#writing pep talk

[novlr]

You are allowed to enjoy reading your own stories!

Every writer writes the story they want to tell, so don’t be afraid to read what you’re writing and just have fun. Not everything has to be in service of making your manuscript better.

It’s ok to enjoy yourself.

[cielpansyhive]

I haven't checked my stats on AO3 in a year or more. I know people rank things different ways. Some people go by hits, others kudos, some by comments, bookmarks, subscriptions, ect. You get the picture. Hits are tricky, I've heard of people getting hits by bots. Which throws everything off, you see 50 hits and zero kudos, like, "fuck, these people read and hated it?" Maybe, but also it could have been a bot. For me hits can be more discouraging than helpful. I go by everything other than hits. So, with that in mind, I want to talk about my most successful works. (This is in no way meant to be me boasting. I'm a small-time writer. My point is, if I can do it, YOU can do it.)

-

I believe my most popular work is Revamp, it has the most subscriptions and comments. It's the work I'm known for. It's a little on the lower end for kudos and bookmarks, but it's not finished. The very fic people know me for is also my first work. (Because of this I'm working on revising what I have before updating another chapter. No worries, it's not abandoned and never will be.) That said, I was terrified to post it originally. Not only was it my first but there were maybe ten other fics at the time with trans Ciel and that was it. I didn't know if there was a reason for that. Lack of interest? People getting hate? I was clueless. But I had a story to tell so I sucked it up and posted and I'm glad I did! I've talked to so many people and befriended some because of that fic. I take forever to update and people still get excited over it when I do update. It really means a lot! My life changed because of posting it and it gave me the courage to pursue writing and share my stuff.

My highest bookmarked and work with the 3rd most kudos is a smut one-shot (That Butler, Sensitive) that I was worried would be "too weird" for people. I know way more people who think hand kinks are weird than ones that are neutral or into it. It was another I was reluctant to post and bam people loved it. I'm still shocked by the feedback.

My highest kudo work, the first couple chapters were awful. They were quick little things I wrote for tumblr, I got enough feedback I decided to post them on AO3. Chapter 1 I wrote drunk, I'm not even joking. Did I have fun with it? Yes. Was it to my standard? Fuck no. I have since revised the first two chapters. The third chapter, Sebastian is so OOC, but once again I did have fun with it. The last chapter has figging, a kink I don't know anyone of really having...at least in my personal life. The work as a whole (Canon Divergent SebaCiel) is just fun debauchery. In the beginning it was difficult for me to post smut. It was difficult to write too, I'd get stuck in my own head. But if you write whatever thoughts flow out, it's so simple! Because I became more comfortable, I was able to write my second highest kudo work (Clathrus Archeri) that was inspired by a fungus. Yep, we get that freaky with it. My readers enjoy it, it's all good.

My fourth highest bookmarked and fifth highest kudo work (Relax) is one that I stated was "the worst smut I've ever written." It was extremely self-indulgent but at the same time I spent so long editing it that at the end I hated it. I thought in comparison to my other smut it was low level. It also had trans Ciel, so I'm glad one of my works with him made it in the top 5. Yet, I wouldn't have that had I not posted.

While most of my works are obviously Kuroshitsuji, I do have works for Voltron too. I have almost zero interactions with the Voltron fandom. I will reblog things and read (kudo, bookmark, subscribe), but besides comments on my own fics I haven't talked to anyone. A big part is that I'm shy. Another is that I'm too old for fandom drama, ship wars, and what have you. If someone wants to chat with me, I'm glad and I will talk, but I'm not putting myself out there. The same will go when I start posting Vanitas no Carte fics. I'm very ship and let ship and that will piss off some people. It's easier for people to approach me rather than me trying to figure out if someone will hate me for my ships or not. Okay, very long intro for my next point. My third highest subscribed work (Atlas Ocean Rescue) is for the Voltron fandom. They don't know me from anywhere, exception the kuro people that also like Voltron, but apparently my work has readers. This fic is super self-indulgent, I love mermen okay? I'd say overall my Voltron works aren't doing too bad considering I basically just post and run. As anxious as I get to post anything, posting for another fandom was really hard. There wasn't the pressure of people knowing my work, but there's the very real feeling of, "oh fuck, this could flop terribly." A few Voltron works have already surpassed my "worst" Kuro works...so success? I think so!

