#working through writers block

[cauldron-of-oddities]

"okay ummmm ideas

I have some angst

what if you have Jinx stalking Ekko and he thinks it's like because Silco told her to but it's because she killed one of his friends and feels guilty about it and, even if she can't admit it to herself, wants to make sure he's okay"

How dare you make me cry while writing 😭 @letters-to-rosie

So, angst practice it was.

The Way of Things 

It was the way of things - death. You got in the way of a bullet, a bomb, a spear, a bat, a knife, you'd be gone just like that. And it struck one of Ekko's.

The bomb went off right by the ally, the shockwave larger than expected or exactly as made. It was meant to do damage. It knocks some poor sod into a wall.

The blast rings in her ears, success! And then the crack of bone and a dull thud. A ragdoll falling to the floor and the shadow of deep red.

“It's the way of things. It's the way of things.” Silco's voice is cool and calming in her head. 

At least it seemed quick.

Shouts fill the air, some sound torn, others growling. The firelights scatter in the wake. Green lights vanish into the dark streets between the ramshackle houses. To regroup likely, to buzz around again. It's the way of things.

The delivery and the crates of shimmer trades from calloused scarred hands to sickly sticky hands. (She can't say Silco's associates are pleasant.) It's the way of things.

The office is dimly lit, a swirl of smoke from a recently snuffed cigar curling in the air. “Well done.”  It sounds deep, pleased, and praising. Silco affirms her, and it should sooth her. She did good, right? So why does it feel wrong? 

Out again in the hallway, the image of fading glow on the tip of the cigar changes to the retreating lights of the Firelights, and then she's there again. One shout echoed in her mind. A cracking “No!” The image of an owl masks and a bilowing green coat swooping down a hair's breadth too late and the smell of gunpowder in her nose. 

That's not the way of things. He and his have always somehow gotten away. 

She bites her lip, a pit forming in her stomach. The hallway seems too empty, the wrong place to be. Boy Saviour hadn't been in the right place either. She tastes metal on her tongue and sees the red stain again. She rocks from her heels to her toes and back agitation and guilt eating her and finally lets the thought through: Is Ekko alright? 

It won't help to stay here, so she makes her way back. To the roof above the croner of the alley and the eerie quiet street. Weren't there old legends about crossroads being the place of ghosts? She shudders and hears a sob. 

From above, hidden in the shadows, she sees him. His shoulders are slumped, a broken hoverboard on his lap, his own at his back. She moves a bit closer. There's just enough light to reflect off a tear, to see gloved hands clench around crushed metal and the scorch on the ground. 

Stupid Boy Saviour, doesn't he realise he's a sitting duck out here? Silently, she keeps vigil over him. Until his tears dry up, and he stills entirely. 

This is not the way of things. Ekko is bright, not hunched, withdrawn, and resigned. She wants to go to him, she can't go to him. Who would want the comfort of the monster that did this?

Her own eyes sting, and she fails to swallow the sob that escapes her. She slips down to the alley and hunches down between abandoned crates, closer but hidden.

It's the way of things: That she stays in the shadows. She wants to say something, but her voice is stuck in her throat. What would she say anyway. Another small sob escapes her. She's cursed, damned to hurt. A small move and a board by the crates clatters to the  ground, and Ekko's looking right at her.  

He is standing, tense, and snarling.

“Did Silco send you?” He spits. “To be done with the pesky firelights? Because we won't stop. You can't keep hurting people like this!” 

Jinx is frozen, and no words come. Yet something warm blooms in her. There's his fire. It's comforting to witness after his stillness. He's the one light she can't snuff, wants to keep alive, now and in her memory. 

“Well?” He snaps at her. What can she say? His gaze has her trapped, she licks and bites her lip, and the cut cracks open again. 

“Just go, be safe.” A hoarse whisper leaves her. She means: Stay away from Silco, stay away from me, please don't put yourself on my path again. 

“You know I can't do that.” Ekko says shaking his head, she doesn't reply. He looks at her again, tilts his head, and takes a step closer. His hand stretches out to her, and she steps back further into the shadows and looks away. 

Eventually, she hears a huff and whizz of a hoverboard. Jinx wants to follow the fading light, moving further and further away from her so very desperately.  

He's gone. It's for the best, it's the way of things. 

She moves dazed to his spot, hoping something of him lingers. Her arms wrap around herself, nails digging into the bare flesh of her upper arms, desperate for anything to ground herself, needing to hold something. All she has is the ghost of him. 

