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leebrontide · 1 year

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Ok so I said I would do a post on “reasons you’re not writing” from the POV of a writer/therapist who works with anxious, depressed, and neurodivergent clients. If you dig that, read on.

But firstly, a disclaimer. This list is far from comprehensive. Don’t yell at me if your experience isn’t represented. This is a tumblr post. Have realistic expectations.

Also, sometimes the reason you’re not writing is that your other obligations are just taking all of your energy and focus. Fixing that is well beyond the scope of this.

That said, here’s a bunch of barriers I see people run into all the time.

1) You’re afraid of failing, and subconsciously feel like it’s safer not to try.

This is a tricky one, because it's probably messing up many areas of your life, which in turn means you're going to frequently feel stressed out in general, which speaks to the point above.

This is around about where the general internet will tend to offer you an array of affirmations to use to sooth yourself. And that's fine. If those work for you, then use them! BUT, if the affirmations aren't working, then friend you have a bigger project on your hands.

You need to get comfortable with failing, particularly at creative projects. I know that can feel scary and vulnerable, but you won't take risks if you can't fail, which is going to hem in your creativity so hard that your motivation will starve. This is why people talk about writing a garbage draft. Not because they want to make garbage, but because they need the option of making garbage in order to take risks. That may or may not work for you, but either way, you really might wanna look at how to lower your stakes.

2) You’re not sure what you’re trying to communicate.

You can make things happen in the story, but you feel like you’re wandering around aimlessly. You don't find you're making decisions with conviction. It might be hard to really fall in love with any of your writing decisions.

For this one, I suggest stepping back and figuring out what the core of your enthusiasm for a story consists of. That CAN be a message or philosophy. It can also be a feeling or a vibe or a dynamic. That gives you a structure that you can build your decisions around, that you can be enthusiastic about.

3) You switched hyperfocus. And maybe your new hyperfocus is a lot of fun, but you feel sadness thinking about the WIP you left behind.

This one has a similar need to the one before, with an added layer of nuance, because you're probably already struggling with identifying what does interest you. This can make people feel really hopeless and helpless.

I have three totally different suggestions for this one. The first is to just be patient with yourself. Sometimes it's good for your brain to just indulge, and let your brain mine for dopamine where it can. Like, lean in. Spa day for your brain, as long as it's feeling good.

Secondly, see if you can find creative ways to weave your hyperfocus into your writing. Is there a dynamic in your favorite show that can inspire your writing, even if it's an original work? Do you want to take a moment to think about how transportation works in the history of your world? Can you consider your MCs relationship to old movies?

It doesn't always work, but sometimes instead of trying to switch things over, you can build a bridge, that gives depth and texture to your work.

Finally- consider embracing short fiction! Do some writing inspired directly by the hyperfocus du joir while it's around.

4) You feel like nothing you say will be interesting to anyone else.

We understand this is a self-esteem issue, right? You're gonna have to develop the trust that your experiences are not so utterly unrelatable to everyone else that your perspective has no value.

Friend, you are a human, with human experiences, writing for other humans. Trust me, you can do this.

It can help to think about your actual convictions. What do you know? What have you experienced? What matters to you? Funnily enough, the cure for feeling like nothing in you is worth expressing is to pour more of yourself into your writing.

5) You’re collapsed. It’s hard to feel enthusiasm and energy for things.

You're not gonna like this, but for this one I encourage you to put your keyboard or notebook down and stop trying to write right now. I know that when you're feeling better the writing feels good, and you're trying to feel better because everyone is telling you to feel better.

But it's not working, is it? If it was, you wouldn't be reading this.

For many people, writing requires them to be able to feel investment and excitement, because those feelings help steer them towards what's going to work and be exciting for the reader.

Your best bet is to focus your energy on finding gentle little activities that aren't so hard to focus on. Ideally, ones that get you moving just a little bit. You'll have a better time writing when you're less collapsed.

Shaming yourself and getting hopeless and anxious because you can't do this really difficult task right now will make you more collapsed, not less, which will be the opposite of helpful.

And yes, these are depression symptoms. Consider reaching out for supports and assessment around that if you can.

6) You can’t figure out the next step.

Thank God for the internet, this one is a lot more actionable than it used to be.

The first thing to do here is step back and ask yourself "where am I getting lost?" If you have someone to talk this through with, even better.

Then you hop on to your favorite search engine and type in "Stuck on my outline 2nd act" or "can't get started editing" or whatever. People LOVE giving writing advice. There's plenty around. Read some advice! Try things out!

Now here is the critical point- when and if that advice fails, stop and figure out why it failed. For example, I have a short term memory disorder. Most writing process advice is for people who do not have short term memory impairments. So a lot of the advice just plain didn't work for me.

By figuring out that my subpar memory was in the way of my writing process, I was able to put together processes that work for my specific brain and my specific process. You can read about that in more depth here and here.

Frankenstien yourself a process out of stolen bits of other people's processes, with an understanding of your own personalized needs as the lightning that brings it all to life. If you have even traits of ADHD or autism or other forms of neurodiversity (no diagnosis needed) you might also google "ADHD editing hacks".

Finally, and maybe most importantly, chuck anything that you can't adapt right into the trash. I don't care how great the writer who gave the advice is. That's what works for their life and their brain. You have neither. Writing advice is only as useful as it is adaptable.

7) You think of yourself as someone who doesn’t finish things, possibly with history to back that up.

Oh, I feel this one. This was me so hard. For so long.

Make room for the idea that you can and will change over time. Getting shit done is largely a matter of developing a bunch of skills. You've already developed so many different skills in your life that you might not even recognize some of them as skills. But I promise you that you have.

But you see #6? Go read that one again. If you're not finishing things, it's because there's something missing in your routine and process that you haven't developed skills around yet.

I'm not gonna tell you it's easy, but you can find and isolate the barriers and figure out ways around them.

8) You have too many projects and feel frozen when you try to pick one to work on.

Ask yourself if this is a real problem. It may be! Maybe you dream of making a living off of your writing! That requires a level of consistency.

But it also might just be that you've had it drilling into your head that not finishing things is some kind of personal failing.

Write out all your WIPs and story seeds.

See if some of them can be mushed into one. Some AMAZING stories come from people combining story ideas that seem separate into a single story. That's fun.

See if some of them are not for finishing. What's that post going around? Some stories are for finishing, and some are just for "getting the wiggles out"? That's solid advice.

Maybe some stories are just for daydreaming on the bus. Maybe some stories are actually only 1/3rd of a story, and you want to leave it to grow in the ground before you try to do anything with it. That's incredibly valid and common!

If you actually look at the stories that you have that are for finishing, right now, you may find a much more manageable number. And if you only have like 2 or 3 things you're working on, you can just let them take turns as the passion for each project takes you.

Keep a file somewhere of these undeveloped ideas. I have a scrivner file that has each idea it's own little sub-document so I can add thoughts to them for years as they percolate.

9) You get lost in preparation and don’t make it to the page.

A couple different things can be happening here. One thing that may be happening is that you're just a writer who needs a lot of research and prep time before you write. I'm like that. I will prewrite intensively for a year before I write a single sentence. That sounds ridiculous to a lot of people but it works with how my brain works and then when I do start writing I can easily and happily churn out a consistent 2-4k words per hour. If it works it works! Don't let anyone shame you!

The other option is that you feel like you're going to get something wrong/fail/get in trouble if you get anything "wrong". You feel safer doing research, so that's where you stay.

Only you can figure out which it is. Introspect. Then you know whether to focus on managing anxiety or just keep preppin.

10) You want to write, but when you sit down to write suddenly it’s two hours later and you’ve written like 5 words but curated 3 new playlists, read some fanfiction, and argued with some strangers on the internet.

Brains are rough, aren't they.

There are two schools of thought here. Both work, but not for all the same people.

Option 1 is to clear distractions. Download one of those apps that keeps you off the internet. Put your phone someplace that you need a ladder to reach, so you have to very actively decide to go get it. Noise cancelling headphones. Comfy clothes. Protein rich snacks and a beverage within easy reach. Pee ahead of time. Make a routine out of it to train your brain into associating this with focus.

Option 2 is to figure out the optimal level of distraction. When I write nonfiction I almost always have mindless home renovation shows on at the same time. Because nonficiton writing isn't quite stimulating enough to hold my attention. So my attention wanders and I end up doing something that WILL hold my attention. When I write fiction, I need music OR to be outdoors where I can look at trees or clouds or people on the sidewalk. I can't watch any kind of TV.

Think of your attention like a pie chart. Different writing tasks may take up different percentages of that pie. If you're awesome at focus maybe you can just put 90% of your focus on writing, and the other 10% is just making sure you don't forget to eat or something. But if you can't reliably conjure up more than 70% for one thing, then fill the rest of the pie with things you can easily pick up and put down. I only look up at the home decorating shows when my passive audio scanning suggests it's something I want to look up at.

These are both good approaches. Ignore anyone who demonizes either. That only means they've found the version that works for them.

You have your brain. Build a process for your brain.

I hope this helps. I have a free monthly newsletter if you like hearing my rants. It is...not consistently about writing advice or mental health. One time I wrote about how genetically modified goats are related to French colonized Madagascar in the 1800s as well as the modern US military. One time I broke down modern challenges to medical privacy practice policies. This is all to do with what I write but in an idiosyncratic way.

Cause I gotta write about what I care about.

#writeblr #mental health #neurodiversity #writing #writing advice #writing process #writing procrastination

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bynux · 9 days

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Imagine that board gaming is a very important and valuable interest to you. It's integral to the way you express yourself and share important moments with people you care about.

You meet a partner who's your dream person, but they only want you to play board games with them. It would be a deep breach of trust for them to find out that you've played a game with someone else. You enter the relationship, thinking "I love this person dearly. Board games with other people are something I can give up to keep them around."

Over time, you find a bunch of different two-player games and land on a few that you really enjoy. You start to play those games more often. Chess, checkers, UNO, mancala, reversi, pick your poison. Eventually it becomes a routine.

But there are only so many two-player games, let alone ones you haven't tried already. You start to realize that different people have different play styles that you'll never get to try your hand against. Your attention is drawn to three-, four-, even many-player games that you're missing out on. You're curious about Wingspan, Pandemic, Catan. You want to try games like UNO with more than just one other person and see what effect the Reverse card should actually have. Meanwhile, you and your partner continue to play the same three or four games, only occasionally trying something new. It feels…unsatisfying.