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For anyone who read all my nonsense, you get a gold star. I hope you also noticed the patterns here. That is, write for yourself and your audience will find you. Don't censor yourself, be true to you and go with the flow, have fun! Write characters how you want to write and read them. Indulge in your kinks, I swear you aren't the only one that has them. Step out of your comfort zone every once and a while. If you post a fic and it flops, so what? It's not the end of the world. What if the fic you think will fail ends up being your best one? You'll never know what will happen unless you post it, it might surprise you. As your skills improve it's okay to go back and revise and edit. But don't let your skill level hold you back from posting in the first place, we all have to start somewhere. You can engage with fandoms as much or as little as you want. (I do encourage reblogs, kudos, bookmarks, ect.) But if you are too shy to talk or don't know anyone in a fandom, don't let that stop you from creating for that fandom. If you only have one work in you for a fandom, do it! If you have multiple? Do it! Rarepair? Go for it! Someone else will probably thank you for it! Vent writing? Dead dove? Extremely therapeutic for you and for others that are more so readers than writers. (Note writing dark stuff just for exploration and entertainment is fine too!! Horror is a well-loved genre for a reason. Fiction is fiction.) Bottom line: don't let you get in the way of yourself.

Will you get hate? You might, I won't lie. That said, people troll everything, any hate you get just shake it off. Odds are it's nothing personal or about your writing, it's they don't like the ship, or any AU, or the dynamics with smut, or the kink, or they're phobic, or if you write intense stuff it's too dark of content for them. If you tag things, it's on the reader if they ignore the tags or they purposely expose themselves to content they know will upset them. I highly recommend if you are concerned about hate, only let registered users leave comments. That's what I do with all my fics and I have had zero negative comments. People are less likely to leave nasty comments if they have to show their face, it's so much easier for them on anon. Some hate I've got on here (tumblr) could be from AO3, but I honestly think it's mostly just other tumblr users that have never read anything of mine.

I'm not as active as I once was on here. It's been years since I updated or posted a kuro work on AO3. I don't have the spoons (energy) to do as much one-on-one as I used to, but know I am cheering on all the creators, new and old. I am here if anyone needs some extra encouragement. But honestly, just write. Even on the off chance you're the only one that likes your work, you have at least one fan. If you don't write for yourself, then who are you writing for? I swear readers can tell the difference when you write something you're into verses something you think will be good, but you don't care about as much. Your best writing is the writing that YOU would read. Don't focus on what you think others will think. Your people will find you.

We all start as that person that's afraid to post our works, it's natural. Tackling that fear was one of the most difficult but best thing I've done for myself. If you want to post, do it! 💖💖💖

[dearwriters]

This is not really a question, it's more of a rant.

I love writing poetry and I love to give it to people to read it, but I hate doing so because I feel like people don't like to read poetry and because of that they don't really care about what I write.

I just really want someone to sit down with me so that we can both discuss ideas and write cool stuff together.

I hate asking for people to read my stuff, I feel like I'm imposing my writing on them.

I'm sorry for the rant, I just needed to tell someone

I'm always open for a good rant!

Giving your work to someone to read is always unnerving but only putting youself out there is gonna eventually help you to find what seem you want: an exchange.

There are many people who really love poetry, even right here on tumblr. Maybe seeking out this specific community online would help you find your peers!

[anniespositivity]

And then one day you wake up and decide you have had enough. Enough of feeling small, lost and powerless. Enough of feeling sorry for yourself. And you want to like and eventually love yourself - love your mind, love your body, love your passions and even your weaknesses. You realise that you should not be your own enemy; you do not have to listen to all the bad things your head tells you; you do not have to feel all the bad feelings your heart pumps through your veins. You finally want to be kinder to yourself and allow yourself to be everything you have always tried to hide. You realise that you should not be ashamed of who you are, you should be proud. No more hiding behind a mask. No more feeling like you do not matter. This day will be the day you will start your journey back to yourself. The day you will finally give yourself the validation you have always looked for in other people. It will be the day you take up as much space as you need and be confident about it. You deserve all the space in the world, darling. So do not give up. The day will come.

[kerryweaverlesbian]

Cas stitching up his trench coat in one of the motel chairs while Sam and Dean are asleep and quietly talking to Jack about how to him the coat feels as part of himself now as his blade is. That it reminds him that he wasn't always aware of just how deeply humans could feel. How deeply angels could feel. How putting care into something can make it meaningful. The stars were mere pricks of light before humans decided to name them. The more he cares for his coat, the more of his perspective and memory gets sewn into it. The more it becomes his.

"And the pockets," he confides with a deep wink, "Are good for keeping snacks in."

Later, when Dean is asleep again, drooling over an open book of research in the bunker, Jack watches as Cas tucks his coat over Dean's shoulders and sees how he hesitates for a moment before brushing his hand softly through Dean's hair. Dean is transformed, through Cas’s careful attention, from the man who was the gatekeeper of acceptance and goodness to just a man, vulnerable and in need of care.

