blondepomwrites

[blondepomwrites]

Good stuff.

#writing #editing

[blondepomwrites]

Some Advice To Amateur Writer’s:

Your first draft is going to read like fanfiction, and that is a good thing. Fanfiction is written episodically, as is the first draft, with only small bits and pieces being actually thought out and making sense. You need the plot to take protag here? You don’t know how to get them there? Make up a bullshit reason and then figure it out later. Your first draft is for having fun, getting your big ideas on the page, figuring out certain plot points, and developing the characters more. Your first draft is going to be self-indulgent, it’s going to make very little sense, it’s going to be just a little bit shit. That’s what the first draft is for!

The second draft is for adding and removing things so that the story actually starts to make sense. And when I say second draft, I mean create a whole new document. No copy and pasting, it needs to feel natural. Maybe you’ve had some ideas and want to change how it starts, maybe you realised you never explained a certain important detail, maybe a certain scene just feels really out of place. Your second draft is for adding and subtracting from you first draft so that it actually starts making sense. You already know how the story ends by this point, you already know what plot twists you’re going to include, so now you can integrate them more smoothly and include more foreshadowing. Maybe you’ll create whole new characters and remove whole other characters. Maybe the relationship between two characters changes drastically. That’s fine. Your second draft is when it starts coming together.

Your third draft is for fine-tuning. You’ve got your initial plan, you’ve got your more thoroughly thought out plan, and no you need to make it better. Maybe there was a certain scene you really miss from the first draft, maybe you want to make the chapter transitions smoother. Maybe you want to lengthen the chapters so that the amount of chapters is smaller and it seems more manageable. The third draft is for making all of these important changes to have it be the best that it can be. You did more research into a certain disorder so you’ve altered a character slightly. You decided there weren’t enough POC so you changed a few races. You decided there were too many bisexuals so you switched some of them to pan or omni or ace. The third draft is for making some of these final changes.

You can continue making other drafts if you’re still not happy with it, but after a certain point the idea may just need to left behind and put on hold. Fresh eyes from a few weeks or months or years into the future may figure out how to make it make sense. You also don’t have to wait to finish one draft to start the next. You want to change how the story begins but you’ve almost completed the first draft and you don’t want to make all those edits? Just start the second draft! Write your idea down and then go back to your first draft. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that!

So, if you’re getting into writing and you look through your first draft thinking “this makes no sense, it reads like self-indulgent fanfiction” that’s a good thing. It’s all part of the process. And if by the third draft it still feels really self-indulgent, brilliant! You are writing this story because you think it’s interesting and you want to tell it! Who cares if it’s self-indulgent!? Who cares if it’s got a lot of tropes!? By the third draft you will have smoothed it all out and it will be a masterpiece! Keep writing!

#writing #drafts #writing advice

[blondepomwrites]

If your plot feels flat, STUDY it! Your story might be lacking...

Stakes - What would happen if the protagonist failed? Would it really be such a bad thing if it happened?

Thematic relevance - Do the events of the story speak to a greater emotional or moral message? Is the conflict resolved in a way that befits the theme?

Urgency - How much time does the protagonist have to complete their goal? Are there multiple factors complicating the situation?

Drive - What motivates the protagonist? Are they an active player in the story, or are they repeatedly getting pushed around by external forces? Could you swap them out for a different character with no impact on the plot? On the flip side, do the other characters have sensible motivations of their own?

Yield - Is there foreshadowing? Do the protagonist's choices have unforeseen consequences down the road? Do they use knowledge or clues from the beginning, to help them in the end? Do they learn things about the other characters that weren't immediately obvious?

#writing #this is helpful thanks!

[blondepomwrites]

What they don’t tell you about storytelling is that it becomes an instinct over time. You learn how to kind of … intuitively chain events together over time. That doesn’t mean it’s a cakewalk, or that you never get stuck on plotbeats, but you have a better time walking yourself out of corners that you as a less experienced writer would have been tempted to abandon your story over. Because you’ve been stuck in similar corners before; you know how you get out now.

I know its frustrating to keep hitting dead ends, but you got this. You’ll learn a little from every roadblock you hit.

#it's so nice <3 #and nice to know that even though that skill might get rusty #it doesnt disappear #i mean humans are the story telling animal so it's always gonna be there #<3 #writing #also this blog has been dead lmao #i got back into writing a few months ago but..... long story

[blondepomwrites]

Darkest Before Dawn - A Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfic - Astarion x Tav

Rating: PG13

Word Count: 1353

You can find it here on Ao3, too.

-------

When Astarion opens his eyes, it is to the gentle shake of his shoulder. He allows himself a quick glance around the camp to see that most everyone is asleep, and the fire is starting to burn low.

There are no shouts, no scuffling feet, no scent of blood drawn.

The camp is safe; he is safe.

For now.

His gaze flits then to the one who has woken him.

Tav is leaning over him. Even in the dim, flickering campfire light, he can see the sparkle in their eyes, and he instantly hates it.

His plan to secure himself as a desirable companion has gone perfectly thus far. They practically wrapped themselves around his finger all on their own, and they have been easy to lead along. A compliment here, a purred promise there, a gentle touch, a wild night.

They are so easy to manipulate it is almost sickening.

It might be, if Astarion let himself think on it too much, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he glances around camp again and realizes what this must be. Tav’s next words all but confirm it.

“I need you to come with me.” They hold a finger to their lips. “Don’t wake the others.”

He swallows down the disgust and offers Tav a flirty smile, reaching out to let his fingertips feather against their cheek. Just enough of a touch to leave one longing for more. “Anything for you, my sweet.”

Tav hugs themselves impatiently while Astarion shoves his feet into his boots and gets up.

Quietly, of course.