So you ask your partner if maybe you could try playing chess with another friend who you think might pose a challenge and offer a different perspective…and they're hurt by this suggestion. "Is playing with me not enough for you anymore? Am I not enough for you anymore?" You realize they're not going to budge, and you grow frustrated, or even resentful, that such an important part of your life has to be locked down for you if you want to keep this person you love.

A lot of people are perfectly content playing board games with just one person. But out of those who aren't, some resort to playing games with others in secret, especially if losing the relationship will create undue hardship (housing, finances, etc). Others leave their partners, amicably or…otherwise. Others still, arguably MOST, simply consider their need for other board games to be a personal flaw, convince themselves that they're being selfish, and continue to let the resentment grow.

Congratulations, you now understand what monogamy feels like to a non-monogamous/polyamorous person.

#queer #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbtqia #polyamory #polyamourous #polyam #non monogamy #nonmonogamy #ethical non monogamy #enm #relationship anarchy #queer relationships #open relationships

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randoimago · 4 months

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Hi omg I’m so excited hopefully this request is ok and makes sense. I really like your work so I’m a tad nervous. But basically how would Yusuke, and Ryuji (and Mishima if possible if not that’s also completely understandable) be around their very short S/O like 5 feet 2 inches tall or less level of short. I hope that makes sense if not feel free to ignore me.

Fandom: Persona 5

Character(s): Yuuki Mishima, Ryuji Sakamoto, Yusuke Kitagawa

Note(s): Found a height chart for the group. Futaba and Haru are both short (5'2" and less) queens and I love them. Also, I'm always happy to write for Mishima, he's my goofball 🥰

Mishima

He finds the height difference to be adorable. You're his very cute S/O and he'll gladly help you with whatever you need. Even if you don't really need his help, he'll still offer it. Sure, a step stool would probably be enough for you to reach something, but he still wants to be a useful boyfriend.

Mishima is there to defend you if he hears anyone else saying some kind of short joke to you. Even if you find them amusing, he's still defending you because he knows those jokes can get old quick and doesn't want your mood to potentially sour because the jokes get old.

Yes, you might be his short S/O, but if you want to maybe play video games with him (please) then he'll gladly be your knight in shining armor in that too. He'll happily be your healer if you want to tank. Even if it is in a video game, he finds it so freaking attractive if you defend him despite your smaller stature.

Ryuji

Absolutely leans on you, placing his arm on the top of your head and little things like that to mess with you. It's all done in good fun and he'd never want to actually hurt your feelings, but he's the type of boyfriend to do that stuff.

Ryuji accidentally puts things on high shelves where you can't reach. It's legitimately an accident because he's just placing things where he's always used to having them. He didn't even think about the fact that you can't reach. He is amused when he sees you struggling but then he moves to help you.

He would be happy to pick you up and give you piggyback rides and such though. Even if it's not the best on his knees, he will still try if it makes you happy. Ryuji gets a bit flustered with the affection, but he'll still do it if you ask enough.

Yusuke

Yusuke doesn't intentionally makes short jokes, but he bluntly comments on your height now and then if you need his help to get something from a higher shelf. Again, he doesn't mean for it to sound like a joke, he just says it without thinking of it. Will apologize when he sees you're upset.

Despite the accidental insults, he doesn't really treat you any differently. You're his S/O and that's what he sees you as. That said, if he does have art on the mind then it is interesting for him to see the perspective change for you. Might ask you to take photos of things at your eye level so he can try some new painting idea or something.

Is a bit hesitant with introducing you to Futaba. She's also very small and the last thing he wants is for her to corrupt you and then he's dealing with two tiny gremlins, one being his S/O. If you're already a gremlin then he just sighs and deals with it.

Taglist: @reo-the-leo

#Anonymous #persona 5 x reader #ryuji x reader #ryuji sakamoto x reader #p5 ryuji x reader #yusuke x reader #yusuke kitagawa x reader #p5 yusuke x reader #mishima x reader #yuuki mishima x reader #p5 mishima x reader

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glorious-spoon · 1 year

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Second-Guessing [9-1-1 | Buck/Eddie | 1/1]

Rating: Teen Wordcount: ~1000 Warnings: None Other Tags: Pre-relationship, Emotional hurt/comfort, Friendship, Episode tag - 6x13 Mixed Feelings

“Do you think I’m bad at sex?”

Eddie barks out a startled laugh at his ceiling, then straightens up. This is not, unfortunately, the weirdest way Buck has ever opened a phone call with him, but it’s definitely up there. “What?”

“That call the other day, you know, the lady with the vibrator—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Eddie,” Buck whines. “This is important!”

“Is it, really?”

“Eighty percent. He said that the article said eighty percent of people report being unsatisfied. Do you know how many women I’ve slept with? Eighty percent of that is, like, a lot. Okay? And I was doing some research—on a first time hookup, did you know that only forty percent of women even have an orgasm at all? So if I do the math on that—”

“Buck.”

Buck lets out a deep sigh that crackles down the phone line. “I’m being an idiot about this, aren’t I?”

“Nah. Well, I mean, kinda. But it’s okay.”

“Is it, though? Like—” there’s a rustle on the other end of the line. It’s easy to imagine Buck right now, flopped out across his bed because the couch his parents bought him is a bona fide torture device. In his sweatpants, probably, his hair still damp from the shower. He lets out another sigh, then says, “You know, Bobby was saying—when I was with Taylor, Bobby said that the problem was that I never talk to my partners, that I don’t know how to communicate, and that’s why my relationships always turn into catastrophes.”

“I don’t think that’s quite what he was saying. And Taylor—”

“I know. You hate her guts.”

Eddie snorts. “I was gonna say that it’s different, in a long term relationship.”

“Right, but. I haven’t historically had a lot of success with those.”

“Relationships don’t work out sometimes. A lot of the time.”

There’s silence for a moment. It’s not just Taylor hanging over the conversation now; Ana is there too. And Shannon.

Sex with Ana was always stilted, awkward in a way that he told himself at the time was just the newness of it all. Just a new person, a new body to learn, just Eddie being rusty when it came to literally any form of physical intimacy. He and Shannon were each other's firsts, so of course neither of them knew what they were doing to start with, and what they learned they learned together. By the end of it, sex was the only part of their relationship that actually worked. Beyond that—

He doesn’t really have a lot of perspective to offer Buck, is the thing. Even setting aside the fact that he’s not sure he can give an objective analysis of the sexual history of the guy he’s in love with.

So there’s that.

“It’s just…” Buck sounds quieter now, almost miserable, and it tugs at Eddie's heartstrings despite the absurdity of this whole conversation. “That was like. The one thing I knew I was good at. You know? Everything else, sure, my life was a mess, I made a lot of dumb choices and messed up a lot of relationships and got myself fired, and—but at least I knew how to, you know, make somebody feel good. Except maybe I didn’t after all. And if I wasn’t even any good at that, then—”

“Buck,” Eddie interrupts again. Gently, this time. He firmly squashes the unhelpful little voice in the back of his head that wants to ask for a hands-on demonstration. Buck sounds freaked out enough that he might actually take Eddie up on it, and Eddie is… really not ready to cope with that possibility. “You’re spiraling.”

Another silence. Then: “I called them. Some of them.”

Good grief. “Your hookups?”

“Yeah—is that a disrespectful way to talk about them? I mean—anyway, yeah. The ones I still have phone numbers for, I called them. Most of them didn’t want to talk to me.”

“Shocking,” Eddie deadpans.

Buck laughs, which is what he was going for. “Shut up.”

“So? What was the verdict?”

He regrets asking the moment the words are out of his mouth, but he doesn't take it back.

“Uh,” Buck says, still laughing a little. “Of the ones I actually got a hold of? Yes, yes, probably, no, who the hell are you, I thought I blocked your number, yes, no, I don't remember, yes.”

“More yeses than nos,” Eddie offers.

“Unless they were lying to make me feel better,” Buck counters triumphantly.

“Buck. If someone called you up out of the blue after years of radio silence to ask if you had an orgasm when you slept together, would you lie about it to spare their feelings?”

Buck is quiet for a minute. “Yeah, okay, that was kind of an insane thing to do, huh.”

“A little. Yeah.”

He can hear the fondness in his own voice and is helpless to mute it. Though he's honestly not really trying that hard. Buck deserves to know that he's loved, even when he's being ridiculous. Maybe especially then.

“I just worry. You know, that all the shit I thought I knew about myself—that maybe it’s not really true after all. And if that’s the case then who the hell am I, anyway?”

“Feels like this maybe isn’t actually about whether or not you’re good in bed,” Eddie offers, and bites his teeth on anything else he could say about that. About finding out that maybe the person you thought you were was just a carefully painted mask over the messy, tender reality underneath. He could offer Buck some truth of his own, but he doesn’t. It doesn’t feel like the right time for it.

That, or he’s a coward. He’s working on it, though.

“Maybe not. I guess. Eddie, I…” Buck trails off.

“What?” Eddie asks, when a few moments of silence have passed.

“Nothing,” Buck says. He laughs quietly; Eddie can conjure up the shape of his smile and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes as easily as breathing. “Just. Thanks for taking my call.”

“Of course. Always.”

For a little while, they just breathe together across the miles between them as night falls gently over Los Angeles. Then Buck says softly, “Come over tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says back, just as soft. There’s nothing new about the invitation, but it feels new, somehow, anyway. Either way, the answer is the same as it’s always been. “Yeah, okay.”

#911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #evan buckley #eddie diaz #my fic

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bathomet-writes · 1 year

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it’s so easy

summary: Mikey and you had been secretly dating for over a year, and a lot has changed in both of your lives. The Kraang invasion, the people of New York, it all shook up the status quo. On a rooftop date, you and him spill the tea and reconnect about what's really important.

relationship: Mikey x F!reader

warnings: romantic, fluff, humor, secret dating, slight hurt/comfort, sfw

word count: 3,191

author's note: another request for @/snipersiniora!! 💕 (ngl i listened to the reel big fish cover of “it’s not easy” while writing so this is loosely inspired by it lol)

You don’t know why in all the time you’ve spent in New York, you’ve never been up on a rooftop. The view was amazing.

There were a couple of reasons as to why. Your hatred of high places, for one. With a strong enough breeze, you could go flying off your roof and become intimately familiar with the pavement below. Sometimes your neighbors would set up lawn chairs and shoot the shit, which was fine enough. You’ve just never been comfortable enough to want to join them. Lastly, it was a little difficult to skate on. The crowded atmosphere and uneven terrain made it the last place you would want to find yourself on a nice evening such as this.