It's lonely here, too dark, too quiet. It wasn't a good place to die. It wasn't a good place to grieve. 

The empty metal and brick wall of the alley  beacons. She'll remember this death and she'll give the one apology she could. For Ekko. Digging in her pockets for her crayons. Before long, she covers the wall in bright green firelights. They're pretty, she thinks, guiding lights for the departed.

“Be free.” She scrawls amongst the glowing wings, isn't that, after all, what they all wanted?   

It’s the way of things. 

[andersonfilms]

firefighter!abby who comes in every sunday morning to your floral shop, tucked in a tiny corner downtown. you’re usually tucked away in the back, doing floral arrangements, calculating your inventory, organizing new shipments, or just avoiding others in general. an introverted nature is ingrained into your bones. so, dina takes over the front counter. she’s sweet, kind enough to engage in conversation. big brown eyes and welcoming smile always seeming to put the customer’s at ease, assessing their needs as they step foot in the door. 

firefighter!abby who comes in on the dot, half-past nine, right before her shift. her build, incredibly tone, clad in black cargos and her seattle fire department t-shirt tucked in. she greets dina with her blinding, pearly white smile. warming her up to the core as dina grabs the assortment that’s ordered every week. yellow roses, white lillies, and peach carnations make their way into the abby’s hands. she thanks dina, with the same somber look in her eyes before she exits with the same bouquet she always does. 

firefighter!abby who is out for the day, cup of coffee in her hand, ellie to her right telling her about the black-haired beauty she met at the local pub. swearing up and down there was a cute friend, supposedly, but it really just sounds like this is her only way in which her friend needs to enlist help from the hunky-blonde for assistance. 

“So, let me get this straight. You met this girl—” 

“Dina.” Abby pauses, blonde eyebrows quirk upwards. “Wait, does she work at a floral shop?” 

“Yes—” Ellie pauses, envy swirling in her emerald eyes immediately, “Fuck, Anderson, do not tell me you’ve fucked her!” 

Abby smirks, wanting to tease her spunky friend. “C’mon, are you fucking serious? No. Shit. Did you really fuck her?” Abby winks as she takes a sip of her black coffee, bicep flexing in the process. 

“Dude. How the hell am I supposed to compete with your greek god  fucking biceps?” Ellie lifts up the sleeve of her shirt, comparing her much smaller arms to Abby’s very toned and thick muscle. Even Abby’s veins are more prominent than hers. 

Abby giggles, “First off, you can’t but you don’t have to…this time. I just buy flowers from there and everyone kinda knows everyone. It’s Jackson.” 

“Oh, thank god. You had me worried there for a second. Jesus.” Ellie nudges her shoulder, picking at her naibeds anxiously. “So, will you come so you can meet her friend?” 

Abby thinks for a moment. How bad could it be? It’s just one night, right? 

firefighter!abby who comes to the flower shop on a saturday this time. the doorbell rings signaling her entrance, but she doesn’t find dina working the counter like she normally does. you’re someone new, someone she hasn’t seen before, someone beautiful. so much so, she feels as if her feet have been glued to the hardwood floors. dear god, she looks like a goddamn idiot. she’s thankful you’re helping someone as abby tries to break from her caulking spell. 

firefighter!abby who takes note of how attentive you are with the customers even if your body fidgets as you help them but then you smile, it makes her melt. anderson, get yourself together, you have a date tonight. it’s just one, incredibly beautiful girl. you’re fine. she’s fine. before her brain can make one more stupid thought, you’re walking up to her. 

You smell of lavender, it coats Abby’s senses as you make a beeline for her. It could be the shop or it could be you. She believes it’s you. 

“Afternoon, is there something I can help you with?” You ask, Abby reads the name tag on your chest and musters up somewhat of a coherent sentence. You start making the arrangement for her, it’s then she notices how familiar it is. 

It isn’t the flowers she typically chooses, the one she orders through the website of the shop, but the craftsmanship is identical. Down to the yellow ribbon to wrap it neatly, keeping the specially made bouquet in place. 

Abby’s blue eyes must light up with wonder because you smile, it's soft as it slips out of you, too quick for you to hide behind the wall you usually keep yourself within. 

“Um, you make all the arrangements here, right?” Anxiously, you dust your hands on the maroon apron tied around your waist. 

“Yeah, I would hope so. It’s my shop.” You’re not boastful about it, or snarky, it’s sweet. As if you’re proud and you should be. 

