries to capture him too. She also considers putting her son in therapy cause she's noticing some unhealthy trends in his choice of significant others...

Later Danny calls the police station and asks to speak to batman. When asked why he confessed he wanted to ask if they could free his parents and that thier godfather was a supervillian who was weirdly obsessed with Danny and his mom and has been abusive in the past.

The bats didn't even get a chance to make a joke before the bat adoption papers were out.

[petit-etoile]

Oh oh I have an AU I haven't had the chance to write anything for. It's pre-vampirism magistrate Astarion and criminal tav who is incredibly well-versed in law. They keep committing crimes and getting caught in purpose just to see Astarion who fucking hates their guts because he can't ever convict them of anything bc they find loopholes and somehow manage to evade the law. It's an "at each other's throats" kinda romance and they kiss with teeth between cases

darling,  if  you  love  me  say  it  back

pairing  .  ⊱   astarion x tav wordcount  .  ⊱   3,604 content warnings  .  ⊱  canon compliant temporary character death,  tav isn't a human but can be whatever else you like,  astarion isn't a vampire yet,   tav is gender neutral other tags  .  ⊱   canon compliant,  canon temporary character death,  introspection,  p.orn without plot,  oral s/ex,  desk s.ex,  inappropriate use of a cravat,  c.reampie archiveofourown  .  ⊱   here.

taglist  .  ⊱  @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia,  @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added  .  ⊱   here .

summary  .  ⊱   The Magistrate Judge Astarion Ancunin has a soft spot for you. You like to exploit that fact.

‘I need to see you in my office,’ Astarion hisses  —  and the tips of his ears are so red you think they might catch flame. He grabs you by the elbow roughly and tugs. ‘Now.’

‘Let’s do it, baby,’ you say smugly. ‘I know the law.’

Knowing the law might be an overstatement. You have studied the law for only one purpose, and that purpose you know like the back of your hand. So when Astarion presses you, you don’t argue. You do as the magistrate says and allow yourself to be dragged across the court. He admonishes you like one would get onto a dog who misbehaves. You can’t help but laugh.

It isn’t like Astarion isn’t a super serious magistrate with a focus on criminal prosecution. He wants to nail you for your sins, for your crimes. The only catch is that no matter how amazing Astarion is at his job, you’re simply better. If you’ve stolen something, you’re more than capable of hiding the evidence. If you’ve murdered someone, you know all the best ways to hide a body. It comes naturally.

Astarion is wearing that ever familiar frown as he marches through the elegant halls. It’s a frown that says you’re in trouble and there’s nothing that I can do. But that isn’t necessarily true. Astarion will do anything you ask so long as you ask nicely, and you’ve been getting good at asking nicely lately. He prides himself in training you even if it isn’t that simple. He calls it rehabilitation. You call it sex.

‘You can’t keep doing this, you know,’ Astarion snaps at you. ‘At some point you must give it up!’

He isn’t good at whispering when he’s riled up. He runs his free hand through his curls in anger, pushing them away from his face like his bangs being wild make it hard to think. It makes him more attractive.

‘You don’t mean that,’ you say with a shrug.

‘I do,’ he says, ‘very much mean that.’

You grin. ‘You would miss me,’ you tell him lasciviously, and he groans. ‘I know you would.’

He huffs. ‘The only thing that I would miss is the peace after the headache you’ve given me. It’s as though you aren’t even aware of how vexing you are.’

You laugh, and the fine line of Astarion’s temper snaps. He all but throws you in his office and locks it behind him. He’s annoyed with the way you stagger dramatically to one of the velvet couches before his desk. You lean over the arm and kick your feet up.

‘Does the idea of cuffs around my wrists excite you?’

You look over your shoulder. Astarion clenches his jaw. It must hurt to frown as hard as he is. You pull yourself onto the cushions and sit demurely. You study him. His rigid lines, tense gaze. He comes and sits on the edge of his desk, pressing his forehead into his hands as if that will relieve him of his headache. You’re determined to make it worse.

‘I apologize,’ you say sweetly. ‘I’ll behave from now on.’

‘We both know that you are not capable of behaving,’ Astarion says thinly.

He shouldn’t have said that. You can’t help yourself, but most of the time, Astarion makes it so easy for you to dig into his weaknesses and exploit them. You stare at him with wide, innocent eyes.