Jack wonders whether Castiel cares for everyone like they are a precious object. And he wonders what Castiel would transform him into, if he had to be repaired. Jack isn't sure that he likes the idea. He already has a hard time understanding his own morality, how can he also be expected live up to the idea of himself in Castiel's head? The object that Castiel loves? Does he need to be changed in order to become his?

"I could get him my pillow?" Jack suggests, swallowing against the cold mass in his throat when Cas smiles gently at that. He does like it, then, when Jack acts against his own interest.

"That might wake him. We should let him rest."

"He's precious to you."

"He is." Castiel reaches out and puts a hand on Jack's sleeve, expression sincere, "And so are you."

"Right," Jack says, then, "thanks," and holds his smile until Cas wanders back to sit perpendicular to Dean, to watch him until just before he stirred. Castiel and Jack, both, were good at pretending not to feel what they felt.

Watching the angel watch the man, Jack feels like a star. Immense and powerful but also distant, removed. Not special until a real person decides that he is. He is between angel and human. Person and object. Precious and disregarded. He is the blade and the coat, and Jack doesn't know which is worse.

[the-writers-bookshelf]

As a writer, allow yourself the headspace to be imperfect and you’ll realize how liberating that can be if you’re feeling pressured to get things *just right* all the time.

Each story is there to teach you something. At some point, by going over it again and again and again, you’re simply treading water. You’re not learning anything new. You’re not allowing yourself to advance to the next story that has something else to teach you - something that is vital to your growth and abilities as a writer.

So put THE END on your project and move on. 

“But…but….it’s not perfect yet!”

That’s okay. That’s the point of moving on to the next project. You can get a better view of the mistakes you’ve made in the past by learning new perspectives and skills in the future.

Consider this your permission slip to release a project you’ve been fiddling with for ages. Let it go. Stamp it with a big red DONE.

Then you’re free to explore your next adventure with a new project!

[barbwritesstuff]

I think vampires should be absolute freaks actually.

[9haharharley1]

Thinking about all the lovely pompous pep at I've seen lately. About how Vlad's hands/claws take up the whole of Danny's back, how they encompass his entire stomach up to his chest. How Danny looks so tiny against him, how Vlad can just wrap his arms around him twice over, how Danny can feel warm and safe while also feeling trapped, no where to go, as Vlad fucks him slow and deep, his cock pressing up into him and filling him up until there's no room to move, how Danny looks down and sees his stomach expand with every thrust of Vlad's hips, how every slow grind into him makes Vlad twitch and his belly distend. Danny feels so full he can't breath, his mouth is hanging open, there's drool dripping down his chin, and Vlad reaches up to place a finger in his mouth and one finger is almost enough to cut off his airways entirely. He chokes and spasms thru his orgasm as Vlad comes inside him and Danny watches as his belly bulges further and his dick gives another weak twitch as Vlad keeps moving, still slow, still deep, and Vlad keeps this going for hours until Danny's a fucked out mess and can't move, can't speak, and when Vlad finally stills and pulls out, there's just a mess of fluid that leaks out of Danny with him

[vladdyissues]

vlad in office writing a spurned affection fanfic for ao3 but doesn't realize that the fic is slowly just becoming a pompous pep fic until after he finishes writing it and sees he's forgot the spurned affection part after like ch5 of 78 and the comments are yelling at him to tag his fics properly

He's trying 😔

[novlr]

What makes you a writer?

If you write, that makes you a writer.

Haven’t written in a while but want to get back to it?

You’re a writer.

Haven’t published yet or don’t plan to?

You’re a writer.

Only write fanfiction?

You’re a writer.

Don’t have any readers?

STILL A WRITER!

[rosykims]

my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.

dragon age origins — king!alistair x mistress f!cousland (elspeth cousland) | minors DNI | rated E for smut | 3206 words | reunion sex, riding, fluff, minor hurt/comfort, marriage proposals | ao3 link

Impatient as he is, he greets his uncle first. He’s the king, after all, and his advisors deserve at least the pretense of an attentive ruler.

Pleasantries are exchanged between them while his squire helps him out of his gaudy golden excuse for armor. Not unexpectedly, the elephant in the room goes undiscussed, as do the half dozen marriage proposals he's certain have piled up during his absence. After six years, Eamon knows better than to press him on that issue. Likely he'll try his luck in the morning, but tonight the wells of Alistair’s patience have been run thoroughly dry. It must read plainly on his face, given how bad he is at cards. 

As the arl's debrief draws to a close, Alistair's eyes, for the tenth time in half as many minutes, dart towards the exit. Eamon sighs. 