But, the rooftop of your building had one upside: it was the place you got to see Michelangelo.

You clicked your heels together as you sat at an empty folding chair leftover from one of your upstairs neighbors. He wouldn’t show up for at least another 30 minutes, but you couldn’t help but jump the gun a bit and wait on the roof anyway. You’ve been keeping yourself busy, drawing random sketches onto your iPad.

Mikey and you had been friends for a while, but you officially started dating about a year ago. Not much has changed between you two, even after the Kraang invasion.

He was his same upbeat, eclectic self. But Mikey was also a little more confident. He carried himself differently, with a knowledge and experience you couldn’t even begin to relate to. You were a human, he was basically a superhero.

You bite at the tip of your drawing pen. Why was it whenever you started thinking about him and his brothers, you got inexplicably frustrated.

Was it because Raph, Donnie, and Leo still didn’t know you two were dating?

No, not really. You and Mikey weren’t really concerned with labels. You two were content to continue hanging out like you always had, just with a little extra…intimacy.

Maybe it was the fact that you had to hang out in precarious places such as your rooftop. Why couldn’t you just go to your apartment, or the lair?

“No, that’s not it.” You grumble to yourself, tapping the pen against your cheek.

“What’s not it?”

Mikey’s head appeared right above yours. He had just landed on the top of the wooden overhang you sat under, hanging like a spider.

Smiling, you sit up a little more straight to give his snout a peck.

“This…caricature. I just can’t capture his likeness. It’s missing something.”

Mikey blushed, dropping from his perch to sit next to you. “Allow me to offer you my artistic perspective!”

You happily oblige and show him your screen. Thinking about your fellow tenants had made you unintentionally start to draw little doodles that looked like them. You couldn’t help wanting to draw the people you knew. Your weird, human neighbors were quite the characters. Almost a little more weird than the turtles, in your opinion.

“Oh, I know this guy. Is this the one that knocked at your door at 3 AM asking for a DVD?”

Mikey pinched to zoom in on your sketch. You don’t know whether your drawing was that accurate or if he was just great with faces. Either way, you can’t help but smile even more.

“How did you know?” You snuggle closer to Mikey, leaning in. “He insisted that I had borrowed his copy of Cats. And I was like, ‘Dale, I already own it on Blu-ray. Why in the world would I steal your DVD?’”

Mikey fell into your lap in hysterics. “NYAHAHA—! You didn’t!”

You weren’t lying about the interaction having happened, but maybe you embellished the part at the end. You just loved making Mikey laugh.

“I did!” You beam.

“Your neighbors are so weird, even for me. And the only neighbors I have are the sewer gators.”

You set your iPad down on the patio, scooching Mikey to lie fully in your lap.

“Her name is Leatherhead and she’s lovely. I met her family once, on the way to the lair.”

Ignoring your sly tone, Mikey curled up into you like a lap cat. He was practically purring from how happy he was to finally be in your arms. It’s only been a couple of days since he’s had the opportunity to see you like this, and he was absolutely touch-starved.

“I missed you,” he sighs. “Patrol has been intense lately.”

His tired smile told you that he’d rather not get into it right now. You hum, petting the side of his head.

“I missed you too.”

Talking about his brothers wasn’t necessarily a taboo topic, but right now was the time for Mikey to relax, to unwind. You had plenty of stress in your own life too. Maybe it wasn’t as important as keeping the city safe, but it was tiresome to you nonetheless.

You both just wanted to forget about everything else, just be together. That was what these rooftop hangouts were for. And if that was good enough for Mikey, it was good enough for you.

But your smile faltered, if only for a moment.

Mikey’s eyes were closed as he continued to relish your head pets, unaware of your subtle shift in mood.

“Tell me more about your neighbors.” Turning his head, he speaks softly into your hand. “I love hearing about the people you live with. They’re interesting.”

“Well, this town is kinda ‘interesting people’ central.” You shrug.

“Yeah, I know. Are humans in other places like the ones here?”

Dragging your fingers along his textured skin, you think about it. You hadn’t really gotten around much, but you figured that NYC was a little unique compared to other major cities.

Your lips ease back into a lazy smile.

“Sort of. This place is sort of a big Melting Pot, y’know? It doesn’t really matter where you come from, everyone ends up wherever they are…for whatever reason.”

Mikey looks up at your face, his expression dripping with curiosity.

“What’s that mean?” He smirks.

“It means that people are weird. This place has a lot of people. Therefore, New York is just about the weirdest place there is!”

You two laugh, basking in each other's presence. After looking down at Mikey, you feel a little more normal. Work, life, all of that didn’t really matter anymore. Or at least, it shouldn’t.

“My neighbor’s aren’t all that interesting, Mikey. They’re just your run-of-the-mill folks, day drinking and sitting on the stoop.”

“Woah…” He gasps, sitting up. “Day drinking?”

Internally, you chide yourself. “I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

“Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me!” He smiles, zipping his lips shut.

“I shouldn’t gossip…”

You roll your eyes a bit before they land on Mike. His eager, expectant expression was just too cute. Who could say no to a face like that?

Suddenly, you’re filled with bubbly energy.

“Okay, okay! Liz told me that Bill said that Debbie’s grandma was apparently—“

You whip your head around, making sure the coast is clear. You never knew who might be listening in, your neighbors were terribly nosy.

“She snuck Hennessy into the apartment meeting. Last Sunday, when we got together with the building manager, they had coffee and stuff…”

Mikey quickly scrambles over to grab a free chair before sitting directly in front of you. Enraptured, he places his head on his hands.

“And she added a little extra somethin’ into her mug? How scandalous!” He wiggles his eye ridge, fully getting into the story.

You launch forward and gesture wildly with your hands. “No, that’s the thing! She put the booze…in the coffee pot.”

Mikey’s smile dropped.

“You don’t mean—“

Grimly, you nod your head.

“I mean a whole room of people, shnackered at 10 AM. On God’s day.” You chortle.

He covers his mouth in genuine shock. You chuckle, looking at his wide-eyed expression.

“And I know that Liz was the one who ratted her out, the bitch. She of all people would know what Hennessy tastes like, I saw her drink 5 whole cups with my own eyes!”

Mikey moves his hands away, his voice hushed. “She sounds like a bitch.”

You kick your legs up and recline farther in your chair. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Liz was your next door neighbor. She always had a knack for being right outside your door whenever you stepped out to go to work. You left early everyday just to accommodate for the inevitable one-sided conversation. She was old, and very lonely, so you didn’t mind her chatting your ear off.

But she was also very bitter. Even more so after the Kraang invasion.

“I swear, I keep seeing those…frog men. They flip around my windows at all hours of the night, whooping and hollering up a storm! Who do those punks think they are?”

You’ve seen a lot of different reactions from people after the turtles officially became public knowledge. Usually, it was just casual disinterest or disdain from the more conservative crowd. Old people, cops, etcetera.

But for some reason, the people you lived with just happened to be either really old or in law enforcement. They hated all mutants, and they didn’t have any problem letting you know about it.

You nearly get lost in your own thoughts before Mikey nudges your knee.

“I think she’s the one who threw a flower pot at my head that one time.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his noggin.

Sighing, you lightly knock his leg with your foot. “Yeah, that’s Liz. If rent wasn’t so good here, I’d move out in a second.”

“Aw, they’re not so bad!” Mikey shoots a toothy smile at you. “It’s not the worst thing someone’s thrown at me.”

You meet his grin with a small frown.

“How do you do it?”

Mikey cocks his head. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Ugh, no? Yes?” You lean back and stare up into the sky. It was a clear day, not a cloud in sight.

“You’d think people would be a little more thankful to the guys who saved their asses from alien invaders.”

You seethed, thinking about all the nasty side comments and quiet whisperings you’ve overheard in your hallways.

“Hey, don’t get angry on my account.” Mikey reaches out and gives you a good-natured pat on the leg. “My family’s used to people wanting to kill us all the time, so a flower pot is actually a nice change of pace.”

“I guess so.”

Then, you realize it.

This was why you were so stressed out. Whenever you think about the turtles, you can’t help but associate them with all the negative energy you’ve been surrounded in at home. You thought you had thicker skin, but you feel your heart start to sink.

“You know, it’s funny.”

Mikey sighs, musing to himself.

“Sometimes I think about how weird it’s been lately. Splinter always told us it was important for us to not be seen, to stick to the shadows. It was because of the ninja thing, mostly. But I know he was trying to keep us...”

He picks nervously at his palm, tracing the lines of his hand.

“Safe?” You ask.

“Sheltered.”

There was a sadness creeping into his voice. You hated the sound. It was just too bittersweet for you to handle. You cautiously look back to Mikey, waiting for him to finish.

“But, then there was April. And Casey, later on. I thought there might actually be a chance for us to make it out in the human world. The whole yokai/mutant thing with Draxum was…well, a whole thing.”

Mikey briefly looked back up to make sure he wasn’t boring you too much. Not that he didn’t like to talk with you about stuff like this, it was just a little hard.

When you give his hand an encouraging squeeze, he sighs.

“But, I knew we kinda wouldn’t have a choice to stay in the shadows anymore. After the Kraang, that is. Leo told us we wouldn’t exactly be getting the red carpet treatment.”

“Humans are stupid.” You huff.

“You’re a human, and I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”

Mikey squeezed your hand back, a sad smile forming on his face.

It wasn’t like he needed the entirety of New York to accept him and his brothers. With April, Casey, and especially you, he had all the human approval that he could ever want. He searched your face, and he knew that you were starting to slip.

You try to swallow down the lump in your throat before speaking up.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up all this.” You run your thumb along the edge of Mikey’s.

Mikey sits up, puffing out his chest. “That’s enough. I will not have you getting sad because of me!”

Suddenly, he stands up, bringing you along with him.

“I’m not sad, I’m mad!” You scoff, rubbing your nose on your sleeve. “I ought to throw ceramic vases at Liz, see how she likes it.”

Tutting you, Mikey leads you out into the middle of the roof. There was a concrete slab next to the door that led back into the building, where you had placed your backpack earlier. You watch as Mikey sneaks around, dipping behind your back, to dig through your bag.

“You know a good way to get rid of all that anger?” Mikey whispers, rising up.

“What are you scheming back there?” You cross your arms and spin around. “Stop messing with my—“

When you turn around, you see Mikey holding up your trusty pair of skates right up to your face. He held them by the shoelaces, a cheeky grin peeking around them.