‘You should teach me,’ you suggest.

Astarion’s patience snaps. ‘I beg your pardon? Have some decorum, please!’

‘Having decorum is so boring,’ you say, pouting. ‘Life is much more fun when you live freely.’

‘And committing crimes is your definition of living freely?’

‘What is the point of living if not to live?’ you ask. ‘Why confine myself to rules of good or bad when I can choose what makes me happy.’

‘What exactly makes a criminal like you happy?’ Astarion asks bitterly.

You’ve always been possessed by a sense of otherness. You rise from the couch and carefully twist your fingers in his cravat, tangling yourself in him as he has become entangled in you. The Silverymoon lace tickles your skin. You pull Astarion closer and he begrudgingly caves to your strength. Your lips barely brush against his and already you can sense it. The barely contained restraint. The hunger. Astarion longs for you. He’s carefully hidden it beneath the scent of bergamot.

Slowly, you slide him free of what pressures him most. The cravat slides from his neck easily. It excites Astarion. His eyes glitter like you’ve never seen before. Being a magistrate isn’t about caring about the laws he’s vowed to uphold. It’s about power. You give it to him. You hold your wrists together with a wicked grin.

You balance the fabric on your fingers. Astarion swallows. Being proper isn’t really his thing. It’s thrilling to watch as he changes his mind. You annoy him  —  he detests you, wishes you gone. You are the object of all his improper late night dreams.

But as if he’s moving through water, he takes his cravat from your hands. You almost think it’s going to be a rejection. Astarion bundles your wrists together with an expertise that suggests he’s done it before. The binding becomes tight but not too tight and you relish in the way it twists your wrists. He fastens the knot into a pretty bow.

And then he kisses you. He grabs you so roughly by the back of the neck that your teeth slam together, but Astarion sighs so prettily against your mouth you decide you could withstand anything.

It’s a passionate kiss made up of teeth and spit and tongue. Astarion is both pushing you and pulling you. He can’t make up his mind. Does he want you and the stain you’ll bring to his reputation? A magistrate with a weakness for a criminal is such an interesting dynamic, but Astarion is a proud man. You are almost certain he would throw you into harm’s way if a situation ever occurred that deemed it necessary. You would do the same given the chance. This is simply a tryst.

You like to pretend it is, at least. You hate coming across as a romantic. You chase a freedom so exquisite no one will ever understand it, but when Astarion pushes you towards the couch, you don’t complain. You fall across the cushions with ease and catch him as he falls between your thighs.

‘You,’ Astarion accuses hotly, ‘are an irrevocable annoyance I may never be cured of.’

‘You are so very frank in all the ways you despise me,’ you say, moaning softly as he kisses your neck. ‘I think you’re capable of being freed after all.’

‘I am glad to see you are finally aware that it is hate that drives me,’ Astarion murmurs thickly. ‘It repulses me that you think you could possibly be endearing.’

You laugh and Astarion sucks a bruise into your collarbone. He’ll pretend to be aloof and noncommittal to your very presence, but he’s invested. You can feel the weight of his pleasure against your thighs even as he denies his feelings for you. Astarion doesn’t bother with your shirt or his own. He clings to your waist as he finds the lace of your breeches and tugs you free.

Astarion pushes his hand inside of your smallclothes and touches your flushed skin, spreading his fingers so that he can touch every inch your body has to offer. The fervor of the motion is what causes you to gasp. He’s a man on a mission, and he touches you at your core so adoringly it makes the bite of his words all but disappear. He fondles you like he’s never touched your skin before. Your gasp turns to a sultry whine, and he bites your neck like a punishment. You almost think he’s going to admonish you, that he’ll say your silence is worth more. He doesn’t. If anything, the echo of your voice spurns him to go further.

Astarion presses two fingers inside of you and the laughter dies in your chest. He’s trying to rearrange you through a perverse method. If he fucks you good enough, crime’s appeal will turn to dust within your mind. It makes you wonder what it would be like to dote on a magistrate. Would it be enough? Could it be enough? Sinning feels just as sweet.