“Well, Your Grace,” he says, tactfully clearing his throat. “The hour is late indeed. I imagine you're weary from your travels?”

Alistair nods. “Oh, very weary. The weariest.”

It's not entirely a lie, but his uncle frowns nonetheless. “Then I won't keep you. Good night, Alistair.”

“You as well, Uncle.”

“I will see you in the morning for your small council meeting. Do try not to be . . . waylaid.”

Well. Hint received. Awkward. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he finally presses the door closed behind him.

Next up: a bath. It's sorely needed, after five weeks back and forth across the Waking Sea. His arrivals home are typically received without much ceremony, per his request, and so the palace is pleasantly quiet. A few saluting guards here, a scurrying servant or two there. It's for their benefit that he keeps his footfalls slow and measured, instead of breaking into the wild sprint down the hallway that he's aching for.

One of those servants must have drawn his bath for him already, he guesses, stepping into his chambers to find it warm and awaiting. He wonders if Teagan roused them from their beds for this, or if they've simply clued into his routine after so many years of it.

He forces himself to bathe slowly. For his own sake, but mostly for hers. The heat soaks into his bones, the grime and dust from the road melting off of him as if little more than a bad memory. He tries to enjoy it, despite his restlessness. And the excitement, Maker, like he's still twenty years old and the anticipation alone might just undo him. Or do him in.

He only hurries as he dries off, reaching for the fresh (and mercifully plain) clothes laid diligently aside for him. A part of him considers forgoing clothes entirely – palace denizens be damned. He wills himself to dress anyway, reluctantly. Quickly. It hasn't been that long since he last saw her, anyway, and they've gone far longer stretches before than this. Nonetheless, between Kirkwall's tyrannical templars and the lingering Qunari threat, he feels as if he hasn't held her in an age.

Clean and fully dressed, he frowns at his reflection. Older, harder, more weary. But happy, still, despite it all. Because of her. Her, waiting for him, just a few rooms away. 

Naked, ideally.

He does away with all pretense and hightails down the hall, paying no mind to his kingsguard and their poorly suppressed grins. Smile away, Alistair thinks. I'll be smiling too, in a minute.

Her door is up ahead. And then before him. The handle is inches away from his outstretched hand. He hesitates.

How’s his breath? His hair? He should have shaved, should have put in a little more effort. Can she hear his creepy breathing behind the door? He fixes his clothes. Squares his shoulders. Knocks. 

“Elles?”

A pause. Then, “Alistair?”

His heart tightens painfully in his chest. How he's missed that voice. If Ferelden could speak, it would do so through Elspeth Cousland. The strength of the Frostbacks in that voice of hers. The grim beauty of the Kocari Wilds. Rough like the Highever seas. 

He can tell she’s been brooding before he’s so much as closed the door behind him. Not that he’s surprised — Maker, does the woman know how to brood. She shoots up quickly to her feet, straight and rigid like a soldier standing at attention. Not, mind you, like a Warden-Commander; at this moment Elspeth more closely resembles a clammy-handed recruit, next in line for her Joining. She’s nervous, that much is obvious, with her hands white knuckled and clasped together with uncertainty.  From past experience, he’d wager anything she’s spent the last several days convincing herself he’s somehow fallen out of love with her in the time they’ve been apart.  

And they say he’s the idiot.

Life’s too short to waste on “hello”’s, or “I’ve missed you”’s, or "I brought you a souvenir, but silly me, I accidentally dropped it overboard on the voyage back”. They’ve got less time together than most, after all. Crossing the distance between them is a blur; one moment he's at the door, the next he's hoisting her legs up around his waist, arms enveloping every part of her he can get his hands on, lips working relentlessly against her opened mouth. Whatever insecurities she'd tried to voice in the time it took him to wrap her up in his arms, he doesn't care to hear. He'd much rather focus on ridding her of those doubts entirely.

She gets the message — they've always been in sync like that. Her lips catch up with his, matching the hunger and resolve of his kiss. Her hands, calloused and smelling perpetually of iron, snake around his shoulders. The rest of her smells like roses; she must have come just recently from the garden he’d had built for her, the one place he specifically forbid her from moping in. He takes a moment to refamiliarize himself with her scent, lost in the feeling of her fingers tangled up in his hair, pulling him closer, ever closer, close enough to lose track of whose body belongs to who. And still it's not enough.

He needs her. Badly. She can probably feel as much, too. He carries her to the bed, laying her down amidst the pillows and furs. He finds within himself just enough self restraint to stand back for a long, brazen ogle. Maker, everything about her turns him on. Her freckles, her fingers, her breasts. Her long ashen hair in that ever-familiar braid. Storm gray eyes, pale pink lips. Her nose, one of his many favorite parts of her, set crooked after one too many fists to the face.