“Skate the hate away, baby!”

“That’s a beautiful thought,” you smirk. “But I couldn’t.”

“Oh, then let me help you.”

You gasp, feeling Mikey drag you over to your chair to push you back into it. Once you fall, he moves down to pull off your sneakers and lace up your skates.

Blushing, you watch him lovingly guide your feet in. He sticks his tongue out as he ties little bunny-ear knots.

“Mikey…!” You giggle, his fingers tickling your ankle. “This is too much.”

Whenever you started to become sad, you could always count on him to lift your spirits back up. You tried to stay as endlessly positive and go-with-the-flow as Mikey, but it was difficult sometimes. The inner optimist in you was finding it more and more hard to navigate the nihilistic world you found yourselves in.

“There! Now c’mon.” He smiles.

Mikey lifts you back up, pulling you to glide over to the concrete by the door.

You can’t help the goofy smile that creeps in when he spins you around. The flat surface was just big enough for you to skate a couple of inches away from him.

Your shoulders slump, all at once feeling happy again.

“What did I do to deserve you?” You fold your hands behind your back and circle Mikey.

Chuckling, he tries following your face as it spins around him.

“Nothing. You were just in the right place at the right time.”

He stood there idly watching you elegantly sail past him. It was fun constantly making him have to twist around to keep eye contact with you, and you feel laughter begin to bubble up.

You snatch his hand, forcing him into an awkward dance with you.

“Care to join me?”

You grin from ear to ear, placing a hand upon the small of his back. Or rather, his shell.

Surprisingly, Mikey is caught off guard by your bold move. You watch with glee as his face flushes a bright pink. He stutters, a little bashful at being led around by you instead of the other way around.

“I g-guess I don’t have a choice?”

You pull him closer, pressing up against his plastron. “Nope!”

The two of you spin around in lazy circles for a while. The blazing sunset on the horizon brought a new feeling of warmth and comfort, a heavenly glow lighting up your eyes. The entire city looked like it was bathed in orange, Mikey’s signature color.

It was a good look for New York.

“Wow…” You sigh, marveling at the beautiful world around you.

“I know.”

Mikey shifts a bit, managing to stand an inch or two higher than he usually is. You were both about the same height, at least that was what you kept insisting to him. But he wanted to look down at you for once. He wanted to hold you like you held him.

“You make me feel accepted, you know.”

You blink against the light of the sun before looking back at Mikey.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You just let me be me. That’s all I need. You make me feel all…sparkly.”

You bite your lower lip, holding back a chuckle.

“Sparkly, huh? That’s a unique adjective.”

That was the best way Mikey could describe it. You and him had so much in common, mostly in terms of your hobbies and your personalities. But there was just something about being around you so much that showed him how different you were. In a good way, obviously.

You were human, he was a mutant. There was the ninja-ing as well. You both had wildly different life experiences.

Slotting your head between his neck and his shoulder, he hugs you tightly.

“What about you?”

His warm breath makes you shudder, practically melting into his hold.

“You make me feel…”

You move your skate to engage the rubber stopper. The world was seriously starting to spin.

“Shiny.”

“Hey, are you copying me?”

Playfully scoffing, Mikey picks you right off of your feet and spins you around again. You laugh into each other's embrace, and you hold on for dear life as he pins you securely to his chest.

“It’s true! You make me feel all shiny and new.”

For a second, you feel your thoughts wander back to your earlier conversation. You don’t like having to shift into serious mode, but you needed to say just one more thing. Mikey moves away to get a better look at your face.

“I know it’s not easy. Having to save people when they don’t even—“

“No, it’s not. But when I think about all the people who do care, who do understand me…”

Mikey smiles, tipping your chin up slightly to look at him. He always wanted to do that to you.

“It’s easy. It gets easier everyday. All I have to do is have you right here.”

Then, your heart flutters in your chest. You didn’t notice it before, but Mikey stood a little taller than you now. You don’t know if he had a growth spurt or something, but there he was. Looking at you, his eyes sparkling in the sunset, you knew there was a lot more to Mikey than anyone thought.

Even you.

“I love rooftops,” you sigh, moving up to brush your lips against his cheek.

Angling his head around, he leans into you.

“I love rooftops too.”

taglist: @saspas-corner

#rottmnt x reader #tmnt x reader #sfw #mikey x reader #michelangelo x reader #rottmnt mikey x reader #requests

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this-acuteneurosis · 11 months

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Can I just say how much I appreciate the fact you don't stray much from the movies?

It's just so refreshing to see a fic that is built on a clear, unbiased and simple canon base. This way, as you demonstrated, a writer not only has the ability to further explore the main themes and ideas introduced in the source material, but they can also go ahead and naturally develop their own by branching out on those fundamentals. They can offer their perspective by using the source material to their advantage, instead of working against it or even worse, trying to include all contradicting canon aspects. Part of writing a fic is kind of like offering your input in a conversation/disagreement. You have to listen carefully to what the other person is saying in order to form your answer...If you're listening to a thousand different people who are all saying a different thing (in this case, The clone wars, legends, novels, comics ect), you won't be able to give an answer that makes sense, much less give a structured and stable opinion.

I love how you were like "I know star wars is entering an era of a shit ton of spin off content with seemingly no end and most star wars fans know shit like who chewie lost his virginity to and what the kessel run is but screw this. The movies and maybe some late night wiki research is enough."

And you were right.

It's so funny, because I feel like I do ultimately stray pretty far from the movies. Not in terms of events I guess, but especially the prequels, I reject some of the underlying assumptions of what is said on screen and just treat it like fallible people strongly asserting opinions that no one calls them on. See: everything I ever assert about the Force/Anakin's "destiny."

I do think it helped me to stick with limited material. And it wasn't even because I saw all of this new SW content coming. I've mentioned this before, but when I started writing Don't Look Back (when it was just Like Fire and I naively believed I was gonna be done in 200k words, lol, rip past me) I hesitated a lot because as far as I was concerned, I wasn't a Star Wars Fan.

I'd watched the OT and PT multiple times. I knew that novels and games and cartoons existed, I knew people had consumed them all. I had been reading some SW fic because @mylongsufferingroommate had been sending me stuff they were enjoying and I was having fun with it. But like, I would never have called myself a Fan. I got goaded into writing this fic by people who knew me too well and really wanted a political thriller. I wouldn't have called them Star Wars Fans either.

Limiting myself to the six movies I had watched was a preemptive defense mechanism against a fan base I wasn't sure would want to accept me. My thin skin is my own problem, but every time I think about writing in a new fandom the same sort of nerves take me: what if my fanon is "wrong" and people are mean?

I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you so much to everyone who gave me a chance and encouraged me and were excited and shared that excitement.

And please, for the love of all the sky and stars DON'T GATEKEEP FANDOMS.

Don't tell people their canon is too big (@blue-sunshine-mauve-morning and @chancecraz have amazing fics that are much more compliant than mine to the broader canon, as a quick example), and definitely don't tell people their canon is too small. Walk away if you aren't enjoying something. Give compliments when you like something that is unique in a fandom you're familiar with. Be patient with people, be kind.

I could easily have given this story up if people hadn't been patient with me. I got comments as early as my first chapter from people who were angry with a single thing that I said and felt the need to tell me I was wrong. I could have left. I could have stopped.

I'm glad I didn't. But I wonder how many other people have.

#writing #people are so kind #fandom #stop gatekeeping #please #canon what canon #me just playing around in my own little sandbox #hoping you all are enjoying the show #anxious someone might steal my toys #or knock over my castle #yes I'm still like this #my thin skin problem

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agentravensong · 7 months

Text

i've had a fic in my drafts for multiple years now (first version of it is from shortly post witch in the web) about paul becoming something of a surrogate dad for hannah (or, more accurately, just beginning on that journey, and then the events of tgwdlm happen). and now i have an idea for a similar story that i think i'm even less likely to finish, so i'm gifting it to tumblr:

bill becoming grace's new, better dad (potentially leading to, depending on how much you want to balloon the scope, the full ccrp gang (minus ted, for timeline reasons we'll get to shortly) becoming psuedo-parental figures for the full npmd protag gang)

to start: bill and grace. i think we can all agree that grace deserves better parents, right? well, there's one reason i think bill is the prime candidate to step into that role for her: they're canonically the same denomination and go to the same church. meaning that a) bill has seen this girl once a week for probably her whole life, so he's got to at least know her a little bit by now, and b) grace probably has a baseline level of respect for and willingness to listen to him, at least compared to any of the other ccrp adults (who are all different denominations).

them having their church in common gives them a starting point, but we also know just how different bill is from grace's parents (for one, he has no problem with his daughter being gay and dating). so being around him could give grace another perspective on life, one she wouldn't be so easily able to dismiss out of hand. there's a chance, however slight, that grace might actually believe him when he shows her there are other ways to be good. other ways to Be.

i guess there's also the possibility that grace's family (and thus grace) could secretly despise bill for not adhering to their version of their denomination's beliefs? but i still think it could work given the right circumstances.

what would be those circumstances, you ask? here's what i think:

the workin boys timeline, post workin boys (gals).

think about it: bill was there, and he has to know grace was there, since she's the one who Dealt with hidgens. imagine being him, and going to church the next sunday, and seeing her there. you'd be at least a little concerned about how she's doing, right?

now, answer me this: do you think grace's parents would be at all equipped to give grace the emotional support she would need after that experience? do you think they'd react at all rationally when they found out about this whole thing?

do you think grace would be able to fully keep up appearances the next time she went to church, after smiting someone in the name of god?

which is to say, i think bill, for as obtuse as he can sometimes be, would notice that she's not okay. and knowing how much he misses alice when she's not around, and how much he always worries for her... i think it's a fair jump to make that bill's fatherly side would start coming out. that he'd offer to be there for grace, and maybe start looking into her family on his own.

and grace, after a short while doing her best to hold things together on her own, cracks, and decides to take him up on that offer.

i think bill would have to do some more developing himself in order to really help grace, because we do see in his relationship with alice that familiar strain of overprotectiveness, even if it's much less dominant than in the chasitys. in that respect, i think setting a version of this idea in the watcher world timeline could be easier, because bill goes through some serious development there... but overall i find that version less interesting for grace, so instead, bill is gonna have to learn the longer way.

it would take a while for bill to start getting at the heart of how grace got messed up by her parents. but i think, with enough time — and maybe some help from a certain social worker and his specially gifted (girl)friend, if we say this timeline is one of the better 50% — he could get there.