He curls his fingers against your core and your back arches prettily off the velvet cushions. You bite your bottom lip and try to quell the pining, but then you catch a glimpse of him from beneath your eyelashes. Astarion is watching your every move. His lips are parted. His pupils are dilated. His cheeks have colored at the sound of your voice. He is torn between watching your face for your reactions and glancing down at his hand underneath your breeches. You meet his gaze bravely, chin lifting, and smile.

He adds another just to watch you struggle. The angle, the curve of his wrist, and the situation are enough to make your thighs squeeze together, but Astarion doesn’t let you. He roughly throws himself between your legs so that you can’t, and it’s hot, too hot that you cry weakly. He grins at the sound like he always does, like he always will. It’s his victory this evening. 

But as quickly as Astarion deigned to touch you, he releases you. He stands up and drags you by the wrists, turning his cheek the other way when you try to taste his skin.

‘The prosecutor is ineffectual  —  ’

You snort without meaning to, and Astarion digs his fingers into the swell of your hip. You allow him to maneuver you, bending at the waist while he presses you forward, chest against the chilled wood of his desk. You have to rise on your toes to stand comfortably.

‘Is that what you’re thinking about?’ you ask breathlessly.

‘I’m thinking about the necessary reform,’ Astarion snaps.

You press your cheek into the wood and stare at his door. The prosecutor, the defense. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Astarion is the only one who cares. You’re somewhat glad he does. It means he’s taken your case to interest, and when he presses himself to your lower back, you’re excited. He shoves your breeches to your ankles.

‘Are you going to take me here?’ you murmur. ‘On your desk. Where is your propriety?’

‘You dare speak to me of decency?’ Astarion snorts.

‘The weight of my sins will be forever embedded on your desk,’ you say. ‘You flatter me, your honor.’

‘Do you ever stop talking?’ Astarion asks. You can hear his patience snapping.

‘Well, you’re just so boring,’ you say, laughing. ‘Why don’t you do something that  —  ’

Astarion kneels down behind you and shoves his way between your legs. You shiver when he presses his lips against your core. He mouths at you hungrily. He grunts low in the back of his throat and digs his nails into your thighs. It steals your breath away. He’s so determined to change the very essence of your being that his tongue and mouth searching where his fingers first were makes you go weak in the knees. You whine.

You press your fingers into the dark, rich mahogany of his desk and try to keep focus. You want to taunt him. You want to tease him, but that wanton desire is almost forgotten entirely by the way Astarion feasts upon your flesh. He parts you with his thumbs and groans against your skin and you almost forget who you are. This is what he wanted. He wanted to pull your desires from you and replace them with his own.

You let him. He works you up as easily as anyone can be worked up, his fingers and his mouth exploring every inch of your skin that’s exposed. He goes to slide a finger in curiously, but you twist your hips away. Astarion is all work and no play. He will tease you relentlessly as it suits him, and he will do what interests him. You interest him more than he’s willing to confess. That’s why he works so hard for your pleasure.

When he’s done with you, he kisses the base of your spine soothingly. Your legs tremble beneath you. Astarion smooths his hand across your hip. You glance at him.

‘Perhaps I can fuck some sense into you now,’ Astarion mumbles.

He has the audacity to sound inquisitive. It’s not like it’s possible, but he seems determined enough to try it out regardless of his intuition. His hands are warm against your skin, and the excitement only builds in the pit of your stomach as you feel Astarion’s skin touch yours. You hear his clothes rustle and his breath catch in his throat. You hide a smile against your arm.

When Astarion slides into your core, it’s like a possession. The breath steals from your lungs. His touch is a familiar constant  —  you would recognize him anywhere by scent alone. You cry weakly. Your toes crunch from the angle, but there’s nothing you want more at this moment than to learn to be good.

Astarion hums behind you as well, his fingers digging into your hips as he tries to steady himself. The desk crunches uncomfortably against your belly but it’s a welcome pain. It keeps you focused. You still have the energy to wiggle back against him as his cock slowly pushes in until there is no more room left to explore.

‘Be good,’ he whispers, ‘and I will give you what you deserve.’

What do you deserve exactly?

It’s hard to say. You enjoy your life of crime almost as much as you love the way Astarion bends you over his desk. You’re good at stealing, you’re good at killing, but you’re good at being soft and pliant as well, giving in to that sentimentality that keeps you coming back from more.