That perfect, powerful body of hers, hidden away under just a few thin, tearable layers of clothing . . .

She's way ahead of him, of course, because at this point they've got reunion sex down to an art. She casts off her Warden-blue tunic with only a button or two lost in the process, then grabs him by the front of his own shirt (red, naturally, with a tiny embroidered ‘I love you’ she'd stitched so sneakily behind the hem of his collar) and pulls him down on top of her once it's properly discarded. Their pants and various stubborn affects follow suit, until they’re both left blissfully bare and pawing feverishly at one another, limbs tangled and lips locked. 

His fingers venture down the valley of her breasts, past her stomach to settle in between her legs. He smiles at what he finds, reassured by the proof that he’s not the only one so blatantly aroused. Her thighs part wider for him, hips lifting from the sheets to sooner meet his digits. She moans, perhaps less so from pleasure than the sheer relief of being touched — loved — for the first time in over a month. And he's right there with her. He sighs (or whines, if he's being honest) into the crook of her neck when her own hands find what they've been looking for, working him all too quickly into a frenzy. 

She stops just as suddenly as she'd started, pushing at his chest until he relents and rolls over. She straddles his lap, grinding once, hard and agonizingly slow, for good measure. He moves to drape an arm over his face in some futile attempt to cool his burning cheeks, but she cruelly intercedes, pinning his wrists by either side of his head. He struggles playfully for a bit, laughing breathlessly. His hips buck autonomously at the sight of those strong, muscular arms holding him firmly in place.

They used to spar together, innocently, when they first met. How time flies.

He needs so, so desperately to fuck her. He has all night — all week, all year, all of the rest of their lives— to savor her body the way it's meant to be savored. To make sweet, tender, Chantry sanctioned love to her. But what he needs right now  — what they both need, he recognises — is something desperate and ragged and mindless to the point of being no better than animals. The type of fucking that comes from a shared loneliness he's not certain anybody else has ever experienced before.

He's glad she doesn't give him too much time to dwell on that. Her hips rise just enough for the right angle, before guiding him slowly inside. They both sigh. Elspeth frees his trapped hands to splay her own out against his chest, steadying herself. Her nails dig into his skin as she sinks down onto him, inch by inch, although she's bitten them too short to do any real damage. Alistair fights to keep himself still inside her, waiting for her body to adjust, to give him the go ahead. An uphill battle, really. When he's fully sheathed inside of her she settles, save for the frantic contraction of her muscles around him, driving him to the brink of insanity. 

“I dreamt about this every night I was gone,” he manages. “Maker, I love you, Elles. I love you so much.”

Her eyes go glassy and her bottom lip quivers. It's that old, familiar grief, the one he's never been able to fully free her from after those long, bleak months in the Deep Roads. But as he moves his hips carefully against hers and feels Elspeth moving back, he's confident he can coax it down again, at least for as little as tonight.

“I love you,” she eventually whispers back, and then begins to ride him in earnest.

Ten minutes blurs into one long wave of curling, cresting euphoria. Alistair groans brokenly. He feels absolutely deranged, delirious, gazing up at her while she takes him so completely. Sweat beads at her forehead, and a deep flush creeps from her chest up to her cheeks. His own face must be beet-red, too. 

He's not going to last long, not with the angle she’s hitting and sounds coming out of her mouth. Though, taking those sounds into consideration, he suspects that she won't last much longer, either. They're both too keyed up to pace themselves and too jittery to try, so better to play it out in a wild crescendo. He grabs at her hips, lifting her up and back down onto him, coaxing out one hoarse plea after another. One hand releases its grip to run unfettered across her breasts, and she groans again, falling forwards onto his chest and wrapping herself around him as if she might never get a chance to again. 

Once, a hundred lifetimes ago, his friend Zevran gave him some unsolicited advice about arching. He really hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but he does now, right in this moment, with the friction of this exact position to aid him in such an endeavor. She’s done in half a minute if he can keep her held firmly above him. He’s done, too. He doubles his efforts, recapturing her swollen lips and soon reaching with his tongue to greet the muffled cry when her pleasure finally peaks. Normally he would let her ride it out, but he’s rapidly approaching his own climax and his brain can focus on nothing but her gray, glazed over eyes, her hair in the candlelight, the frantic rise and fall of her chest as she writhes and bucks and bounces against him. Her muscles pulse and he feels himself twitching inside of her in response. 