now, i mentioned the other npmd teens up top. for the sake of this story, i like imagining that ruth actually survived; she hid when hidgens started murdering and he didn't get to her before the curtains went up. so she gets to be here! yay!

but, uh. none of them are doing too hot. obviously a ruth who lived through that would be traumatized; it might even ruin her love of theater entirely. ritchie saw it all, and i figure ruth wouldn't come out of hiding until after it was all over, so there were a good few minutes at least where he genuinely believed his (maybe best) friend was dead.

and, pete... he wasn't there, but, ya know. he lost his brother. so.

all the kids need help, is the point. and if bill is starting to look after grace, then it's basically inevitable (heh) that he'd start seeing some of ritchie (since he and grace were already kind of friends in this timeline, and i can imagine them developing a trauma bond in the aftermath of the event) and then, by association, ruth. i can even imagine him encouraging grace to hang out with them more as part of her healing, and then they could start having hang-outs at his place, and... plus, i figure the other ccrp adults probably at least vaguely knew about ted's younger brother, so bill doing at least one courtesy check-in on pete makes sense. and pete is friends with richtie and ruth, so, it all comes together!

and at some point, if bill is gonna end up helping out all these teens to some extent, it'll probably become part of his small talk at work, and that's how, if you wanted to, you could get the other adults involved. like, we know paul has babysat for alice before, so i think bill could probably convince him to help out here too... eventually. i mean, it's not like he'd ask him to take them to a musical, given Everything. if paul has started pursuing something with emma, then she can be here too! and charlotte... well, i don't know if we know anything about her opinion on children, and i don't want to stereotype her given she's the only woman of the group. but she's at least generally a nice person; i think she'd be willing to help out when she sees bill starting to get overwhelmed.

which basically just leaves the question of how steph gets involved. my answer: she hears about what happened, then learns that pete's brother was one of the casualties, and through some combo of feeling obligated and having a spark of an interest in pete, reaches out to him to ask how he's doing. so she gets pulled in through him. with this set-up, tho, i figure she probably wouldn't be a major player (though she definitely also deserves a better parent... that can be its own story).

to kind of wrap this up, the point of this whole story concept is that bill accidentally gets a second daughter, figuring out how to be a better dad in the process; and grace, on the precipe of entering adulthood with some fresh trauma, gets a real chance at salvation. a chance to be, relatively, normal. or, whatever she wants to be when free of her parents' expectations and religious standards. anything else for any other characters is a bonus.

(there can also be some alice — bill drama when alice next visits and starts noticing how much bill is devoting himself to this girl that isn't even his daughter. drama that, eventually, results in the two of them becoming closer, and grace getting an honorary older sister!)

(also remember that duke and holloway can be here helping with the kids, if you want them to be. and why wouldn't you?)

like i said up-top, i have no plans to actually write this. y'all can take it and do whatever you want with it. i just hope at least one other person gets something out of this bain blast i had :D

#starkid #hatchetfield #grace chasity #bill woodward #not tagging everyone else #workin boys #workin boys spoilers #nerdy prudes must die #(not really but close enough)#going back to the bill already knowing grace thing: i could honestly see him checking in on her as the theater's clearing out #sitting with her until her parents arrive or bringing her home #...except that the whole 'my coworker i brought with me to this show got shot' thing would probably be his primary overriding concern #i think he'd only really start thinking about the Implications for grace once some time had passed #on an entirely other note: if people are interested in the paul & hannah fic i mentioned up top let me know and i'll get into it :)

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scorchieart · 11 days

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Double Deflection

Genre: Slice of Life, Comedy

Characters: Maron, White Horse, Licht Klein, Chevalier Michel

Wordcount: ~6400

Prompts: Blue: Loyalty, Yellow: Friendship

Summary: A late-night chat between horses and humans. Each has the potential to offer something, but gestures and facial expressions and mind reading aren't enough to tell when someone is asking for help.

A/N: My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide CC hosted by @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob. This story may borderline crack with its execution, but I hope it's an enjoyable read regardless.

If you were to ask Maron what he most wanted in the entire world he might respond with an enthused neigh, throwing back his mane, and a clop clop from his front-right hoof. If Maron could speak, he could say it was to eat carrots fresh from harvest, or to race through the fields outside the palace with the other horses, or to snooze indoors on a rainy afternoon while his rider Licht sang him a lullaby. Or something along those lines. In truth, it is difficult to say. The intricacies of horse communication cannot be covered comprehensively through text alone—tail swishing and muzzle twitching can easily get lost in translation, you see—but an attempt will be made to relay the events of this particular evening from both the equine and human perspectives to most accurately depict the story from all participating views.

Now, as we were saying, Maron, much like yourself and I, often finds it difficult to express his desires when asked on the spot. Any manner of things could affect the answer, from the place to the weather to even the time of day. Indeed, a much simpler question to ask (man and horse) is what he dislikes the most. And in the palace stables on that muggy summer’s eve, Maron was confident he was experiencing the absolute most dislikable thing imaginable.

“By the way, the kitchens were out of carrots.”

Licht ducked his head in time before Maron whipped his tail.

“There’s no use taking it out on me,” Licht said, straightening up and resuming brushing Maron’s flank. “Believe me, you do me a favor eating them. But I swear this time they were gone before I could get to them.”

Maron snorted once and rubbed at his muzzle in what one would believe to be a contradictory manner.

“I doubt it. You should’ve seen the way Yves’s eyes lit up when he read about that new carrot cake recipe from Jade. He ordered double the monthly stock of carrots. And Leon approved it without even batting an eye.” At this, Licht covered his mouth and let out a small groan that on the surface appeared as though he was repressing a gag. Maron wiggled his nose in circular motions in response, which I am told is the horse-equivalent of scoffing and rolling one’s eyes.

“Don’t give me that. I said I’m fine,” said Licht, but both he and Maron knew he wasn’t.

It is at this point I must confess that while I myself am not proficient at human-horse translations, my ineptitude is not a universal ailment. If you were so far unaware, there exist in our world a gifted few interspecial interpreters across the ages. Perhaps you have seen a dog warmly protecting a flock of chicks while the hen takes a bath? Or maybe you witnessed a squirrel rushing to call a goose to save a kitten from drowning in a lake? Sometimes this communication is as implicitly universal as a mother cares for her young, while in more curious cases gesture and sound bind common souls together. On exceedingly rare occasions, such a bond can manifest from one source to multiple different species with zero previous contact, as is the case with the Eighth Prince of Rhodolite. But just as special can be the connection built upon years of collaboration and struggle and trust, and Licht and Maron checked all these boxes multiple times over. Why, when Licht wraps the reins twice around his hands, Maron understands to hurry home because Yves is baking something special. And when Maron bonks his jaw against Licht’s head, Licht knows he’s being chastised. And whenever Licht says “I’m fine,” Maron learned it always to be a lie.

“Really, I am,” insisted Licht. “Let’s go for a ride in the morning. You’ll see.”

Not in the mood for an argument (they always ended up with them going in circles), Maron turned to look out the window and the two resumed their brushing routine without communication. The dewy night air hung thick and silent around them, and several times more Licht had to cover his mouth and cough as he worked. Maron’s ears twitched at the sound, but he never commented further.

Just allergies, Licht told himself. Horse doesn’t know what he’s thinking.

And the night would have continued on unyieldingly so, as it always did when they disagreed in private, were it not for an unexpected development. The hairs on their limbs shot straight up as a cold, prickly sensation overtook the summer warmth, and Licht and Maron spun their heads towards each other in unison. Someone was entering the stables.

Stubbornness forgotten, Maron slowly lifted his head and peered over the high walls. His stall was located in the back corner of the stable, but even through the darkness he could make out the tall cloaked figure leading a horse by hand through the entryway.

Licht tapped his knuckles against Maron’s neck. What do you see?

Maron raised a hoof up and down twice. One human and one horse. Both look male.

Got it. Stay low. Licht quietly reached for the sword he lay on the ground beside Maron’s grooming tools. A prince wouldn’t be so foolish as to wander the palace unarmed, and Licht knew better than most how easy it was to sneak past the grounds undetected through the stables.

Be careful. Maron gently rubbed his muzzle against Licht’s back and ducked low behind the wall. What was meant to be encouragement consequently had the opposite effect on Licht. Maron, like all who lived at the palace, knew of his rider’s unparalleled mastery of the sword. It is said that his skills were only rivaled by two, but Prince Leon was presently knocked out on his couch after a full day tidying up the faction office, and to even consider Prince Chevalier to sneak around at night like some common hoodlum was simply unthinkable. So Maron’s warning made Licht grip his sword more forcefully as he took a defensive stance by the door.

What need would a talented fighter have to visit the stables at this hour? Licht pondered the question as the foot-and-hoofsteps steadily approached their stall. Was it a spy fleeing into the night to relay royal secrets back to his master? A horse appraiser here to kidnap (horsenap) a prized palace stallion to sell off for exuberant riches? An enemy of the royal family who knew the swordsman Sixth Prince was an equine enthusiast and would therefore hesitate to fight back with a defenseless horse on the battlefield?

The truth, as I am sure you have already deduced, was none of the above. Unfortunately, the only living thing in the vicinity that could steer Licht’s thoughts away from the bizarre was currently pondering whether he could fight with a flat brush between his teeth if things became too dicey. And with the intruders now only a couple of stalls away, Licht did not have the agency to think rationally and burst out from his stall ready to swing.

What followed was a short, anticlimactic confrontation that I am sure Licht would prefer never to see the light of day. Unfortunately for him, Maron found the whole affair rather amusing, so I shall provide an abridged account.

No sooner than Licht exited the stall did an overwhelming cough threaten to overtake him. Midway through winding his arm for an attack, he had few options to steady himself from the conflicting forces of his limbs propelling him forward and his lungs pushing him back, and in the heat of the moment he elected to toss his sword upward into the air and simultaneously tackle the mystery man. He had hoped the shock of it all would stun his opponent long enough for him to recover and strike again, but this plan came to an early stop when his midsection was caught by a pair of taut arms and he found himself flipped, lifted, and staring upward into the displeased face of Prince Chevalier.