He’s always been good at sneaking through the shadows, but tonight it is almost unbearable. Tav keeps lacing their hands together and drawing him deeper into the woods. He hardly needs such guidance—his night vision is likely better than theirs, being a vampire and all—and it throws him a little to have to adjust himself so that their contact doesn’t break.

They pass a few spots that Astarion tries to suggest would be as good as any for what they are going to get up to.

Each time, Tav just gives him a wide smile or a knowing look and assures him that this will all be worth it.

“Come on.”

When they’re far enough that Astarion is beginning to wonder if their companions will know where to look for them, if they don’t make it back by dawn—the stars are such that it must not be far off—Tav takes an unexpected turn, moving toward a small rocky outcrop and hauling themselves up.

“We’re here.”

Astarion stops at the base, watching as they move higher, before they pause to look down and find him.

A hand motions quickly for him to come up before Tav disappears from view.

Astarion isn’t sure what he expects to find at the top of the rocks, but the nothing that is there is disappointing none-the-less.

Nothing but Tav, anyway.

And him.

And a flat expanse of hard rock that’s about twice the size of a conventional bed. Tav has seated themselves near the center, and pats the spot beside them, smile annoyingly radiant.

Astarion finds himself a little put out for having to have come so far for so little, but he acquiesces to Tav’s beckoning and strolls the short distance to join them.

There is a moment where they sit there, the silence dragging out between them as the sky gets darker still.

Astarion finally steels himself to make the first move, reaching out and catching Tav’s chin to pull them closer. Their lips brush, and he moves quickly away, toward the spot in Tav’s neck where their pulse thrums so temptingly. However, Astarion has not been invited to dine, and he merely presses a kiss there, though he does let his teeth drag over Tav’s skin.

Before he can do more, however, Tav lets out an excited cry and pushes Astarion back. “It’s starting!”

At first, Astarion is lost. His brow pinches as he sits back, appraising Tav.

They, in turn, reach out and gently turn his head so that he is facing forward.

For a second, there is confusion, and then he sees it.

The first rays of dawn coming up over the edge of the world.

For a moment, Astarion forgets everything except for those blossoming golds and pinks and yellows. The clouds look painted, each second a subtly new scene. The world below glistens and shines in the new light, and while he has been largely unimpressed with the wilderness they were so unceremoniously dumped into, even he cannot deny that there is something utterly beautiful about the way the sunlight dances over them.

For the first time, he truly understands the meaning of the word breathtaking.

It is hard to remember so far back, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a sunrise so magnificent.

So simple a thought as it is, it brings the world crashing back, shattering the serenity of the moment.

The sun has risen high enough that the clouds are losing their rosy hues, and the world is becoming its usual array of green and brown.

Astarion fights the bitter bile that rises in him at the thought of how many sunrises he has missed, and glances around, grounding himself with the present.

As he glances to his side, he remembers that he is not alone, and pauses when he meets Tav’s gaze. They are watching him, that same sparkle in their eyes, illuminated now in the morning light. There is more than excitement there, now.

Now, they look so pleased with themselves. That satisfied smile, it…

It throws him.

“Pretty, huh?”

The word is an understatement, but more than that, it is confusing. Astarion wants to ask why Tav would do this. What do they get from this little…it’s not even an adventure, is it?

What was the point?

For the first time since they snuck out of camp, Tav’s expression falters. They glance toward that ever-rising sun. Back at Astarion, back at the sun.

“I figured, after so long in the dark…” Tav’s gaze finally slides away from him. “We haven’t really camped anywhere where there was a good view, so…it only seemed right that you get to see a proper sunrise after so long.”

Astarion finds himself at a loss for words. Just for a moment, of course. He quickly gathers his wits, offers a coy smile. “How…sweet.”

Tav seems relieved. “You did like it, right?”

“It was beautiful,” Astarion murmurs.

Tav’s hand rests on top of Astarion’s for a breath as they lean in and catch him in a quick, chaste kiss. And then they are on their feet again. “Come on. Lae’zel will be grumpy if we take too much longer, and I don’t want Shadowheart to steal my breakfast.”

As they scamper down the rocks, Astarion sits where he is, frozen. His mind tries to make sense of what just happened, but the pieces simply won’t fit together.

Tav already gets what Astarion has to offer.

So, what was the point of this?

There is the faintest whisper of a long-forgotten truth from within the smothered depths of his heart, but he squashes it before the thought can fully form.

Tav calls out to him. Astarion frowns as he glances toward the sun, still so low in the sky.

And then he follows Tav back to camp, watching their hands when Tav laces their fingers together, and struggling with the strange sensation that has settled in his chest. Something foreign, and most unwelcome.

He will need to be more careful going forward.

And he will need to figure out just what game Tav is playing.

By the time they get back to camp, he has found his resolve and his balance. He smiles and teases Tav with honeyed words as a few of their companions cast glances their way, unsurprised that they are returning together, hand in hand.

And he pretends he can’t still feel that whisper that what’s happening now is something he’d all but forgotten could.

Kindness for kindness’ sake doesn’t exist, after all.

#mmmmm love me some breaking every tooth and nail scrabbling down the cliff towards love #and the subtlety in this is nice. no big revelation. just consistent digging of heels #delightful! #bg3 #astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic

[blondepomwrites]

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” for hhAAAAAAAAAANDERS or any other pairing of your choice lol

Thank you, friend! You and @fairfaxleasee ended up sending in the same prompt at some point! (I am suuuuper behind on my prompt backlog, whooooops.)

So without further ado, here's to you and @dadrunkwriting for enabling encouraging my Handers obsession, lol.

Marian Hawke x Anders, 2k words. T rating.

Getting together, hurt/comfort,

cw: temporary major character death, blood, injuries, surgery and healing, aftermath of battle

--

"Why haven't you kissed me yet?"

Anders startles out of his careful examination of one of the wounds in Marian's bared shoulder. "I—uh—what?"