“Oh, sorry! I hope you don’t take it the wrong way. I just, um—” Speak blondie, you’re making a fool of yourself. “ I come here every week and have just never seen you before s’all. It’s nice to match the wonderful shop to the even prettier owner.” 

Abby wonders why she doesn’t ask for your number or even try to. She’s not exactly a stranger to beautiful women. When she knows what she wants, she’s like a dog with a bone. Never has she ever halted, or had someone stop her dead in her tracks without even trying. 

In her mind, she’s finding excuses. It’s the sun’s fault for letting the light hit your eyes perfectly, saturating the color even further. Or the way she obsesses over your curves, or the joy seeming to radiate every time you smile. 

It can’t be any of those little things. 

Abby fishes for the wallet in her jacket pocket, before handing you her card, you finalize the transaction before handing the silver card back to her. Calloused fingertips press against yours, much softer than Abby’s, but it excites the two of you. 

Not that either of you spoke a word of it. 

“You’re girlfriend’s a lucky girl. It’s a thoughtful gesture—” but your eyes build a fright in them, a horror that you can’t take back. “I’m sorry! Oh my god. I didn’t mean to just, fuck, assume you had a girlfriend or that you’re into girls. Jesus, I don’t know what came over me. God.” 

Abby bites down a smirk as you anxiously beat your nail on the countertop as if you ruined the interaction. Impatiently needing this to be over. 

“S’okay, really, you didn’t assume wrong.” Mischievous pools of blue look you up and down, pointed canines kissing her pink lips as they bite at the flesh. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend. Well—” Abby leans over placing her palm against yours, her fingertips linger on your skin, setting it ablaze. Releasing your grip of the bouquet and palming the wrapped flowers in her firm grasp.

“Not yet.” 

lmk what you think! hope you enjoyed it! ♡

[tightjeansjavi]

Some writers block tips that have worked for me that no one asked for

make a mood board 🖼️

I’m a firm believer that having visuals when you’re writing is a total game changer especially when you’re having a writers block

brainstorm/storyboard

My notes app is chalked full of random dialogue and notes for each of my fics! Whenever I got an idea and I’m on the go, I make a note of it

(You can also write down your thoughts and ideas in a notebook)

Take a walk

Stepping away from the laptop and taking a walk or even just sitting outside to clear your mind really helps!

This is when I almost always start to picture how I want a scene to play out in my head

Take a shower

my best dialogue happens in the shower and I don’t know why this happens, but it does 😆

Phone a friend or another writer

Sometimes it helps to just have another person whether that is a friend or a fellow writer help you organize your thoughts and ideas! Whenever I’m feeling stuck I have moots on speed dial to help me work out the kinks!

read! read! read!

Whether you’re reading your own fics, a book, etc, reading helps so much when I’m in a writing slump or block

Optional : smoke some ouid 🍃

Most important of all, WRITE! Even if it’s just a few words, or scrambled ideas, write it all down and come back to it later!

[runespoor7]

nothing ever did as much wrong to fight scenes than the writing advice that writers should only write short sentences focusing on the action because (supposedly) that drives home that it's a fast-paced exchange of actions.

and that's how you end with a list of actions that are drier and blander than a script and absolutely no sense of urgency, danger or physicality. Why do I care if the main character is kicked into the chest if the writer doesn't tell me that it cuts off their breath, that pain lances through their arm, that blood splashes across their face when they spear an enemy through, that the warm copper smell fills their nostrils?

[peskellence]

the third wheel sent by cyberlife. (loosely inspired by chapter 26 of my reed900 longfic More Than Our Parts, as well as this stupid reference photo I found on google images)

[unapologeticallytheworst]

Tony keeps trying to scare Peter off by telling him all the kinky shit he wants to do to him. This keeps having the opposite effect and driving Peter to unbearably horny. He has never really thought about about doing that kind of stuff, especially not with Mr. Stark, who he thought he would be lucky to get to sleep with once. But listening to what he wants to do to him, it all sounds so... thrilling? Exciting? Overwhelming? And everything Tony has done so far has been nothing less than fantastic.

(Tony is partially lying to himself about why he keeps doing it. He knows enough about how to read his partner's body language during sex to have felt out the shape of Peter's buttons. He knows that what he's saying is probably going to turn Peter into flushed mess that is literally begging for his cock, but this is his way of dancing on the line. He's not throwing the baby in the deep end, but he still gets to talk about it, think about it. And if he does scare the kid off, well that just solves the problem of how he's going to make himself stop. He won't have to, Peter will pull the plug on whatever it is that they're getting themselves into.)