He’s so close, at the precipice, suspended in mid air, floating . . . And then she tightens around him once more and he finishes inside of her with one long, obscene moan that vibrates through the room and every part of his utterly spent body.

They’re going to get so many looks from the guards come morning.

His every muscle sings with bliss. Their bodies grow slack and boneless together and their movements slow to lazy, drawn out rolls of the hips. He holds her, one hand rubbing her naked back and the other cradling her head as they find their breaths again, together, in the most comfortable of silences. He counts her exhales, and in the afterglow of their efforts he finds himself blinking back tears. Returning to Ferelden, to Denerim, to the palace itself . . . none of it had felt like coming home until this very moment, enveloped in one another, reacquainted at last with the sound of each other’s breathlessness.

He hates it when she rolls up and off of him, but he’s a grown up, apparently, so instead of whining about it he begrudgingly rises from the bed long enough to grab the nearest clean cloth. Then he’s right back in bed with her, his hand returning between her legs to wipe her down, followed by a cursory clean up of himself. She lets out her now thoroughly dishevelled braid while she watches him, not smiling as he’d hoped, but warm and tender nonetheless. Her fingers trace slow and deliberately along the curve of his bicep, frowning at the jagged scar she knows still gives him trouble in the colder months. He makes a mental note to get at least a half dozen laughs out of her before the night is through, just to keep that damned frown of hers at bay.

He offers her a worldless arm when he’s done tidying them both up, and he’s rewarded with a smile, sweet and sheepish, as she moves to snuggle into it. He pulls her close to pepper the top of her head with kisses, humming contentedly in the quiet.

“Marry me,” he says eventually.

Elspeth tenses, and then sighs. “You’re never going to give this up, are you?”

“Ha! Of course I will. The second you say ‘Yes! Yes! Oh, Alistair! One thousand times yes!’”

“I don’t sound like that. Also, do I have to say it a thousand times, or just the once?”

“Well . . . a couple times couldn’t hurt, right?”

And there it is: her first, exasperated chuckle of the night. Winning that laughter means more to him than every battle he’s ever come out of victorious.

“You know I can’t, Ali.” Her laughter fades back into her usual grimness as she runs her palm across his chest, charting routes in the space between his freckles. She places a kiss above his heart, likely in the hopes of avoiding his eye. “We’ve broken too many rules as it is, and I won’t be the cause for yet more unrest in Thedas. I bear responsibility for enough of that already. Besides, I can’t just abandon my men. The Wardens need me.”  

“I need you.” He scoffs as an afterthought. “And the Gray Wardens have Nathaniel, as much as it just kills me to credit that man with anything. But hey! Who said anything about giving them up? A king can be a general. I’m living proof he can be a court jester, too. Why can’t a queen be Warden-Commander?”

She ignores his quip, despite it being a really good one. “Because I don’t know how to be a queen.” She shakes her head hopelessly. “I barely know how to be a person most days. Maybe . . .  maybe I could have done it, once, but now, after everything —”

Better to stop this now before it turns into another one of her signature doom spirals. “Every Arl and Bann in the Coastlands calls you queen already, did you know that?” He grins, having anticipated the eyeroll. Of course she knows that, given how much her fellow Gray Wardens love to gossip. And tease. “The nobles have long been made aware that I won't accept anybody else by my side. And, Maker, it’s not like they would accept anybody else! ‘None but the Cousland Queen’ —  that’s what they say about you. I know that because half of the bannorn have told me. To my face.”  

Some small, dignified part of her — the part that still relishes being a highborn noble — stirs. Her eyes glint with cautious intrigue. “Bann Ceorlic?” she asks.

Alistair clears his throat. “Well, not him.”

 “Hmph.”

“Marry me,” he says again. “Don’t you want to?”

“You know I want to,” she says, “but —”

“— Any excuse you give me will just go in one ear and out the other. Isn’t that just so classically me? Hey, here’s a crazy idea. Let’s get maaaa-rried!”

“You’re just getting funnier and funnier in your old age, aren’t you?”

“And you’re getting grumpier.” 

He takes her face in both hands before she can deny it, kissing her slow and soft and with all of the comfort he knows she secretly needs right now, and likely always will. Now that he’s home - truly home - he can give her as much of that as she can stand, and then some. Tomorrow’s small council meeting be damned. “Marry me, Elles.”

She blinks up at him, searching his eyes for any sign he might one day get tired of waiting. She can find a lot in his eyes (he is really, really terrible at cards) but she’ll never find that. 

“Can I at least ask you how your trip went, first?” she asks finally, softened by the crack of a tiny, rueful smile.