"I think it's a perfectly rea—reasonable question, given everything." Marian's eyes are bright and glassy in the dim light of the nearby lanterns. A mulish sort of line twists her lips, which are suddenly too close and too centered in Anders' vision, before she smiles up at him. "You could, you know," she says conspiratorially. Marian jerks a thumb vaguely upward, or what would be upward if the thumb was properly splinted instead of set in the hasty binding that was managed on the road. He doesn't ignore the wince that creases her features as she goes on. "I won't tell Choir Boy if you won't."

"He'd be scandalized, I'm sure," Anders quips, deadpan, before he can catch himself.

"Beside himself with concern, for certain." She chuckles weakly. "You know, I worry about him sometimes."

Anders shakes his head and sets himself back into examining the wreckage that is her left side. "Someone has to, I suppose," he allows magnanimously. "Won't be me, but someone. Now if you'll just sit still..."

It's still a mess, now most of a long night since Marian had been carried into the clinic by Aveline, Sebastian, and Fenris. They'd been caught up by smugglers while on an unofficial patrol of the coast, and Marian had been caught in a knot of blades before being pushed from one of the cliffs to a blessed ledge some ten or twenty feet below. She had been unconscious when they burst into the clinic in a cacophony of clattering armor and panic, and had only woken a handful of minutes ago after a long night of emergency surgery.

Sweat gathers at the nape of Anders' neck while he works. He wills his hands not to shake as he pleads for her blood vessels to mend, muscle fibers to knit back together, but it's not enough; he can hardly make her flesh listen to his will, as exhausted as he is, scraping at the bottom of a barrel only to come up empty. Her skin, normally a sun-kissed tan, is sallow and mottled with bruises beneath his shaking fingers.

"Anders?" she blurts out of nowhere, and it nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

"Can you just—!" Anders wipes his neck with his forearm and scowls at her. "Can you just sit still for one damn minute while I save your life?"

Marian gives him a goofy grin, its shape lopsided with the strength of the potion Anders had poured down her throat a few minutes ago. "You know, tech—technically—" she bobs her head on each syllable, the words slurring slightly like a spoken cursive script "—you’ve got me down to nothing but my knickers and a borrowed chemise." She gives as scandalized a gasp as she can manage, which isn't much by Anders' estimation. "You saw me naked! Not how I thought it'd come about but I'll take what I can get."

"I—what?" Anders pinches the bridge of his nose with a huff. "Just—come on, Hawke." He takes a steadying breath and reaches for her shoulder once more before pausing. "Are you still in pain? I can give you some clove, that will help, just sit still." He speaks as he reaches for the makeshift table that sits beside him, a chair methodically laden with tools, vials, and jars. Anders retrieves the jar of clove oil and, with a single hand, unstoppers it, dips a small wad of fabric into the astringent liquid, and closes the jar again.

"Impressive," is what he assumes Marian tries to quip, but the word is broken by a sharp hiss when he presses the cloth to the red, raw skin of the wound he’s been checking.

"It'll help," he says, even as she whines with obvious disbelief. "Just hold still. And don't move," Anders warns sharply. "This is still only one of a handful of open wounds. Bloody void, Hawke."

She is blissfully quiet as the clove works its magic to relieve some of the pain, and Anders rubs his aching temples. Thank—well, thank Hawke's amazing propensity for unlikely friendships that she is even awake right now to fight him. Anders is grateful, he is.

But Anders also hasn't slept in most of two days, and the thin stew Merrill had thoughtfully gifted him, alongside a small hunk of bread and a knob of cheese, had been his last meal the day before. Everything in him aches with the strain of nearly continuous healing, stopping only when he physically couldn't hold onto the spells any longer.

He bites back a tired sigh. Marian is alive, and will, if Anders has any say in the matter, stay that way. That's all that he can focus on—everything else is just a detail. His chair groans beneath him as he shifts to ready his suture kit. He threads the curved silver needle with thin catgut. His fingers shake; he misses the needle's eye twice before he succeeds and secures the thread.

"This won't be particularly elegant," he mutters to himself. Almost like a reflex Anders reaches again for his magic, for Justice and their connection to the Fade, but finds the expected nothingness of his limits. He takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to Marian's face.

She stares at the needle. Marian is a careful study, Anders has found, attentive to detail and thorough. She swallows thickly. "Maybe, maybe some more clove?" Marian asks. "Or more elfroot."

"I—no, no more elfroot for at least another four hours, you just had a potion," he says. At the soft distressed noise Marian makes, he relents. "I can give you more clove, though." Anders reaches for the jar again to dip another small pad into its depths. With a practiced hand he dabs the precious liquid at the wound sites that litter her shoulder and chest. She hisses again at the contact and he murmurs softly, letting the oil seep into her skin a bit before wiping it all away with a clean cloth.

"You have," she says, trails off, and tries again, "you have a delightful bedside—bedside something, something healer-y?"

Anders snorts. "You'll decide otherwise in a moment. Hold still."

She jerks and sucks her teeth when the needle digs in, but thankfully that's the most of it as he works. Slowly the wound closes up, held together with what feels like little more than hope. Anders works his way through another puncture, and another, exhausted pride welling in him as he goes.

Marian gestures vaguely upward when he’s somewhere near halfway through. "Do you think there's really an afterlife?" she asks. "A real one, not—not some story."

Anders pauses. "What?"

"You know. Big light at the end of the tunnel and all, warm and hazy and such." She winces as he places another stitch. "Grass beneath my feet and everything, smelled honey oat cakes toasting on the hearth. And then I wake up on the cot. Is that normal?"

Anders bites his lip and finishes suturing a gash that runs from her shoulder down toward her armpit. She was so lucky, he thinks, that she wore any armor at all, for all the good it did her. He sets the suturing kit down on the chair beside him.