[mikichko]

the idea of johnny lulling your friends into a false sense of security with his jokes and aloof demeanor has been rattling around my head.

just imagine it. you're all at some sort of gathering, johnny is charming all of your friends. helping with the set up, cooking, cleaning, riffing it up with the lads, everything's going great. until one of your stupid stupid friends has to open his mouth and ruin the moment.

it can be anything. a comment about how you're too naive or brushing off your comment and telling you that he didn't ask for your opinion. whatever it is, johnny doesn't take too kindly to it. some of the others tell him to knock it off but there's no heat behind it, they've gotten too used to how your "friend" treats you.

but not johnny, no. the smile just falls from johnny's face. fun, goofy, friendly johnny is gone. soap's coming in now. he's even standing at attention shoulders back, eyes focused on your friend as his hands grip the counter. now your friends understand what you meant when you had scary dog privilige.

seems like your dickhead friend does too if the way he tries to stutter through an apology is anything to go by.

idk just thinking of that johnny rn

[justfranzz]

Mirrors show only what is already there.

(Bloodied fists, drip drip drip-ing on the carpet.)

The mud by the beach tastes like home. Ask him how he knows.

(Home can be a house, and houses can be burned down.)

What belongs to you, but other people use it more than you do?

(Torn up knuckles; blood on the glass, glass in his skin. Equivalent exchange, he thinks.)

What's the use in having a reflection if there's no one there to see it?

(Eyes scratched out, mouth hanging agape, fists clenched and bloody at his sides.)

Time is a house, and houses can be burned down, and someone he shouldn't know has just formed an unlikely friendship with arson.

(He is not a person. He is only a reflection, an 8th grade art project, paper machê and glitter and smudged crayon.)

Immortality is to be remembered. He carries the immoralities of five strangers he knows better than himself, clutched tightly in his bloodied fists.

("What am I trying to say?" he tries to say, but seawater fills his throat and caresses his lungs.)

If this house is a home, it isn't a very good one.

(He wishes he could see anything past the blood on his hands and the scream in his chest and the little boy who wants more than anything for his dad to be proud of him.)

Riz Gukgak is looking in a mirror, and he's been the mirror all along, fingerprints buried in the glass.

(Maybe if he works a little harder, sleeps a little less, bleeds a little more, he can prove he's worthy. Of what, he doesn't know.)

Suffering is not noble. His fists will not heal, no matter how much ointment he puts on them.

(Red-soaked bandaids, piled in the kitchen garbage bin.)

If roses are red, he's growing a garden in his bathroom, dripping slowly onto the counter.

(He had never been good with plants. "Red thumb," his mom had called him. If only she could see him now.)

Riz Gukgak is a ball, and balls can only follow gravity.

(He sinks to the floor, glass digging through his jeans and biting into his knees.)

Maybe if he stays here forever, eternity will remember his name.

(What was his name again? Oh, right. Fingerprints on glass, the taste of ocean and mud. That's his name.)

A rose by any other name smells just as sweet, but all he can smell is the blood on his hands and the sharp sting of disappointment.

(It gathers in the back of his throat, bitter and grainy like the mud that tastes like home. He tries to swallow, but it grips his throat and holds him still.)

Riz Gukgak is someone, but he's not sure who.

(The name feels familiar on his tongue, but the blood is too slippery and the glass too sharp and the mud too thick. Names only matter to people who can keep them.)

He laughs, and it feels like home, just for a minute.

(Of course the mirror would shatter. Of course god is right here, reflected in the glass shards on the bathroom counter and the blood on the floor and the mud in his chest. He's known this all along. Hasn't he?)

He takes a deep breath in, dusty lungs creaking with strain. The air is heavy with all of the things he will never be able to say.

(All he tastes now is blood, and the certainty that something lies beyond the glass that taunts him. If only his fists would stop bleeding.)

Riz Gukgak is looking in a mirror, and he has been the mirror all along, and he will escape if it’s the last thing he does.

(Layer by layer, shard by shard, he will deconstruct the home he has built. Comfort is stagnation, and he has always hated being held in place.)

He decides to let his fists do the looking for him. He is so tired of the smell of blood.

(Slamming down, again and again and again until he knows his knuckles will never heal. He can’t tell who he wants to punish more, the glass or himself. Maybe they’ve been the same all along.)

Riz Gukgak is not looking in a mirror.

(He is home.)