At first it was an elaborate game. What could you do to ensure that Magistrate Judge Astarion Ancunin looked your way? He was a noble elf, and your hands were covered in fresh dough from the baker you stole from. There was a curious glint in his eyes when he looked over you, yet somehow the gods had deemed the yeast and honey on your fingers was not honest enough to be proof.

You are smitten. You bounce taller on your toes with every aggressive thrust, arms struggling to support your weight. Astarion fists his fingers into your hair and pulls until your throat is exposed. He wants you to sing for him, so you do. You arch your back and moan loudly. The sounds of it bounce around his little office.

‘You wouldn’t shut up before,’ Astarion says breathlessly, a hoarse laugh.

‘Do something  —  worth talking about  —  ’

Astarions laughs incredulously, but he does fuck you harder for it. He releases your hair without much flourish and focuses on dragging your hips back onto his cock, punching forward so hard you see stars. It’s wonderful, it’s powerful. If Astarion’s entire goal was to make you forsake the world, he’s done a good job of turning your life around. The cravat rubs against your wrists as you try to seek purchase on the desk. Your fingers drag across the polished wood, and you shudder as you clench down around his cock.

You sound so breathless and silly, groaning while he fucks you against his desk. He fills you full until you’re certain you can take no more. You press a hot cheek against the wood and try to catch your breath. You hook a foot around his ankle for support, twisting on his desk. You tuck your arms beneath your chest. You feel as though you’re coming undone. All your years of villainy, and it comes undone by the consistency of Astarion’s presence.

Your arms are stiff from constantly being up, but you’re almost grateful when Astarion pauses. He helps you turn on top of his desk so you’re on your back instead, and even though the edge digs into your lower back, you prefer that to anything else.

You meet Astarion’s gaze. He tells you he hates you, that he wishes you were out of his hair, that he despises you, but the gentleness of his eyes tells you otherwise. He slides back into you with a small moan, and you wrap your legs around his hips to guide him in further.

‘It’s good,’ you gasp. ‘It’s good, you’re good  —  ’

Astarion doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. You can see it clear as day in his eyes. Astarion won’t say he loves you, that in his ardent fervor he seeks you out, but he knows that you know. Why else would fate lead you back together? You reach for his face with your hands, and his eyes flutter closed to avoid the wistfulness. He leans into your touch.

You cry softly as Astarion begins to grind into you again. He helps carry you as he does so. And it feels so good, feels so overwhelming that you briefly consider the fact that he has changed you for the better.

A spirit that slides into your very marrow. Astarion is hauntingly beautiful, and if he is a spider then you are a fly tangled in his web. He calls you a pretty thing and you give into the struggle. You press your wrists against your forehead and strain against his cock, unable to hide from the waves of crashing pleasure.

Astarion finishes inside of you with a low moan. He presses a rough hand against your belly to stabilize himself, and shyly, you touch his wrist with your bound hands just to feel his pulse. As soon as he’s caught his breath, he releases you from your bonds.

You almost miss him when he pulls away from you. He uses one of his hanging cassocks to clean himself with and is kind enough to do the same for you. You’re almost certain that your legs won’t work, so you sit up on his desk to rest and damn his paperwork to the hells. You kick off your breeches from around your ankles and sit, legs crossed, while Astarion tries to fix his reflection in the mirror.

‘You are truly an astute teacher,’ you say casually. ‘The art of lockpicking is all but gone from my mind. Thank you, your honor.’

Astarion snorts and shakes his head, torn between ignoring you and giving into your wiles. He curls his hair back into place and then walks back to you, leaning forward until you’re nose to nose.

You think he won’t kiss you, but then he does. His lips taste like summer oranges and you taste him until it’s the only thing you can think of. He hugs you tenderly. It isn’t the same as when he admonishes you. It makes your chest feel warm. You almost feel weaker for it. Your bite is being taken away.

‘I can’t keep protecting you,’ Astarion says softly against your cheek. ‘You torment me day and night. When I lie down in my sheets, I find myself consumed with worry.’

‘You think about me?’ you tease. ‘In your sprawling manse?’

‘Move in with me,’ he murmurs. ‘Then you can be inferior yet vain inside my sprawling manse.’