"Anders?"

She's watching him with those beautiful blue eyes. He reaches to cup his hand along the sharp wing of her cheekbone. Marian makes a valiant but unsuccessful effort to raise her less-damaged hand to meet his own; she tries again anyway, even when he sighs.

"You died, Marian," he says with a trembling voice. Anders brushes his thumb over her skin, thankful beyond measure for its warmth. "You died on my operating table, and I almost couldn't get you back." He purses his lips against a whimper that threatens to escape. "I didn't think I would, but I tried anyway," he breathes. "I had to."

Her throat bobs as she swallows. Marian finally does manage to reach him, her fingers light but insistent where they curl around his wrist, coaxing him closer. "But you did," she whispers. "Miracle upon miracle, you saved me."

Anders lets himself be pulled and presses his forehead against hers. The sight of her mangled body is etched into his lids when he closes his eyes. She was so still, so small when they'd all arrived. Marian Hawke was certainly no waif, no shrinking violet, but she might as well have been a porcelain doll, held aloft between Aveline and Sebastian. It's a memory Anders hopes to never see again even as he knows it will stain his dreams for years to come.

She speaks again, so soft he almost doesn't catch it. "You're always saving me, Anders."

"But you died," he stresses, and it's now that his composure breaks—a sob breaks past his barriers and it's over. Tears flow like a spring down his cheeks; they'd been held back by the violent waves of adrenaline that raced through him as he'd operated, then by the consuming worry and attention he'd wrestled with at her bedside as she lay unconscious. Anders can't bite back the panicked gasping of his breathing, the metallic scent of her blood heavy in his nose, almost enough to taste. "I don't know what I would have done had I—had we lost you."

"We've, we've—we've had close calls before."

"Not that close. Not like this."

She makes a noise at that, something undecipherable. Anders pulls back to study her face. "I never want to do that again," he murmurs. He rubs his thumb over her cheek again. "I never want to see you hurt like that again. Please, just—please be more careful, okay? I don't... I don't think I'm strong enough."

Marian smiles wanly before turning her head to press a kiss awkwardly to Anders' wrist. "You're a fantastic healer, Anders. Powerful. I trust you."

A hiccupping sob wrenches through him. "You—Marian. Marian."

Her lips are chapped and dry when he brushes his mouth over hers. She tilts her head at his gentle direction and he kisses her once, twice, thrice, so light it's more a mingling of breath than anything else. Marian's smile presses against his lips and she nuzzles the light stubble that dusts Anders' cheeks.

"That's hardly a ghost of a kiss," she whispers.

"You're still hardly a ghost of a woman.” Anders presses a last kiss to the corner of her mouth and comes up to find both of their faces wet with tears. He wipes his face with his other hand, loathe to let her go as he fights to steady his breaths.

Marian rubs her cheek into his palm. "Anders."

"Marian."

She smiles, watery but there. Her fingers tap against his hand. "I like the sound of my name in your mouth," she confides. It startles a surprised snort out of him.

"I—I do, too," Anders admits after a stunned beat, once the last ten seconds catches up with him. He doles out the truth like a miser, each word a precious gem. "And mine in yours, perhaps... perhaps more than I should." The admission feels like a knife to the gut but the softness of her smile rivals any balm or salve he could possibly make.

Marian hums and closes her eyes. "Well, oh powerful healer," she says, turning back to lay flat on the cot, "I think we have some more work ahead of us." She slants one eye open to glance at him once more. "I have to survive this to get more kisses."

Something like hope sparks deep in Anders' belly. It's as surprising as it is unfamiliar, and he grabs for it with both hands, ignoring the warnings in the back of his mind. "Yeah, Hawke," he breathes. She settles once more at that, and he preps another wound for suturing.

I'd give you anything, Anders thinks as he threads the silver needle again, and knows it to be true.

Anything.

#handers #anders #hawke #f!hawke #dragon age ii #fanfiction #ocean-in-my-rebel-soul #the exhaustion is so real

[blondepomwrites]

To the Last Drop

It wasn’t that Fenris had never seen liquid lyrium in use. 

Obviously, that wasn’t the case. The mages of the Imperium had always made sure it was in reach, of course, and Hawke and the other two kept it on hand whenever they expected a brawl. He’d seen empty vials of it tossed aside mid-fight, seen it sipped from the finest gold goblets, passed from mouth to mouth in intimate moments—yes, Fenris had seen plenty of lyrium in use. 

He wished it weren’t the case, though. Because if he was unfamiliar with it, that might explain the way he couldn’t seem to help watching Hawke when she drank it down. 

Unfortunately, it was not novelty but something else entirely that kept his eyes on her lips, pressed to the glass, on the long line of her throat when she tipped her head back to finish the draught. 

On…on her tongue, when she traced it over her full lower lip to gather up any loose drops. 

“Ready?” Isabela asked, twirling a dagger in one hand absently, “I’ve an itch I need to scratch.”

“Oh?” Hawke said, laughing, her head still half-back. She was all but a silhouette to him, standing near the top of a hill while he leaned against a boulder at the bottom. 

“Again?” Merrill asked, peering at the Rivaini, “Is it the one under your shoulder blade that you can never reach? D’you want me to try—”

“No, no,” Isabela laughed, slinging an arm over the elf’s shoulders, “Not that kind of itch, Kitten.”

“Oh,” Merrill said, as the two began to wander back toward the road, “I thought…” 

Fenris had already stopped paying attention to them. Hawke was looking at him, one arm stretched across her bountiful chest, her head angled to the side. Fenris pushed off of the boulder and made his way very deliberately up the last rise. He stopped a decent distance away—he knew because he was measuring the space between them very carefully in his mind—and went on looking at her. 

He’d intended to say something. He knew he’d intended to stay something. 