If you have ever been caught by your elders for sneaking out of your room past your bedtime, you would understand only a fraction of the dread coursing through Licht’s nerves in that moment. Aside from the obvious fact that he ambushed (with the intent to at the very least incapacitate) the Second Prince of Rhodolite, Licht was physically in a state he would best describe as Yves’s Fashion Nightmare™. His eyes were redder and less alert than usual, his frown curved down farther than it had in years, and his typical restless bedhead stuck out at wild angles, not in the least bit aided by the fact that he was currently suspended upside down. But oh, the worst offense of it all was his wardrobe! When the coughing fits had extinguished any hope of getting sleep, Licht slipped into the muckiest boots in his closet, tossed on a tattered old coat from his teenage years, picked up his sword, and headed straight for the stables. He could only pray Chevalier was too distracted by his annoyance to notice the wrinkly, hay-infested, cough-stained mess of his nightclothes.

Chevalier’s stern gaze followed Licht’s to his outfit. Whoops… I forgot to mention Chevalier could read minds as well as narrations.

“Please put me down,” said Licht, his voice barely masking: and spare me some dignity. Behind them Maron let out a sound almost like a chuckle, and Licht shot him a warning look he was sure lost all credibility of appearing threatening.

“What purpose have you here at this hour?” asked Chevalier, still holding on. It took a great deal of fortitude for Licht to not give in to his embarrassment and wiggle his way out of Chevalier’s clutches like a worm, but in the end he swallowed his discomfort and strained his neck to look back up.

“I could ask you the same,” Licht replied, and instantly regretted it. The blood flow to his brain must already be making him hysterical. Is that how blood worked? How long was he upside down for, anyway?

Chevalier’s expression twisted into a deeper frown that easily topped any of Licht’s personal records. “Employ deflection at your own risk, mime,” he warned. But just as Licht was calculating the combined punishment for assaulting and backtalking Chevalier, a sudden gallop echoed across the hall, the pressure on his stomach lifted, and Licht fell head-first onto the mucky stable floor.

Once the pain and shame faded enough, Licht opened his eyes and sat up expecting to find Chevalier towering over him. When all he saw was Maron merrily rolling on the floor whinnying, apparently now fully recovered from the intruder fiasco, Licht wondered if it was all just a sick-induced hallucination. The figures cloaked in night, the galloping, this headache; surely it was all in his mind and he merely tripped and fell from exhaustion. Bothered and bitter, he buttoned his coat and rubbed his bruising head, wondering if anything like this had happened recently, when Chevalier appeared once more in the entryway patiently guiding White Horse back inside.

“You frightened him,” he said when they reached the back stall.

“Me?” said Licht, forgetting his headache and rising to face the pair. In all the years he’d known him, White Horse proved a stallion who did not know fear. Chevalier selected him to be his trusted steed from among all the foals—even passing up baby Maron and his adorable wobbly knees—because he was the first to fully stand on his own and the quickest to wean off from his mother. As the years passed, he only grew more magnificent and intimidating among his peers, heading fleets into battle like the gleaming helmet of the army. White Horse admitting he was afraid seemed the equivalent of Chevalier admitting defeat.

“Indeed. He was shocked to see you bursting out of the stall like a lunatic,” said Chevalier.

Licht felt his eye twitch, and not from the returning pain. “He’s a war horse. He’s seen far worse than that,” he said.

“True,” said Chevalier, “but you have never appeared before him looking so disheveled.”

A knot swelled in Licht’s throat. Was Maron right? Surely he hadn’t neglected his condition so carelessly that he let his appearance grow abominable enough to scare White Horse of all creatures. Yves, perhaps, but that was exactly why Licht had been avoiding his brother like the plague.

“You do have some manner of plague,” said Chevalier.

“It’s only allergies,” Licht countered, muffling a cough into his arm.

“Strange how the clown never developed the same.”

It was only then that Licht noticed Chevalier carried a bag across his shoulders when he pulled something out and tossed it. Licht caught it and looked it over; it was a newly washed towel, like the type soldiers used during training, but the stench it gave off was far more repugnant than even a shirtless, sweaty Prince Jin in the height of July. An earthy smell that lay buried deep in the back of his mind, but Chevalier was not intent on giving him the time to dig it out.

“Clean your face, it is offensive,” he said, then moved past Licht to look in the stall. Maron instantly sobered and stood. “And you, get out.”

“What for?” Licht asked. He held his breath and quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face.

“This is White Horse’s preferred stall.”

“We were here first.”

“And I asked you first what you were doing here, and you have yet to answer me,” snapped Chevalier. “Our needs supersede yours unless you can prove otherwise.”

Licht and Maron each glared back at him, simmering in place. It wasn’t as though they didn’t have their reasons for choosing that particular stall; Maron enjoyed the bit of extra leg room the corner stall provided while Licht favored it for its distance from the entrance and ease to hide away in. But the other corner stall on the opposite side of the hall provided the same advantages, and Licht and Maron wondered why Chevalier and White Horse couldn’t simply occupy that one.

Normally, Licht would either frame his suggestion of the other corner this way or simply agree to move out to avoid confrontation, but he was ill-feeling courteous tonight after Chevalier banged his head like a boiled egg.

“What’s so special about this one that the others don’t have?” Licht asked. If by now you’re thinking Licht was playing his luck talking back yet again to Chevalier, you’d be right. But ever the megalomaniac (as Prince Clavis would insist), Chevalier acknowledged an informative rebuttal to his authority as a worthy challenge and allowed the conversation to continue for just a little longer.

Chevalier rolled his eyes at this insinuation. “The window,” he responded.

“They all have windows,” said Licht.

“This one provides the best view of town,” said Chevalier, then he huffed. “I grow tired of this chatter. Vacate yourselves before I do it myself.”

Licht was not satisfied, but he knew better than to argue with Chevalier once a discussion was deemed concluded. Though Maron would take some more convincing to leave. They were still midway through grooming and all the tools were laid out and ready after all, but to Licht’s surprise the horse walked out without any prompting, passed Chevalier, and lowered his head to sniff the towel in Licht’s hand.

“Don’t lick that, Maron. It’s dirty,” said Licht, pushing him away. But Maron pressed his nose to the towel and began chewing at its edge. “It’s not food. Stop!” Licht grabbed the other end and pulled and pulled, but Maron’s chomp was firm and refusing to yield.

“Haybrain,” Licht said, tugging harder. “You’d think you were munching on a bunch of—” And then the pain in his head nearly completely vanished as a wave of realization surged through him. Sometimes it takes a little longer for Maron’s messages to reach Licht.

Still maintaining his grip, Licht steadied his stance and asked, “Prince Chevalier, what else is in your bag?”

Chevalier, who had been leading White Horse into the newly emptied stall and therefore took little notice of the tug-of-war behind him, curled his hand around the straps on his shoulder at the sound of his name. “Has your condition also turned you excessively chatty?” he said. “Perhaps some rest will restore your quietude, mime.”

Licht and Maron exchanged a glance across the towel and nodded. “Employ deflection at your own risk. Now!” yelled Licht, and the two charged towards the stall.

If you have been at all paying attention to this unwieldy tale, you may recall the last time Licht attempted to ambush Chevalier earned him an unsavory bump on both his pride and his forehead, and you are probably wondering what on Earth would lead him to believe a second attempt would fare any better. You may also remember in that little skirmish Licht threw his sword up in the air and have probably been questioning this story for the past few pages about where it landed. Rest assured, these inconsistencies shall be answered in due course. But first we must discuss strategy.

In addition to being a gifted swordsman, Licht was also a budding tactician. And while his brothers agreed his open-fighting battleplans leaned excessively self-destructive, no one could deny Licht’s acumen for sneak attacks. Even Maron trusted Licht on this front, which is why he made sure to match Licht’s speed in their charge even though his trajectory would knock him into White Horse. As soon as Chevalier noticed their approach, he whipped around, grabbed the towel with both hands, and ripped the fabric in midair.

The force of the rip wobbled the two off guard, and while Maron quickly managed to steady himself to a reasonable halt before colliding with White Horse, Licht surged forward and knocked his side into a pillar separating two adjacent stalls. But before his fall, he made sure to wrap his remaining half of the towel around Chevalier’s wrist and drag the man down with him. The impact of the hit shook the entire building, causing a certain misplaced sword that was previously precariously balanced just above the princes to slip out of its place and fall. Chevalier, still stuck in the hand trap, roughly shoved his and Licht’s bodies out of the line of descent and replaced them with his bag. The bag cushioned the fall and prevented the sword from ricocheting into anyone, but not without sacrificing itself to the cause as the blade cleanly cut through the linen and deposited the contents within. Dozens of bright orange carrots, of different sizes and thicknesses by the bushel, spilled out from the tear and rolled across the stable floor.

This narrator now takes this chance to inform the audience (and Prince Chevalier) that Licht is also very skilled in deflection. And in humility.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut if you do,” Licht offered once the two managed to pry as many carrots as they could away from the hungry horses’ mouths. They piled the saved carrots into the bag and lifted it together to keep them out of the horses’ reach and from spilling again.

“The information I have on your condition is far more significant than a simple carrot heist,” said Chevalier, unperturbed by the turn of events.

It was the truth. Licht nabbed carrots from the kitchens loads of times before, and the response from the cooks never extended beyond an angry rant to the domestic faction office about coordinating supply every few months or so. Jin always claimed it was probably a herd of hungry rabbits sneaking into the kitchens at night, and that was enough to placate the masses. Missing carrots didn’t spell the end of the world, after all. Surely they would treat this incident in the same way. On the other hand, Chevalier still lorded Licht’s illness over his head like a carrot on a stick (which in Licht’s circumstance meant the exact opposite of that saying). Any moment now he could decide to leave the stables and tell Sariel about Licht’s total lack of self-care. Or worse, he could tell Yves.

No, Licht had to gain some leverage over Chevalier right there and now. If only he could figure out why he was there in the first place.

The bag seemed to increase in weight with each passing moment, and the orange poking out from the rip goaded Licht like a heckler in the audience. He shut his eyes and breathed through his mouth to stave them off. Just their presence muddied his mind—why did there have to be so many carrots?

The best he could do for now was to keep up the deflecting. Even if that meant he had to keep up the talking.

“If White Horse eats this many, he’ll have an upset stomach in the morning,” he said.

“They were not all meant for him, obviously,” Chevalier explained. “When dealing with animals, extra precautions must be taken to guarantee a successful transaction should any anomalies arise.”

Licht pondered over those words. Couldn’t Chevalier ever say what he meant directly? (“No,” said Chevalier.)

“You’re saying you needed hush money—er, food in case other horses saw you two? Were you expecting to wake up the entire herd?” asked Licht.

“Precautions taken for the worst-case scenario naturally account for any hypothetical.”

“Except for my being here, apparently.”