“Ugh.” How could he forget? “Right. That little thing. It -” 

Alistair blinks, Kirkwall forgotten again just as soon as he’d remembered it. “That’s . . . not a ‘no’, by the way,” he says, dumbfounded.

Elspeth settles in closer against him, her leg wrapped around his, her ear pressed in snug at his shoulder. He knows she’s listening for his heartbeat, the thump-thump-thump she’d do anything - everything - for. He knows she put him on the throne to keep that heartbeat going for a few years more, and he knows that’s why it’s so hard for her to give up the endless fight for it now. 

He knows. It doesn’t mean he thinks she’s right.

She looks up at him only after she’s satisfied that his heart isn’t about to cease functioning in his chest. Her hand reaches out to smooth down the errant hairs around his ears, and she opens her mouth several times to reply before pursuing them together in frustration. Then - finally, bashfully - she nods.     

“No,” she admits softly. “I mean, it’s not. It’s . . . it’s not a no.”

‘It’s not a no’. Well, he’s certainly done more with less.

[rambler-in-limbo]

Pino and Peppino are just... comfortable with each other? Also how long did it take for them to understand each other?

Peppino: Oh it’s a story alright, but I’ll keep it brief. A few weeks after the tower Pino here showed up on the doorstep of my restaurant lookin’ for a place to stay. I’ll admit, at the time I wasn’t-a very excited about it, but Gustavo persuaded me on the idea. Gus’s never done me wrong. It was…turbulent in the beginning, but I don’t regret taking him in one bit. The extra set of hands in the kitchen is a miracle and he’s good company. I wish we had-a met like this rather than in that tower.

Peppino: “Understanding-each-other-wise…” I’m still struggling with that. I got a few phrases down though! Pino has been patient with me (can’t thank him enough for that.)

Fake: !sedarahc gniod em dah eH

.yllis saw tI

-hctaw ,peP ot klat ot sdohtem rehto emos tog a-ev’I tuB

.gnikrow elihw ti od t’nac I dna emit sekat ti tub ,noisufnoc ro ecnaun yna sevomer gnitirW

[theangrypomeranian]

I

might??

be trying to start writing a novel soon

wild lmao

[crmsnmth]

Solitary Pep Talks

I keep telling myself To get up off the ground and get these boots back to pavement I've been down long enough Goddammit, Chris, stop begging for sympathy You've got this Get out under that star and face the day even if it does proceed to beat the shit out of you You smile and keep those boots to the pavement

Every day I remind myself that I need to accept the person I am But I'm so hung up on who I used to be that there's no such thing as growth And at this rate, I'm going to be an eighty-year-old man who still acts like some bitchy teenager with angsty issues and I don't think that's a good look for me

So I keep my boots on the pavement Walking this small town with headphone blaring Wave to those I see and know And claim my title as the walking punk

I tell myself that I am not what the past is anymore Her words still echo within my skull Like a super ball in a silo I bounce from hate to love and back again And I keep give solitary pop talks. Keep putting my boots on the pavement

I don't want to be miserable Life's too short to carry baggage everywhere I go And it's sad how long it took me to get that part but at least I did The handler lost our fucking luggage again

[nanowrimo]

Are you writing this month, Wrimo? Check out our “I wrote a novel… now what?” resources over on the NaNoWriMo website for tips on choosing your next writing adventure: whether that’s finishing a story you’ve been working on for a while, editing and revising, pursuing publishing... or something completely different! For some extra inspiration, author Sarah Gailey’s Pep Talk from this past November reminds you to find joy in the reasons you write. Read the full Pep Talk here!

Image description: A blue background with illustrated red flowers, with text that reads: “The worst part of not writing is that writing always lingers at the edges of it. There’s a prickle on the back of my neck when I’m not writing, an unanswered-message feeling. Because the story is waiting.” —Sarah Gailey”

[improvised-finish]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Prompt #30 - Two Heads are Better than One

Content Warnings: None

Spoiler Warnings: Spoilers up to the level 96 quests in the Dawntrail MSQ

Summary: Koana comes knocking at the door of Lehon'a Nhavareh's Tuliyollal cabin to deliver a simple offer from his sister, but gets a bit more than he bargained for.

Check it out below or on Ao3:

“Surprised to see me? I suppose it’s only natural…”

Lehon’a countered with a laugh. “Pretty much anyone who isn’t Beau, Shtola, or Raha gets this look, so don’t worry, it’s not just you, Koana. What brings you around?”

“Uh, well… May I come in?”  Koana asked.

“Sure, this place is probably your home more than it is mine,” Lehon’a replied, trying to keep the tone of the conversation light as she swung the door open and the Hhetsarro stepped through. “So, what is it you came to talk about?”