Hawke eyed him carefully, then stretched the other arm across her chest, wincing faintly. She only ever did that when he was the sole observer—and yes, he only knew this because he was so often watching her—but Fenris could find no reason for it. 

Under other circumstances, he might think she was trying to get something from him. For anyone else, he would be right. But this: that he was the only one she allowed to bind her wounds, aside from the healer; that he was the one she balanced herself with when she was limping or woozy from blood loss. Fenris could not understand it, and he dare not ask. The obvious explanation—that she still trusted him after everything else that had happened—was simply beyond consideration. 

There had to be a reason. If she were anyone else, he thought with a sense of dissatisfaction, he would almost certainly ask.

“Stiff?” he asked gruffly, tapping the fingers of one hand against his thigh. 

Maria—her given name, not that anyone ever used it; Fenris only thought of her thus because she’d gasped it into his ear that night three years ago, told him not to call her Hawke while—

Nevermind. 

Hawke sighed and her mouth turned down at the corners in an exaggerated pout.

“I’m getting old, Fenris,” she said, so woefully that he almost believed her for a moment, “I feel it in my bones. Soon, I’ll only ever talk about…oh, gout and how young folk these days never know how to treat their elders.”

“You could have just said no,” he told her sternly, but the corner of his mouth lifted faintly. She must have seen it, for her lips curled up in answer, even as she lifted her eyes dolefully to the sky. 

“No, Fenris, you don’t understand,” she said, and set the back of her hand against her forehead, “Who will chase mercenaries all over these hills when I can’t hobble after them? Soon I shall be all wrinkles and white hair and—”

“And still look just as—” 

Fenris bit the end of the sentence off before he could make the fatal mistake of speaking it aloud, but both of them froze anyway. 

And still look just as lovely as you do now. 

The words hovered on his tongue for a moment, kept caged behind his teeth, and it was a force of will not to say the words aloud. 

They’d only made it this far by pretending it—that night—had never happened. Three years, nearly, and they were both still here together. That first night at cards in the Hanged Man, Fenris had hesitated at the door, abruptly itchy everywhere, as if the air itself were anathema to him. He’d thought to leave, to prevent the inevitable discomfort, but she….

She’d met his eyes and scooted over, nudging Isabela with her, clearing room at the other end of the table. So…so he’d know he still had a place there, even if it wasn’t at her side. Fenris thought he might be grateful to her for that forever, no matter what else happened between the two of them. How strange, not to realize how much having a place of one’s own meant until one faced down the possibility of losing it permanently.

“Well,” Hawke said after a moment, blinking first and lowering her eyes, “In any case, maybe I’ll be lucky and go bald. I cannot believe I forgot to tie all this up before I left the manor this morning. The wind is wreaking absolute havoc.”

“I can—” Fenris began, then winced inwardly. 

He could, in fact, help with that; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d tied someone else’s hair up, nor the first time he’d done it for her—but those had been simpler times. 

“If you have a bit of leather, or…anything, I can manage,” she said. 

Fenris’s fingers touched her token, still tied around his wrist, but he would not part with it—not even for the sake of her comfort. He reached into his pocket instead and retrieved a loose bit of leather he’d intended to tame his own hair with in case the weather turned. He despised the way wet hair stuck to one’s skin, and he’d endured it several times too many on these outings to the coast. The leather ought to be long enough for her hair, too, if he plaited it first.

“Turn,” he told her, his voice thicker than he would have liked, and she turned without a word. 

Fenris gathered the bounty of her hair in his hands, untangling several knots as carefully as possible. It seemed to cling to his fingers, twining around the joints, black against the pale blue lyrium that lined his skin. It had looked like that three years ago, too, had tangled around him just so when he’d tilted her head back over his hand to kiss down the length of her neck. It had felt like this draped over his chest when he’d combed his fingers through it after, and—

“Are you coming down from there anytime soon?” Isabela demanded from the bottom of the hill, and Fenris realized he’d been combing his fingers through Maria’s hair without moving onto the next step. For how long? Her chest rose and fell too quickly, as if she’d just climbed a very steep hill, but that was…probably just exertion. 

Fenris let his eyes focus again on her dark curls, pulling them into a simple plait down the middle while she answered Isabela. They were laughing about something—not him; it sounded different when Hawke was laughing about him—so all must be well enough. He finished the braid, tied it off as intended, and then he just…stood there, holding the end of her thick hair. 

It was soft as silk between his fingers, shiny as a raven’s wing and dark against the brown of his hands, against the pale blue of the lyrium that thrummed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. Hawke was underneath his skin, too, in her way; and it was all the worse for knowing it had all been his choice. That having and leaving her had been his choice. And for all the times Fenris had wished he could forget what her skin had felt like, how she’d sounded when—

Well.

For all he’d wished he could forget, he was deeply, deeply grateful that he could still remember every second of it. What would he be if this, too, had been taken from him? He did not wish to consider it.

“Finished?” Hawke asked, turning her head. 

There was a faint quiver to her bottom lip that made him want to press his thumb to it, but he did not. He hadn’t the right. 

Fenris didn’t move at all. He just stood, and looked, and wished. 

Finished, she’d asked.

“I am…not certain,” Fenris told her. 

Hawke’s fingers found the end of the braid, tested the leather tie, but her attention was on him. He could tell; one could always tell when Hawke’s full attention was fixed on them. 

“Are you?” he finished, the words nearly carried off by the wind. She opened her mouth to answer and—

“Let’s go,” Isabela called from the other side of the hill, “I have plans for tonight that don’t include murder!”

Hawke turned, shaking her head at the words, but for a moment—just a moment—her hand brushed against Fenris’s, the warmth of her fingers barely felt between the joints of his armor. As she set off down the hill, the hand she’d touched curled into a fist, tight enough to dig into his palm, and flexed loose again. 