(Based on O&T by @gilears because I still can't stop thinking about it)

[pastafossa]

How do you get past writer's block? I have a fic that I'm working on that is updating on a schedule, and I made the mistake of giving myself a month off in between parts and now I can't really get back into writing it. I don't want to leave it abandoned because I have a few people who I know are really invested and I don't want to leave them hanging, but I'm having a hard time getting as excited to write it as I did before.

Ok so I'm in a weird place for this, hilariously. Because The Answer That Usually Works For Me (TM) and that carried me through a regular weekly update schedule for almost two and a half years is, in fact, not at present working for me apparently my brain can write through a pandemic but not through recovery from the shit that went down in December/Jan so we found my writing kryptonite. However, I'm going to assume you're closer to 2021 Pasta than 2024 Pasta. SO LET'S GO WITH THE METHOD I NORMALLY USE SINCE IT WAS SUCCESSFUL FOR YEARS. Cause that's the thing: sure, I've written almost a million words, and pumped out chapters for years (ignoring the past few months) but I promise, I hit the same walls as everyone else even when nailing weekly uploads. But over those years, I came up with a fairly solid list of steps that I'd go through one by one.

Fun one first: when I'm in a block, I almost always try re-engaging with canon first. I'd rewatch my favorite episodes, binge a whole season, or even the whole series depending on how much of a boost I needed. For me at least that was often like Pavlov's bell, my favorite story triggering a flood of affection. I'd remember why I loved this fandom and the characters so much, and it could often kickstart my brain and excitement back into gear. If you really want to dangle a carrot and your fic touches on canon, focus on watching parts you're excited to get to in your story. A big one for me in TRT for example was the post-Nobu, Nelson v. Murdock episode, since I'd had that planned for TRT almost since the start, and I was very excited to reach the hurt/comfort I had planned. Even if your fic isn't following canon though, see if it'll give you a creative rush again!

So let's say step 1 doesn't work, either because the canon just isn't hitting the spot or because your fic is dealing with something else. In this case, my next step was usually to jump ahead to write a scene I was really eager to get to. It was often a short blurb, but it was always something I REALLY wanted to explore, and because I'm also a reader who likes exactly the tropes and plots I'm writing, I want to read what fucking happens. Except, fuck, I'm not there yet, am I? And I can't see how that scene finishes until I write my way up to it and finish it. This is my own carrot. Multiple scenes in TRT were written months or even years in advance, simply as a way to bribe myself. This is also an option!

But maybe this doesn't work. Sometimes it didn't. This is when it got a bit more serious. For anyone who was reading at the time, you'd have noticed that I'd sometimes drop side fics, either Matt POVs or one-shots. This was me, in essence, working on the shower principle (basically, ideas/solutions will come if you stop thinking about it and do something else, like take a shower). I figured if I went and wrote something else - either with less stress, or something fun and dopamine-inducing - the part of my brain focused on my Big Fic would wander around the writer's block beneath my notice. And it almost always worked, all while I still kept my brain trained that, hey, even if we're not writing This Thing, we're still writing.

But let's say this doesn't work either. You're well, and truly, stuck. Been there now and then. And, you're going to hate this one. I hate it but it works 9 times of 10. And it is: Write anyway. Half of it was spite. I was not going to give up my schedule, I liked my schedule. The other half was that I knew myself. I knew if I could just get past the chapter/plot/dialogue I was struggling with, I'd be able to roll along again. And so I made a rule: whatever I wrote didn't have to be pretty. It just had to exist. If that meant I wrote, "Jane chased the cat in circles and caught it. She was happy." then that's what I wrote. Because everything, EVERYTHING, can be fixed in editing. But you can't fix what doesn't exist. And so there were those nights when I would scowl and groan and snarl and bash my head against that writer's block until 5 in the morning, but in the end Jane chased that fucking cat adn caught it, it was written. Hilariously, sometimes those chapters have wound up amazing (likely because I spent so much time hammering at them) and reader favorites. There are absolutely, I believe, moments where you can, and should, see if you can push through.