He paused for a moment before offering an answer. “I haven’t properly thanked you.”

“What for?” Lehon’a answered with another question, clearly confused.

“That my sister was able to realize her potential is a testament to the quality of her traveling companions. Particularly you and Beau. For that, you have my heartfelt gratitude.”

“Oh. Well, your expression of gratitude is certainly appreciated, but to be quite honest, I felt more like a bit part this time around. If anything, it’s Beau you should be giving this speech to, but that might be selling the work your sister put in a bit short.” 

“About that… You see, my primary business in calling on you is to deliver a message from Lamaty’i, and since Beau often remains near her in her free time, I was charged with finding you specifically.”

“Ah. Well, I’m all ears, so hit me with that message you’ve got.”

“As you well know, after the ascension ceremony, Lamaty’i will officially take up the mantle of Dawnservant. She has expressed a desire for you to accept a post in her administration… while making no mention of me.”

It took all of Lehon’a’s resolve not to laugh out loud at the proposal. “Well, unfortunately for her, she is far from the first head of state to ask me to join their fledgling government, and how can I put this… bureaucracy is simply not the life for me. I’m much more of an open road kinda gal, and I think if I had to view the world from an office window all day, I’d probably spontaneously combust.” She put a hand to her chin, considering something. “You know, even as enamored with Wuk Lamat as Beau is, I’m really not sure that even she’d accept such an offer. Meetings and paperwork never seemed her style.” Lehon’a paused for a moment, the rest of what Koana said catching up to her. “And really, nothing about you at all? Now that’s a real surprise.”

“It is her wish, I suppose, and I’m not in much position to make demands,” Koana replied, struggling at this point to keep the dejected tone from his voice. “It seems you have become someone irreplaceable to her, and as her brother, I acknowledge that with no little jealousy.”

“See, that’s what’s got me confused! I might as well be a random adventurer from Eorzea; there’s nothing particularly noteworthy I’ve done here that Wuk Lamat and any other adventurer with a decent number of years under their belt wouldn’t also have been able to do. And don’t get me wrong, I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to stand beside her and explore the beauty of Tural and her peoples, but the fact that it’s me and Beau feels… immaterial. She just needed the nudges here and there to go outside her comfort zone– both of you did. And given how things turned out, I would think you’d be a natural fit to stand right by her side. You’ve got the practical and technical knowledge she lacks, and she can balance that with people skills and her oversized heart, almost akin to your father and his two heads: one of Reason, and one of Resolve.” 

She turned her gaze from a random wall object to Koana himself. “We spoke in the middle of the Rite, your father, Beau and I. And we came to the shared conclusion that all four of the claimants had work to do to better themselves as potential rulers and stewards of this great nation. Wuk Lamat might have technically won the contest by the rules, but it’s pretty obvious to see you’ve grown a great deal, Koana. The man I met in the fields of Ok’hanu is not the same man standing before me today, and both you and Tuliyollal are better for it, I reckon.”

Koana remained silent, unable to accept Lehon’a’s praise head on.

“And it’s like that old saying, right? ‘Two heads are better than one.’ I have to imagine in the case of overseeing such a large region as Tuliyollal encompasses, two heads of state would certainly be able to cover more ground, especially when they work as well in tandem as the two of you do. –And don’t try to deny that! I watched you both during the feat in Iq’Braax!” She stepped across the room and put a hand on his shoulder. “Take it from me. I would not have been able to accomplish half as many of the impossible feats under my belt if not for Beau by my side. We lean on each other, amplifying each others’ strengths and shoring up each others’ weaknesses. I know Wuk Lamat cares about you, and I don’t doubt that when the going gets tough and the Scions have ventured elsewhere, you will be the one she turns to to do exactly that.”

“I know not what to say, I… I appreciate your kind words, Lehon’a.” Koana replied, voice wavering just slightly as he walked back towards the door. “I’ll do my best to be the person you speak of. To be someone she feels she can rely on, come whatever may at the ceremony.”

“And that’s all anyone– me, your father, or Wuk Lamat herself– could ask.” Lehon’a smiled softly as she pulled the door ajar once more and watched Koana walk through. “See you soon, Koana,” she said, offering a small two-finger salute.

“See you soon,” he replied, turning and mirroring the greeting before setting off down the dock.

Lehon’a closed the door and immediately began hunting for her linkpearl. I wonder if it’s not too late to have Beau talk to Wuk Lamat about this. It certainly seems worth asking about, at the very least. As she snatched up the device from the side table where she’d finally spotted it, Lehon’a had another thought. You know, knowing Wuk Lamat, maybe she just wanted to surprise him.