Fenris set off after her, eyes carefully on the steep ground ahead, but a careful observer might have been able to note the color in his cheeks, and the matching red that spilled over Hawke’s. 

It was unfortunate, then, that Varric had not come with them that day—for there was nobody present who would notice such things at all.

(For @14daysdalovers, Day 5: Lyrium. In case anyone is keeping track, this was about a week before the party ficlet I posted yesterday c: )

#lovely mutual pining #fenhawke #fhawris #dragon age ii #fanfiction

[blondepomwrites]

Hello friends! I have finally decided to start freelancing as a fiction editor!

If you’ve enjoyed my work as a writer or a beta-reader, first off, thank you, thank you! I really honed my skills in fandom, and intend to keep doing so for a long, long time – but if you have original work that needs some polish, or help with structural issues, please check me out! I have a bunch of great projects lined up that I can’t talk about yet, but I do have slots available now!

And – to celebrate – I’m offering three special intro offers slots, for developmental + line edits on the first 5,000 words of your story, along with a half-hour video/voice chat to go over my notes, for $40! This means you get: scene notes on your draft, as well as a letter talking about the big-picture aspects (what I think could be clarified or strengthened, as well as what I think you’re doing well!), and notes on where to improve flow/dialogue/readability.

If you’re interested, either reach out to me through my contact form on the website, or at [email protected]!

Thank you all! <3 <3

PS: If you’re a sensitivity reader who would like to be listed on my site, let me know! I would love to give you a boost!

#signal boost #writing #editing #beta #if i was in the market I'd hire her in a heartbeat!

[blondepomwrites]

reminder to self to fucking GO WILD with any piece of writing. just. have FUN type absolute utter bs and abandon that planned-to-publish wip to work on something you like, turn the same daydream around and look at it from every angle and write it down no matter if it‘s fanfic, cliche or doesn‘t fit in any wip ALL OF THIS IS PRACTICING AND IT‘S ALSO FUN SO YOU CAN‘T DO ANYTHING WRONG HERE

#this is entirely my impetus for Walk the Void #so purple it shames the violets #writing #just have fun and let your emotions go ham on your keyboard

[blondepomwrites]

writing tip #2614:

pick a strong title. if it’s strong enough, it’ll counteract the weak plot. at least i hope it does. oh g od i hope it does

#i feel personally attacked #writing #gr8 writing tips

[blondepomwrites]

Blow Down These Walls, O Western Wind (DA2, FenHawke)

Summary: If only she could simply set this love aside like a worn-out pair of boots; if only she could let apathy swallow hope, and then move on, lighter and quieter and free. Alas: in love she is, and in love she will apparently stay, until the Gallows itself is nothing but broken rocks tumbling into the sea.

Or: the road back home.

Rating: Teen. 

Word Count: 9700 words. 

Notes: A million thanks to @aban-asaara and @snuffes for their help with this fic. <3

Recommended listening.

Read on: Ao3!

**********

The house is hardly visible from the path, though Hawke only went far enough to cast her magelight toward the causeway. Rain and a ferocious late-spring wind from the west nearly drowned her light before it left her hand, and she beats a hasty retreat to her alleged shelter as soon as she glimpses the floodwaters surging between her and the road home.

When she creeps back inside, she’s almost too preoccupied with untangling her hair from her staff to notice Fenris barely acknowledged her return. She swears over her chilled fingers, blinks the rest of the rain from her eyes, and then drags the door shut, too tired to care about the wind slipping through the crooked frame.

“The causeway’s still flooded.” Hawke rubs her cheeks. “Up to our elbows, at least. Well, your elbows. Shoulders for me. I’m open to suggestions, but I’d say our best bet is to wait it out here.” She tosses the brightest smile she can manage in Fenris’ direction, but he doesn’t even jerk his shaggy head up to look her way. She’s become quite familiar with the top of his head, along with the curve of his jaw as he turns from her and walks away. This is the first time in ages they’ve been in the same room longer than it takes for her to walk in and him to depart. If circumstances weren’t so bloody miserable, she’d be jumping for joy.

“Fenris,” she says, after the wind gets bored battering at the door and slides off to torture some other place, “how’s the leg?”

“Fine,” he replies. More of a grunt than a word, really. He shakes water from his hair and Hawke’s heart clenches — he might look at her, just for a moment, and she’ll be able to see if he’s lying — but his eyes slide away from hers, to the dark, rubble-strewn floor, and he returns to fussing with a bandage.

It’s just wishful thinking to hope she’ll get an actual conversation out of him, for once, but no one could ever say she doesn’t cling to her lost causes. She inches toward him, conjuring a whisper of magelight in her palm as she goes. Fenris looks up, but it’s just reflex; Hawke sees the wary flash of his eyes, and how quickly he tamps it down to indifference. She can’t read a damn thing in his face, and she tries, she tries, to ignore how hollow the world seems when he looks at her as if he’s never known her at all. As if he’s trying to forget, and succeeding.

“Just want to make sure you’re not secretly bleeding to death.” She sits down beside him, careful to keep enough space between them — and when did she learn what amount of space was enough? — and holds out her light. “It was a nasty hit, and the arrows they used could —”

Fenris turns his head away, though he doesn’t protest when she pulls back the bandage and peers at the wound gouged up his thigh. For most of its length, the damage is skin-deep, and the bleeding’s stopped; up toward the curve of his hip, there’s a deeper puncture where the arrowhead finally came to rest. Hawke still isn’t sure how the bandit managed the hit, but seeing it, dark and sore, staring back at her like an accusing eye, she wishes she could kill them all over again.

Now, now, chides a low, knowing voice — it sounds very much like her mother’s, and gooseflesh prickles over Hawke’s arms — you’re not allowed to be protective of him anymore. You weren’t to begin with, not really, but he humored you for a little while.