Astarion is not there that evening. You try to wait as long as you can without seeming suspicious. There are maids, family members, and their admirers who come inside and out throughout the evening  —  but not Astarion, never Astarion. You wait until the sun sets and fireflies light up the streets of the Upper City but eventually, the malaise of abandonment guides your feet away. You walk the streets aimlessly until a shiver runs down your spine. A chill so violent turns you away from the courthouse.

But in the morning, there’s a fuss. It draws you back into where you left and you can’t help but to lose yourself. Astarion is dead. His mother sobs. The members of the city watch who bear the bad news look equally as morose. Astarin’s father nearly falls to his knees in despair.

When you break into their manse that evening, you look for one thing. You steal a cravat from his wardrobe and tie it around your neck.

Then, you leave Baldur’s Gate.

You aren’t sure where your feet are going to take you.

Part of your yearns for the Underdark. Baldur’s Gate is a cursed city, you decide. You wander back to it after two hundred years of avoiding it like the plague, and not an hour within the city are you spirited away on an adventure you never longed for.

You have changed. You can’t really remember who you were all those years ago, or the hopefulness you might have felt in your chest once. You’re different now. A folk hero. You used to steal from the rich and give to the poor before the mindflayers fed you their parasite and stole that part of you. But you aren’t alone this time. You wander the beach for hours searching for anything that can be of use and pause over a love letter that makes you sob.

It isn’t all bad. You meet a half-elf who scowls as much as she mumbles to herself.

On the other side of the beach, you meet a ghost.

His eyes are different from what you remember. The warmth he once looked upon you with is gone and replaced by unfamiliar sanguine.

[crustyfloor]

Luka is very good at keeping himself composed on stage, mostly with the help of maintaining track of his heart rate, but during Mizi's attack in ROMH he seemed to slip up, not only was the red background a tell-tale sign of Mizi's violent intentions but it was a more symbolic way of showing Luka in quite visceral fear. Even if for only a second.

I'm not convinced Luka will be as continuously calculated as he normally comes off, it all seems too fake to me. Because it is. It’s a similar case to Ivan who can't feel, isn't normal, isn't human enough so he makes a persona to blend in. So Luka, whoever he is, makes this version of himself to cope with what he has to live through, pretending like he's on top of it all to survive in this world.

So in round 7, I think something drastic will happen to make him 'snap' in a way.

It's safe to say that we don't know Luka. We don't know who he really is. We don't know his real desires. But we do know one thing--he is scared. he is afraid of the aliens. That's why he appeases them--being their trophy. He's only kept around for his purpose as an entertainer and nothing else and he's very aware of that. He knows very well that a dented trophy will be discarded; with that mindset, he's been able to get so far, and he's scared of losing. That's why he holds any little thing he can get his hands on close. And an important extension of that fear is his fear of losing power.

Till should be the more likely in this position, given he's such a rebel. But isn't that just too predictable? Keep in mind, that Till is a strong person. Even after all he's been through, even after he's been beaten into something more manageable for the aliens--He still hasn't lost his spark. Till is a raging storm. subdued but nonetheless a force to be reckoned with.

Round 6's effect on Till is greatly ambiguous for now but at this point when the time for round 7 comes, Till has been put through so much hell. Whatever Luka does to provoke him probably won't work, he and Luka are equally talented individuals and will make for an intense battle, and at the end of the day, the numbers won't lie. Exactly that is what Luka is ready for but scared of--a worthy opponent for the throne. Someone capable of stripping him of his power. (Is fear what makes Luka so dismissive?)

It would be so aggravating that this 'pest'. who is so indignant, so rebellious (in a way Luka envies.), could so easily destroy everything Luka has worked for, disregard every pain Luka has been through to get to this point, and Till doesn't value this throne as much as Luka does, and Luka doesn't want to feel the pain of death anymore. If his facade is as destructible as I think it is, that will be what ultimately brings out Luka.

This idea may be flawed. Luka is so perfect, too perfect and confident and experienced for something as little as that to break him, just think of all the training Luka went through to get to this point. I'm positive he's very aware of what playing unfairly will lead to. But isn't there always room for a wild card?

Just remember what happened to Hyun-woo.