But that brings me to *waves* now. A lesson I've only recently recently and with encouragement. Namely... sometimes brain no go and that's ok. My steps work for me 99.9% of the time, but I've done the above during the past few months, and it just... hasn't dragged me out entirely out of it yet. Sometimes, our brains demand that break, especially when things just aren't going great. There's a reason TRT had a break of roughly 2 years between chapter 4 and chapter 5 (feel free to check the chapter index with dates on AO3!). I had some life things happening and I just was not in a place to write, even if I was still busily plotting and planning and thinking about TRT behind the scenes. And that was ok. We're not machines. I came back like a bulldozer in Jan 2021, yes, and bulldozed through weekly updates, but that break was needed. And now I'm obviously taking a short one again while I recover from everything. It's ok if you're not in a place for it. So the last step is one I've been told a lot by dear friends recently as they helped me through this: be kind to yourself, and try not to stress if none of the above works. The story will always be there, and if TRT is any indication through all its highs and lows, your readers will be there when you start up again.

[gingernut1314]

hello hello!! i love your writing and your "through shadows" sanji fic series has my heart. just wanted to pop in to see if there are any plans for a part 3??

HI!!! Thank you so so soooo much for your kind words!!!

I am still planning on writing and posting part 3, but I am, unfortunately, the slowest writer to ever grace this earth and who tends to get writer's block more than I wish I would.

Buuutttt part 3 has been on my mind a lot recently, especially since I'm kinda on a Sanji kick right now

I mean, come on! Look at the guy!! LOOK!!! I LOVE HIM TO PIECES!!

I am sooooo close to finishing this part and it's been killing me that I haven't been super inspired to write for it, but now that I am energized to write for Sanji, I'm definitely going to try and finish it!

Your ask definitely is helping me with that, so thank you!!! 🩷🩷

That being said, I will share a little snippet below the break from what I already have written to hold you over until I get it done!!!

“Sanji’s outside,” Usopp said, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes. “Walk around--smoke. Ya know.” You nodded, thanking him before you headed for the night-filled streets. 

You found Sanji hadn’t strayed too far from the inn, just across the street hidden almost completely in shadow. To the normal eye, he might have been near impossible to see, but you caught his flash of blond hair and the glow of his cigarette instantly. 

You decided to just walk across the light-filled street to get to him, knowing he probably had already seen you. You wanted him to see you. 

And the shadows seemed all too dark around you--too lonely. So, you took the lighter path--the direct path to him. 

As you grew closer, you found his ocean-blue eyes tracking you, never once leaving you. It made your face flush and your nerves jump to life. 

“Hi.” You said simply as you came to a stop just a little before the shadows he stood in. He gave you a small smile as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs. 

“Hi.” You rocked a little on your heels, feeling all so exposed in the light as you were. Anyone would could see you--everyone. But you took a breath and smiled up at Sanji, chasing away those thoughts. Focused your whole attention on the tall man in front of you. 

“Why are you hiding away over here for? It’s dark--cold.” Sanji gave a small shrug, pulling another inhale of smoke into his lungs. 

“It reminds me of you.” He said simply on his exhale, like it was just something someone would say in a casual conversation. It definitely wasn’t and your face was slowly growing hotter. 

“Oh…” You said on a swallow, your mouth going all too dry with your nerves. “Um--would you mind walking me to the Merry? I forgot to pack something.” Sanji gave a nod, pushing off the wall he had been leaning on. 

“Of course.”

[quotidian-oblivion]

NEW WRITING TIP

Play background white noise (I listen to rain sounds) on full volume, put on a short edit/song/chorus that matches the vibes of what you're writing, have your wip open and write and pop over to the edit when you get stuck, rinse repeat.

I am having the time of my life.

[wordlesslyjenneh]

Canceled social plans and the whole family is out of the house for the day -- an introvert's dream. What creative thing would you do with a whole afternoon to yourself?

[karinasbaby]

quick update absolutely no one asked for … i think im gonna have to delay the wips thingy for now cuz i have a new idea.

[overlookedfile]

Chapters: 20/? Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Viggo Grimborn/Original Male Character Characters: Viggo Grimborn, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Abduction, Mildly Dubious Consent, Alfred Molina - Freeform, Bondage, Trauma, Variable chapter length, canon-typical anachronisms, the httyd world is broken, so many things shouldn't work the way they do, and it's giving me an aneurysm to reconcile it, Whump Summary:

"Viggo Grimborn," the man growled softly in his ear, "a bounty has been placed on your head by Stoick the Vast, Chief of Berk and the Hooligan tribe, for the crimes of theft and murder. Your freedom is forfeit."

[micamicster]

okay in the spirit of the previous post we are going to brute force me into sharing random scenes from fics that are either unfinished or never going to be finished! we are going to do this collaboratively (im fair and benevolent) but i don't want to give any information about said wips (im cruel and dictatorial) so this is going to be a blinded poll <3 vote here <3