She exhales harder than she wants to and shakes out the magelight. “It seems you live to fight another day,” she says. He nods once, and she keeps going, knowing how pathetic she is for being encouraged by even that little. “So long as we survive this storm, that is, but we won’t lack for warmth. I’ll get a fire started — anyone who’s out in this won’t be able to see the smoke, so.”

Before she can sound any more ridiculous, she heads for a promising pile of broken furniture. The wood is damp, but a cantrip takes care of that quickly enough, and she loses herself for a few moments in the task of building a fire that won’t burn down the house, and them with it. Always nice to get some practice with flint and tinder, too, even if she has mana to spare.

Fenris is silent all through her work. Not that she expects him to help, or wants him to; that leg wound may not be the death-blow it could have been, but it’s nasty enough to keep him on bedroll-rest for the night. Or till the causeway goes down enough for them to make the trudge back to Kirkwall. On her own, she could freeze the water solid and trip merrily and perhaps literally home, but the journey would be agonizing for Fenris. Better to wait out the storm, and reassess in the morning.

They haven’t been alone together in years. Why now? Why, of all the shitty jobs she takes because she has no idea what else to do with her time, did he insist on coming along for this one? The bandits — aside from the lucky shot, whose luck ended when she froze his lungs — were half-starved, fueled only by a long winter’s desperation. She could have handled them alone.

Why? Hawke wants to scream, until the wind itself goes quiet. Why are you still here? You haven’t had so much as a smile for me since I got off the boat from Jader, much less a friendly word. What do you want, Fenris?

She shouldn’t have thought of the smile. They’d all been waiting for her on the docks, with lemon sugars and back-slapping hugs, and there, between Aveline and Isabela, was Fenris, smiling — but he’d been absent from Wicked Grace the next night, and the next.

Since then, nothing. If ever there had been warmth between them — well. She shouldn’t think of that, either. But was it too much to hope they would have found a way to be friends once more?

If I want something, it can be taken away. Her throat hurts. More to the point, it’ll be ruined as soon as I reach for it, and I should have learned this lesson a long time ago.

“Are you warm enough?” she asks, by her reckoning an hour after starting the fire. Fenris has stopped fussing with his bandages and is slowly sharpening his dagger. On a whetstone, Hawke realizes, she gave him.

It’s like falling down a flight of stairs, over and over.

“I am,” he tells her, still without looking up. “Thank you.”

How is it, she wonders, that two years ago she would have happily handed over her soul to be alone with Fenris for five minutes, and now she can only wish there was still an entire sea between them?

Across the room, Fenris sets the whetstone and dagger aside, and leans his head against the wall, eyes shut.

Read the rest on Ao3!

#such a wonderfully indulgent exploration #that gives so much more depth to Hawke's emotional state post Act II #as well as strengthening their eventual reunion #but not before tilling through so much anger and hurt on both sides #also there are so many GEMS in this piece I don't even know where to start on that. #fanfiction #fic rec #fenhawke #f!fenhawke #fhawris #dragon age ii #theherocomplex

[blondepomwrites]

so I’ve had this idea in my mind for an absolutely capital-S Stupid short-ish novel in my head for a few years now, and for whatever reason it’s been poking at my brain recently. So because I needed some way to free-write, I drabbled a little of of an opening but I want to know which opening line works better.

You’re in the literature/sci-fi section of your local bookstore. For whatever reason, let’s say you pick up this book. You look to the summary on the back or in the book-sleeve, and you read:

Jae Hyun is a sophomore at the local state university, majoring in liberal arts, probably. To escape the pressure of being the family disappointment, he stumbles through tears in reality and into another dimension where the specimen are vexing and hauntingly beautiful, and think the same of him. Then, after months of hopping between dimensions, Jae finds himself confronted with the consequences of his actions: a basketful of his half-human, half-alien spawn shoved into his arms just before he is thrust out of the alien dimension--permanently. Now Jae must face raising his half-human litter in a fully-human world, finding a secret way back into the alien dimension, and also proving himself as more than just the family disappointment.

And if you don’t immediately yeet the book out of your hands and for some reason open to the first page, which of the two opening [dialogue] lines would keep you reading more?

“So, basically, you’re the inter-dimensional version of a furry.”

or

“Wait, she had how many tiddies?”

#I know sometimes having a 'dirty' word in the first line/page will immediately push some people away #but also with a summary like that literally what else did you expect #doggish drabbles #Jae and the Graduation Crackfic

[blondepomwrites]

top three pieces of advice for writers: go!

Okay then! Aside from “read a lot, write a lot, get out into the world and refill your creative well”, and my new favorite, “if you’re blocked on something, go back about ten lines and you’ll probably find the issue there”: 

First drafts are for you and the story to get to know each other – do not slow down or limit the process by doing large-scale edits at this stage, and don’t lose momentum by looking stuff up. If you know you’ll need to go back and check a name/location/date, or you know you’ll want to rewrite a section, just highlight it, leave a comment on that section, and write “check/fix/add/expand/cut”. Those are problems for Future You, who will have the time to deal with all the details. Present You just needs to write, without limitations or the stress of editing hanging over your head. You’re telling yourself the story; have fun! There will be time later for polishing. 

Don’t talk down about your writing, whether it’s to yourself or to others. It’s one thing to be frustrated with a story or your growth, and to express that, but continually saying “I suck at this” or “this story is terrible” or “my writing is so bad” creates a feedback loop, and soon enough, you start to believe it. Not only that, but when you get validation after saying those things – people telling you they love your work, that it’s great, that you shouldn’t beat yourself up – you’re now associating praise with beating yourself up. These are hard habits to break, but redirecting the “I suck” to “I’ve got a long way to go to be where I want, but I’m working hard and I am proud of what I’ve done so far” puts your focus back on doing the work, and celebrating your progress. 