What happened here isn't fully explained (and probably will be in round 7) but imagine Luka: "Trophy child, goody two shoes" Luka possibly killing another human. Whether by accident or not, what happened?--what and how did Luka feel in the moment for the repercussions of whatever happened to be that bad?

A Luka that is secretly greatly insecure, pliable, and defensive enough that in a spur of emotions, he can’t help but lose his cool in a way he hasn’t in a while because he’s afraid—just to try and prove he is still valuable. That is the type of character I theorize we'll come to see in round 7.

[mo-ok]

tokucember day 16 plot twist

sara and lou are back in the running

[blissfullyunawares]

my chaotic personal method for writing fun fictional stories

D&D style development for the characters, writing them down and letting them make their own choices for believable character motive and a chaos element.

World building should be fun and rough around the edges. Only explain the necessary bits. Never info dump.

Plot and story ideas written down and expanded until they connect plot points like a mad mind map that connects to one another in a 100 different ways

A running theme to connect your novels and stories. This helps keep the readers interest so they feel drawn to the next book like it’s a puzzle piece or clue

Different tropes & themes for all stories with a good mix of tragedy, romance, suspense, fun, humor, and adventure. Don’t let it get boring and stale! Keep moving through time, space, and human emotion.

No idea what to do next? Roll a die and let the character decide how to respond. 🎲

Plot holes? My favorite sweater has them and your book should to! Answer all questions later in the series, but leave a few to the readers imagination. Some things should be explored and discussed independently. What would they do? Is that really how that character would behave? Let them draw their own conclusions.

Don’t let your audience have all the juicy details in the first book. Make them question your delicately crafted reality and give them something to remind them.

Like every time they hear “biscuits and gravy” they think of your character Elizabeth that runs the inn and always has spectacular biscuits and gravy. Some biscuits and gravy are worth killing over. Real world meets fictional universe and gives the reader something to grasp.

Over all, remember, you’re creating something fun, and it should be fun to create.

Give readers something (or someone) to believe in. Then, break their hearts if you must.

☕️

If you enjoyed this post, please follow along! I’ll be sharing fun dialogue prompts, updates, and snippets of story ideas with my tumblr friends exclusively!

⚡️ email club coming soon ⚡️

Xx Until Next Time!

[nanadreamscape]

Thanks for being so mean to me. Looks like I’ve just found the perfect plot for my villain backstory.

[hulloitsdani]

DAY 9: HALLOWEEN!!! HELL YEAH!!!

Someone really has to take these ruffles away from me.

Vampire Kiran, what else can I say! Drawing teeth is fun! Found this pose on Pinterest and decided to keep it simple after the brave alt. I wanted to lean away from a more typical Dracula type, both to avoid similarities to the bridal alt and Henry's Halloween alt. So I landed on a more "blood on the white cravat" type beat. Is going a little feral. As a treat. Might be preparing to claw your eyes out or give you a really big hug who knows.

[rae-butter]

before you do a plot twist, ask yourself if it’s for shock factor or genuine consequences. You’re welcome.

[jump-in-the-whump]

Their breathing came in shallow wheezes, while the relentless fever consumed their body, as the chills, alternating with hot flashes, coursed through him. 

With their eyes closed, they could feel even more the sheets uncomfortably clinging to their sweat-soaked body, but they didn’t dare to make a move as every muscle in their body ached.

Their consciousness ebbed and flowed like the tide, but they tried to concentrate on the surrounding sounds: the soft rustling of fabrics, the occasional clink of medical instruments, and the soft hum of a whispered voice. 

“Hey… It’s me, Caretaker… You’re in a bad state, hm? Don’t worry, it’s gonna be alright now.”

It was Caretaker, thank god. They felt a subtle reassurance, a calmness spreading through them as unseen hands moved with practiced care, placing a cool cloth on their fevered brow offering brief relief from the oppressive warmth. 

But there was one thing that didn’t sit right with them. As the Caretaker kept on talking, they resonated through the fog of their fevered mind. And then it clicked. 

That wasn’t Caretaker’s voice.

[write-it-motherfuckers]

Person A: “Hey, are you and (Person B) related by any chance?”

Person C: “What? No! What the fuck made you think that?”

Person A: “Just noticed a uh... uncanny resemblance, that’s all.”

Person C: “...I feel like I should be offended.”