“No, I had accounted for this as well. Though I had expected you to have fled from the vicinity of all these carrots by now.”

The tear gaped slightly as Licht’s hold tensed. Did Chevalier view him as a child who still couldn’t look foods he disliked straight on? Was Chevalier basing his reactions on tests he performed on Nokto, he wondered? He recalled a time years ago when Nokto returned from a diplomatic trip to Benitoite complaining about how their boasting of their recent super successful carrot harvest forced him to cut the trip short. It was the first time in ages Licht felt so strong an urge to console his twin when he heard the news, but what if Chevalier had a different reaction? Something seemed off about it all.

He decided to test his theory. “You’d need a boat-load of carrots to do that. And strand me on a deserted island first,” he said.

“I shall keep that in mind for the next order and charter a vessel from the Jangler,” said Chevalier.

“Nokto already asked us to halt carrot orders to the palace once. Leon told him to submit a lengthy request form with evidence and justifications and we still voted against it, three-to-one. Unfortunately.”

“My word supersedes the clown’s, as well as it does yours.”

“I wasn’t implying otherwise. Only that palace supply orders are under our faction’s scope, not yours,” said Licht. This time the rip tore larger from Chevalier’s end.

Licht really was only speaking fluff at first, but now he felt he was on the verge of uncovering something scandalous.

“In fact, food orders are specifically handled by one of us four princes to prevent showing favoritism to any one noble or grower. And we keep the records of all orders locked in our office,” he continued. “Strange how you were able to run your worst-case scenario calculations when supply was different this month. Was it just a happy coincidence?”

“Enough stalling,” said Chevalier. “Speak your mind directly.”

“Prince Chevalier.” Licht paused and inhaled. “Have you been illicitly influencing the domestic faction’s operations behind the scenes?”

The stables went eerily quiet. Even the horses, who stopped following the conversation ever since the carrots came into view, could tell an intense weight had dropped, and this time Chevalier was on the receiving end. Maron silently cheered for Licht, while White Horse ground his teeth impatiently.

Slowly, purposefully, Chevalier’s mouth widened to a grin. One that simultaneously filled Licht with a sense of victory and unease. “You speak it as though it was a laborious effort, when in truth it does not take much to influence you buffoons. A cursory inspection of your office is proof enough of your dullwittedness, which made it exceedingly simple to send the clown over on his futile carrot prohibition request to peer pressure your lot into establishing a cleaning routine. Even simpler was it to determine which days were Black’s, considering he wakes with an obvious imprint of his couch’s pillow embroidery plastered across his cheek. But simplest of all was slipping the latest edition of Jade’s Renowned Recipes onto the showoff’s desk the morning after one of Black’s cleaning days.”

The only thing preventing Licht from completely tearing up the bag was the understanding that it would drown him in those awful carrots, and that would only make him more upset. “There’s no way Nokto would agree to that,” he said to release some of the anger. “Your plan ended up with double the order of carrots in the end.”

“I never deigned to have co-conspirators,” said Chevalier.

It didn’t make sense, and yet with Chevalier it could. But it took such precise managing and calculating of everyone’s opinions and behaviors to have carried out so perfectly.

“But… but you still miscalculated,” Licht said in a small voice. “With me.”

“An unfortunate side effect of your seclusiveness. Lack of data points skews the probability of success. But this defect is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things,” said Chevalier, dropping his face to a frown once more. “Very well, we shall agree to never speak of this encounter beyond this night.”

A victory? Against Chevalier? On a mental battlefield? By all accounts, Licht should have been thrilled, even if this arrangement meant no one would ever know of his triumph. But a hollowness still dominated inside, different from the betrayal he felt from Chevalier’s reveal. He looked to Maron for support, and even his horsey smile wasn’t enough to satisfy his troubled thoughts.

“You still admitted political subterfuge, even if this is an admittedly minor instance of it. How can we guarantee you haven’t done it in the past, or won’t do it again?” asked Licht.

“You have my word that I have not nor shall I ever plot such an endeavor again without the knowledge and approval of the eight,” said Chevalier.

That should have sufficed, but Licht shook his head. “I’ll need some collateral to prove your sincerity.”

Chevalier narrowed his eyes. “What do you require?”

“Half your remaining carrots,” he said. “And tell me why you did it.” Maron perked up and licked his lips greedily while White Horse snorted and rushed beside Chevalier.

“White Horse says one-fourth and no more,” said Chevalier.

“Half,” Licht demanded. “Yves never would have put the double order if he wasn’t so intent on baking the carrot cake for me.”

Chevalier and White Horse stared intently at each other. You may have guessed correctly that these two make up another human-horse bonded pair, but unlike Licht and Maron, they mainly communicated through staring contests to determine the other’s thoughts and feelings. To the onlooker it is a curious sight, and Licht and Maron watched the pair mentally debate like statues for several awkward minutes until at last they broke apart.

“Agreed. But tonight you must vacate this stall and share your grooming tools,” said Chevalier.

“Fine, you can use them after we finish our routine,” said Licht, and the princes set out dividing the carrots equally among themselves and leading their respective horses into opposite stalls. Maron happily gobbled up his share before Licht could finish setting his tools up again in the new stall, and White Horse solemnly poked his head out of the window as Chevalier passed him carrots at regular intervals. A complacent tranquility settled in as the sounds of horse munching, hair brushing, and the late night summer breeze whooshed through the stables, calming its occupants and warming their hearts. While these two princes were inclined to introversion, the silent acknowledgement of horse care they shared bonded them on that night closer than they ever knew in the past.

Once the grooming session was completed, Maron shook his head satisfied as Licht patted his neck. Licht packed his tools neatly in their kit and crossed over to the other stall, ready to hear Chevalier’s story, when he saw his brother holding two long strips of ribbon, one bright yellow and the other bright blue, up to White Horse’s pearly mane.

“They’d both look nice on him,” Licht said as he entered the stall. He extracted a fine brush from the kit and began working out the knots in White Horse’s mane.

Chevalier watched intently, holding the ribbons closer so Licht could see. “But which will look nicer?” he asked.

Another ripple of warmth began to swell in Licht's cheeks, but a breeze hadn’t blown in a while. Did Chevalier actually value Licht’s opinion?

“Well, maybe the blue will look better in the daytime and the yellow at night,” Licht replied. Chevalier hmmed and took the ribbons back, tying them into different intricately shaped bows on his fingers. No doubt Yves would find them charming, and a small smile involuntarily crept onto Licht’s face as he pictured the three of them dressing up White Horse in tiny bows.

What a ridiculous idea! As if Chevalier would ever agree to that! But still, even though Licht always spent time in the stables alone, the thought of inviting others once in a while wasn’t too indigestible. Is this what it was like to share hobbies? Could this be how Licht could cure his—as Chevalier called it—seclusiveness? They could have been friends all along?

The moment seemed right. He decided to shoot his shot. “Yves has lots more ribbon. And lace, too. Maybe we could all make bows for Maron and White Horse someday?”

“Perhaps,” said Chevalier, all ten of his fingers now bound by bows. “Tell me, do you think White Horse is attractive?”

Or maybe they were never meant to be friends after all.

“Er—” Licht stumbled. “He’s a healthy and well-kept stallion. I could ask for nothing more from him.”

“Not to you. A female.”

“Uhm… You could probably ask Nokto to grab a maid’s opinion?”

Chevalier clenched his fists, crushing the tiny bows. “A female horse,” he hissed.

“Oh!” Licht accidentally pulled too hard on a knot. White Horse turned to him and snorted sharply, dousing his face in chewed-up carrot. Yes, that tranquil moment had definitely passed.

Licht quickly unbuttoned his coat and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. The very next morning, that shirt would be burning in the back of his fireplace.

“Is White Horse trying to impress a mare?” he asked in an attempt to salvage the conversation.

“We only agreed I reveal my intention for the carrot theft,” said Chevalier.

“Political subterfuge,” Licht corrected.

“Shall I send you to dreamland instead?” said Chevalier.

“I’ll be sure to ask for the story in the morning then,” said Licht.

Chevalier leaned against the wall and began undoing the bows as he spoke. “Do not interrupt. It began on a trip west last fall. Clavis and I were inspecting numerous citadels along the border, and as luck would have it I received word that the newest volume of a series I was following was set to release the day before our scheduled return to the palace.”

Licht swapped his brush for a flat bristled one and started on White Horse’s neck as he listened. He recalled Chevalier’s trip very clearly. Clavis had made a point to leave behind a timed-trap in his absence. On the morning of the twins’ birthday, hundreds of colorful paper airplanes were released in the roundtable room, each bearing a handwritten message like: “Thinking of you from so far away!” and “Big brother will bring home a bigger gift, just you wait!” and “Say your prayers, Sariel!” Licht occasionally still felt the ghosts of those paper cuts stinging his skin.

Unfazed by Licht’s cringing expression, Chevalier continued. “Despite Clavis’s bemoaning protests, we managed to reach the final location of our tour and complete the inspection with time to spare, albeit at the sacrifice of several nights’ rest. Our fool of a brother was at his wit’s end, but aside from his sanity we arrived back in town with zero casualties. He agreed to retrieve the book before returning to the palace as an excuse to finally be out of my sight, so he broke off from our party as we rode up. And seeing as White Horse knows the way to the gates I saw no imminent danger requiring my remaining alert and allowed myself to rest my eyes.”

Licht tried to remember the exact day of their return and if anything remarkable occurred, but his mind kept coming up with blanks. (He wasn’t allowed to interrupt, but the narrator can. Chevalier said he fell asleep.)

Chevalier finished removing the yellow ribbon from his fingers and crumpled it in his fist. “While resting my eyes, I could still sense the passage of time, and after an appropriate amount of time until when I knew we should have reached the palace had passed I opened them again but found we were in an unfamiliar area I had never visited before. We were near the outskirts of town where the cattle graze. Seventeen houses in total, each unremarkable in size and structure, yet White Horse perched at the fence of the red brick house watching a jet black mare race across the yard. Never before had I seen him so fixated on one task, even when we are in battle. I called his name and pulled his reins but he completely ignored me. I was about alight from his back to admonish him when the woman of the household spotted us from her window, and she let out a piercing scream that would have woken the entire town had it been dark. It was enough to startle White Horse, at any rate. More than seeing you tonight.”