Do not put pressure on yourself to write every day, or for a certain amount of time every day; everyone’s path to success is different, and no one’s idea of success looks exactly the same. Find what works for you, set aside the time to make it happen, and stick to it (without guilt! Whether you’re writing for a career or as a hobby, never feel guilty about taking this time for yourself). The goal is not to be better than anyone else, the goal is to find a way to create that’s healthy and fun, on some level, for you – and only you can figure that out. Be patient with yourself along the way. 

And – because it needs to be said: words beget words. The more you write, the more you’ll have to write. So don’t hold back your best words for a story you may never write – write them now, and leave room for more words to arrive. 

#well said! #writing advice

[blondepomwrites]

“Find the Word” Tag Meme

Rules: Find the assigned words in your current WIP, then pick 4 new words and tag some peeps to find them.

Thank you, @aban-asaara, for the tag! <3 I was tasked with finding the words: red, fall, flower, and heat... What a pleasant combination of words!

Walk the Void - a f!fenhawke manifesto fic

red - She had him tangled in her everything by the time she drew him to her room like a spider to her web, the red bloodswipe on her face a warning of the telltale red hourglass he’d only find on her abdomen once it was too late. But he went willingly, eagerly—her venom already riding his pulse.

fall - “Safe? And what fun would that be?” She tried to sound jovial, but her tone belied her, falling flat and hard. After a moment, she pulled him closer, too. “I have to do this alone, Fenris. I’m so sorry.”

flower - none, surprisingly!

heat - He remembered waves—of heat in the Free Marcher summer, of spices in the sweet bread she brought, and of her hair as she ran a hand through it, huffing, “Getting too long. It’s starting to look like yours.”

The Girl Who Struck Lightning - original fantasy

red - This was no sapling, nor bush or shrub. And it was very much alive—verdant and red as she’d ever seen. Redder than red, richer and fuller than fire. She plucked a leaf and held it up to the light. Soft and downy, longer than her fingers and somewhat flimsy. If she’d picked it off the ground, she would have called it a feather, not a part of a plant.

fall - Pashti continued, “Stubborn, independent minded, and of all differing motivations, but you can’t harvest a feast in the fall if all you sew are flowers in the spring.” She stopped and narrowed her eyes, turning suddenly to her flock at her right with a grin of a coyote that found a hare caught in its trap.  “And nosey as elephants with ears just as big, all of you!”

flower - Months had gone by and her visitors had slowed to a trickle, discouraged by the flower that refused to blossom. Other than the markings the ordeal had bestowed her, she looked no different than any other sleeping child in the small town.

heat - Thferal felt a heat rise under her cheeks. The golden-eyed girl had said she’d know when she needed to lie, but like she’d come to learn from Flora and Forrest, it was just another one of many things in this world that she did not know.

If anyone wants to do this, I task you to find: fire, void, ache, and magic!

#meme #walk the void #the girl who struck lightning #tgwsl

[blondepomwrites]

Shakarian kiss #6!

lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up

********** 

Mornings in the Shepard-Vakarian cabin – why bother to lie, when everyone knew Garrus’ cot in the battery had been collecting dust for the past four months? – were usually a race to see who could be type-A the fastest. Shepard won most often, because Garrus still thought replacing blood with caffeine was a bad idea – the sign of a rank amateur, as far as Shepard was concerned. 

But that meant she had half an hour on her own, most mornings, because even if she saw no point in lounging once her eyes were open, that wasn’t a reason to ruin his last few minutes of sleep. 

So she’d make terrible, cold instant coffee, and go through the messages EDI and vetted (and Liara read) during the night, and shower, and be dressed and radiating moral superiority when Garrus finally dragged himself out of bed. 

This morning – this morning was different. Something in the way his arms were slung awkwardly across the turian-anatomy-friendly cushions, or how the shadows gathered inside his cowl. Garrus never looked unalien, just familiar, but he looked…not quite vulnerable, not quite soft, but – peaceful. 

Shepard set down her coffee on top of her datapad without drinking it. Peace: now there was an unfamiliar concept. If she stayed focus on whatever tasks were at hand, she could almost forget about the pressure coming from all sides, friendly and unfriendly. Catching up on her messages every morning felt less and less like crossing lines off her to-do list, and more like guessing who’d be shooting at her over the course of the day. 

But – there was Garrus, sheets tangled around spiny legs, snoring lightly, burnished by the skylight’s cold illumination. Something twisted in her chest, too painful to fully consider, but she knew it was some species of fear. 

She shoved it aside and went barefoot down the stairs. Garrus didn’t stir when she laid back down next to him, but he murmured and sighed when she wrapped an arm around his keel. Then, unable to resist, she pressed her mouth to the hide of his neck, breathing him in, relishing his heartbeat.

“Mm,” he said, nuzzling his cheek against her hair. His eyes stayed closed, but his mandibles moved in a sleepy smile. “Good. Shepard.” 

She smiled and burrowed closer, eager to soak up all his warmth. Thank god for turians running a little hotter than humans; she’d never need another self-heating blanket. “Good Garrus,” she murmured back, while he sighed himself back to sleep.

[fictional kiss prompts!]

#soft and cute! #if a little sad #but I would expect no less from #theherocomplex #mass effect #shakarian #garrus vakarian #commander shepard #fanfiction

[blondepomwrites]

To Be Written

Source: Steven Ingels

#...listen. #meme

[blondepomwrites]

i’ve been doing my homework on how to break into a writing career and honestly. there’s a Lot that i didn’t know about thats critical to a writing career in this day and age, and on the one hand, its understandable because we’re experiencing a massive cultural shift, but on the other hand, writers who do not have formal training in school or don’t have the connections to learn more via social osmosis end up extremely out of loop and working at a disadvantage. 

#writing