At this, Licht instantly remembered the day. Everyone at the palace heard the scream, and the subsequent chill emanating from Clavis’s smile when he suggested Licht join him to wait by the gates could only be bested by Chevalier’s cold stare. Never before nor since was Licht so grateful for it to be his turn to clean the domestic faction office than on that day. Maron remembered the day because it was the only time Chevalier returned wearing robes stained not in red, but brown. And Chevalier remembered the day because there did not yet exist enough scientific literature in Rhodolite on lobotomy.

Recounting is all well and good, but White Horse preferred matters tending to the future. And while he was used to his master and his soft-spoken brother’s tendencies towards silence, this silence stretching on in their conversation soon bored the stallion. When at last it became too much to bear, White Horse sucked in breath through his teeth, pressed his nose against Chevalier’s head, and released a mighty sneeze that nearly shook the princes off balance. From across the hall, Maron whinnied at White Horse in disapproval, and Licht quickly steadied himself then began patting the horse’s white neck. This served two purposes: calming White Horse’s fury, and giving Licht an excuse to turn away as Chevalier picked globules of horse mucus out of his hair.

It seemed acceptable for Licht to speak now. “So White Horse likes Verona?”

“Who?” Chevalier raked the last of the snot out with the blue ribbon and tossed it onto the remains of the ripped bag.

“The mare. That’s her name,” said Licht.

“Don’t be ridiculous, they have never once interacted for White Horse to develop any feelings of ‘liking’.”

“Fine. He fancies her.”

“Such a useless emotion. Enough of it to lose his head at the screams of her owner,” scoffed Chevalier.

“He’s alright though, isn’t he?” said Licht.

“Only because I had the sense to steady us in time,” said Chevalier. What he conveniently neglected to mention was how after steadying White Horse, the woman raced out of the house waving a broomstick in the air because she didn’t recognize the Second Prince and assumed he was there to horsenap Verona. Before Chevalier could diffuse the situation, White Horse jumped at her advance and fell backwards, landing both himself and his rider in a puddle of mud. Prince Clavis was the only person standing at the gates to witness their soiled return, and he keeps the memory fresh in his mind for days when he feels blue. But there was no reason for Licht to know about it, so Chevalier said, “I have upheld my end of the deal. Pass me a brush.”

“But you didn’t explain the carrots,” said Licht.

“Do not ask for a story if you are too bleary-eyed to follow along,” said Chevalier. He swiped the brush out of Licht’s hand and began grooming White Horse’s other side. White Horse neighed softly and went back to staring longingly out of the window.

Rays of false dawn shone from the horizon, layering the first brush stroke of saturation on town. Licht followed White Horse’s gaze out the window towards the pasty colors of the pasture in the distance, just as the signs of a red house came into view.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion truly catching up to him, but Licht didn’t notice Maron trotting up to him until he felt his warm muzzle pressed against the small of his back. Even without facing him, he knew what Maron wanted to say.

“Maron’s friends with Verona,” said Licht. “We visit the horses there every month for a stretch. We could introduce White Horse next time we go, if you want.”

Perhaps the exhaustion caught up to Chevalier as well, because the small part of him that planned to find Licht in the stables tonight tingled with vindication. “What do you require?” he asked.

“I don’t need anything,” said Licht.

“And I do not desire to remain in your debt. Name your price,” said Chevalier.

It is a curious state to find oneself able to demand anything from Prince Chevalier. I can think of several princes who would jump at the opportunity and ask from him all manner of favors. But Licht was a simple secluded sword master equine enthusiast who when asked what he wanted most in the world would probably reply with the most seemingly mundane thing. And yet, it would still make him smile.

“Help me get rid of this cough. That way I can help disrupt the carrot supply chain next time.”

I once wrote a fic in the past when I thought Maron was a mare. If anyone else mistakenly thought he was a lady horse because of that fic, I take full responsibility, that's my bad.

With this fic I tried out a new narrative style. It was out of my comfort zone, but a fun experiment. If anyone has any constructive feedback about it (positive or negative, I want to learn) feel free to leave a comment or an ask. Did it engage you more in the story, did it slow it down, did it make you laugh, did it bore you... whatever you feel like sharing :) Otherwise, thanks for reading.

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri fanfic #wishuponanaidecc #licht klein #chevalier michel #ikepri licht #ikepri chevalier #ikepri maron #ikepri white horse #scorchie writes

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allwaswell16 · 28 days

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Hi lovely and thank for your sharing and caring in this fandom!

A bit finicky question, I'm here with. Don't know if I managed to mention different perspectives enough and contextualize it the way I wanted to, but anyway, do feel free to ignore or maybe just leave some tags:

What are your thoughts, your two pennies and just today (tomorrow is another day and maybe a new perspective), about the conversation going on about the commenting culture (nowadays in AO3):

the lack and/or decline of it

the urgent need for community, engagement, participation and positive feedback loop for authors

but also the growing and changing audience for fanfic

the growing idea that a fic is not a gift (it most certainly is) but some "factory produced and guaranteed content that keeps on coming and you are entitled to it"

the lack of reading comprehension skills

and the lack of skills to figure out the appropriate time and place for giving critique

but also the small but growing portion of authors who demand only certain kind of praise, worded in a certain kind of way and if not delivered accordingly attack brutally on everything and everyone

the cultural differencies as a player in participating, giving positive feedback and even using foreign language words

and of course the ever growing and spreading comment anxiety on "both sides"

and so on...

So how do you see it? What's your perspective? You are both an author and a reader. But then again, you are a reader who writes, so you actually know, what a writer likes to see in their comment field...

Hi, anon! Whew, well this is a lot, but I'm going to answer as much as I can haha. As you said, this is just my own perspective on things. I'd say I also have a little added perspective of being a writer who reads and writes in more than one popular fanfic fandom. So I can't help but compare my experiences in both.

I don't think the One Direction fandom has ever been overly generous with the kudos and comments to be perfectly honest. I think if you talk to writers who are active in other fic fandoms of similar sizes/popularity, they'd likely agree with that.

I want to be clear to start with here that I feel like readers have been very kind to me over the years. I've been here a long time now though, so I get the benefit of the doubt with some long time readers and those who subscribe to my ao3. But I also think that in part I have encouraged comments in a way that not every writer can or wants to do.

I answer every single comment. I answer them in a way that mirrors back the comment that was made. If you leave a long comment, I answer back in detail. If you send me something shorter, (which is fine and I love any and all comments!) I will answer back in a similar way. I also answer back pretty quickly. There are times I get behind, but I rarely get behind more than a month or so. And the day my fic posts, I try to answer every comment that gets posted on that first day.

Am I saying everyone needs to do what I do? Absolutely not! It takes a lot of time and energy to do that! But I do think there's a correlation to be made there. Readers see all the comments, see they're being answered quickly, and feel comfortable or like it's okay to leave one, too. OH, and also I want to say that me answering back (maybe obsessively) quickly is something that probably isn't possible for people who have a fic explode in popularity. I might have some popular fics but none of them were like overnight explosions in popularity. They've all been slow burners lol.

As for concrit with fic...I think it depends on the fandom. It is not something that is looked upon kindly in ours. There are definitely writers out there who ask for it which is fine, but the etiquette in our fandom is not to offer it unless asked for it. In my opinion, this makes a lot of sense for our fandom. Since writers are not getting the numbers of kudos and comments that are given more freely in other fandoms, it's a bit of a hard pill to swallow that we'd then expect them to also take unsolicited writing critiques.

Just using my own fics as an example, by the time I publish a fic multiple other writers have already read it. It's been proofread and betad by a writer with an MFA in creative writing. I'm not going to be taking concrit seriously from someone whose background in writing I don't know. When I publish the fic, it's done, I'm happy with the result, and I'm not going back to it to make changes. So there's not much point in telling me what I should have done differently with it.

Your point about some writers being perhaps overly sensitive about some comments...I wanted to say a few things about. There are a few common comments that immediately came to mind that writers have differing views on, and I think it's worthwhile for readers to think about.

One is something like I wish this was longer or please write more of this. If you comment this on any of my fics, I'll smile and consider it a compliment that you enjoyed it enough to want more. If you go through my comments, you'll see this is indeed what I've replied back to comments like that. There are other writers that are going to be exasperated by that comment or even offended by it. And even though I'm not one of them, I would say try to see it from their perspective.

What if that writer has spent months on that fic the reader considers "short"? I think readers sometimes forget just how much TIME goes into these fics. Just because a fic is 10k, 5k, whatever doesn't mean it didn't take a long time to write. And someone who spent months of time on something who likely didn't receive a whole lot of comments in the first place, and then one of the few comments they get could be interpreted as this wasn't enough. That's disheartening, you know? I think if you have the urge to leave that comment, maybe think first about the writer you're leaving that comment for. Or even think of a different way to say it like, "I could have lived in this fic forever" which is what I like to think is what most readers are trying to convey with comments like that.

Another one is who tops? Just don't, I'd say for that comment. I simply don't answer ones like that. But I'd say check the tags. If it's not tagged, either choose to move on if you have to know to read it or ctrl+F the fic yourself for the word "cock" or whatever. If the writer doesn't tag it, it means they didn't care about that. Or they got annoyed with their fics being reduced to that too often. PWP eh fine, but my 80k amnesia au I had a nervous breakdown writing that has one sex scene...eff off that's not what the fic is about. I once wrote a fic about grief. GRIEF! (well, and Antarctic scientists) that people argued over whether it was bottom Louis. And I resolved to never tag it again after that.

As for the fic as a gift vs not a gift I agree with you...I don't know what else you'd call something that is given for free. That's the definition of "gift." If someone reads the fic, a kudos is like a verbal thank you and a comment would be like a thank you card.

The comment anxiety thing I don't have an issue with myself, but I know writers who do and can't bring themselves to answer their comments. One of my friends feels so badly for not answering but when she tries she says her replies don't feel like enough. It's too bad that she can't answer due to actually loving her comments TOO much! Anxiety is a bitch for sure. For anyone who wants to leave a comment but is worried about it, I promise that super short ones or even keysmashes or emojis are very welcome! I have a mutual on tumblr who leaves the same comment on every one of my fics that simply says she loved the fic and I promise it makes me happy every single time because now I know she read it and enjoyed it whereas I might have missed whether or not she left a kudos. And when I see her on my dash, I think that's the one who loves my fics! :)

I swear I'm gonna stop rambling, but I want to end with one more thing. I think it would be interesting for readers and writers to experience a different fandom sometime if they're only in this one. It's not always a better/worse thing, but it might make people more open to trying new things like commenting/replying more or in different ways.

#tldr i know #ask #anon

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