#Posting wips to keep myself on track and remember they exist

[translucentpthalo]

#using my arm to swatch and realizing for the 1000th time I don't know what I look like #Posting wips to keep myself on track and remember they exist #acrylic #my art #it feels good to paint I missed this (it was less than a week I'm dramatic af) #the proportions on alexios and brasidas are driving me nuts but I'm so proud of the background I don't want to paint over them

[a-pale-azure-moon]

WIP Wednesday

It's done.

There will be revisions and tweaks to make between now and when I post it in a few days, but I have finished the final chapter of Someday We'll Shine Together. At long last, it is complete.

I'm struggling to distill all of my emotions into words at the moment. This fic has been a part of my life for about three years now. I'm feeling accomplished and proud of myself for really and truly finishing it despite the fact that when I first had the idea, I was convinced this was another of those fleeting inspirational flashes that would never go anywhere and would forever languish in my WIP folder. I got very attached to this story in the process of creating it, and I got even more attached to it when it was one of the things that helped see me through a very difficult time in my personal life. As such, I'm also grieving that it's over and that I now must let it go. Sure, it'll always exist for me to revisit whenever I want, but that feeling is never the same as the one derived from actively working on it.

While I'm still digesting all of these emotions, here's a rough timeline and some background of the fic's development, so you can all see how I finally got to this point. This is pretty personal too, because the two are irrevocably intertwined. (Content warning: death/grief)

Summer 2020: Initial inspiration hits after I rewatched Utena during COVID lockdown.

Fall 2020: Brainworms are on-and-off active, writing short blurbs in a Google doc when they come to me, but there's no true shape to the whole plot yet, it’s just random scenes. It's more or less still strictly a 3H-esque retelling of Utena, and I'm not expecting anything to actually come of these blurbs.

Winter 2020: More blurbs trickle in here and there. The story in my head is starting to divert more drastically from the show.

February 19, 2021: Draft of the pivotal scene at the end of Chapter 15 written. I remember the specific day for this because I wrote it the same day we put down our dog, Clancy. (Writing emotional scenes often helps me process my own emotions.)

April 11, 2021: Creation of my dedicated author's notes file to keep track of the various threads and ideas I'd come up with, especially the backstory about Faerghus and how Dimitri became the Lion Prince. I filled it in like an extended summary or wikipedia entry about the 'verse and the overall plot of the story. I jotted a lot of stuff down between April and June as the brainworms really got to work again.

Summer 2021: I'm starting to entertain the idea of actually seeing this project through. Chapters 1 and 2 are drafted over the summer months, but I hit a block and the self doubt comes roaring right in to deter me.  A LARGE part of my struggle with getting this fic out of development hell was me being unable to get out of my own way.  Every stumbling block I hit (especially early on) was an invitation for my inner critic to resume browbeating me into giving up this “stupid” idea.

September 2021: I finally make up my mind that I'm really going to do this, and I spend the next six weeks ironing out the bumps in the plot and making a chapter-by-chapter outline highlighting the key scenes/plot points/character beats within each one. I organized the various blurbs I had into chronological order and put them under the correct chapter headings. I also started thinking of the best way to get myself to see this project through, as well as what would be a realistic timetable for its completion. I estimated that the final length of the whole thing would be around 350 pages or roughly 150K words. (This is hilarious to me in hindsight.  I severely underestimated the scope of this fic!)

November 2021: I try to do the NaNoWriMo challenge (50K words in a month) to draft as much of the fic as I can. I "only" produce about 35K words in the end, but it was enough to draft Chapters 3 and 4 and write at least one decent-sized blurb within each of all of the remaining chapters.

December 2021: I took a short hiatus from working on SWST to finish Beneath the Ethereal Moon. When that's done, I went over my outline yet again to refine it further and then cleaned up my draft of Chapter 1 with an eye on posting it after right after New Year's. I determined that posting (and writing) one chapter per month should be doable, especially since I have a generous buffer to start with.

January 2022: I get a bad case of cold feet/anxiety and don't post Chapter 1. I'm having trouble getting a feel for Chapter 5 and fail to finish it before the end of the month. (This naturally doesn't help alleviate my self-doubt or silence my very loud inner critic.)

February 2022: Cold feet strike again and I fail to post Chapter 1 a second time. I'm still stuck on Chapter 5 (though I've at least made some progress), and while I'm extremely aware that I'm being my own worst enemy, that doesn't make it any easier to beat back old habits.

March 2, 2022: In the wee hours of the night (it was after midnight), I finally posted Chapter 1 and went straight to bed after. I slept terribly of course, haha.

I wish I could say "and you know the rest from here," but that's not true. Posting Chapter 1 was a huge mental hurdle cleared, but there were other things going on behind the scenes that almost derailed this project for good. The timing was such that if I were more prone to hubris, I'd think that the universe itself was testing my resolve. Or possibly mocking me.

On March 3, 2022 (yes, the day after I posted Chapter 1), my father was admitted to the hospital with a debilitating pain in his lower back. Initially, we thought it might be a flare up of his sciatica or maybe something like a kidney stone, but the truth was far worse. What he had was a spinal epidural abscess caused by a bacterial infection in his blood. He was transported to the ICU of a larger (further away) hospital once the severity of his condition was discovered, and he was pumped full of massive doses of antibiotics. Thanks to that, he stabilized, but what followed after was a long period of uncertainty as he would start to make gains only to suffer a setback. Even once the infection and his pain level were under control, he'd been so severely sick that the bacteria had ravaged his various body systems, leading to issues with his kidneys and his heart.

For 91 days, my family and I were stuck on a wretched rollercoaster of getting hopeful (he was transferred to a rehab facility three different times when it looked like he was improving) and then having our hopes dashed when something would happen that would see him sent back to the hospital (falling out of bed, chest pains, difficulty breathing). Hope began to fade in mid May when he was transferred back to the ICU due to diastolic heart failure, which caused his lungs to fill up with fluid. They tapped his lungs thrice, removing at least a liter of fluid each time, but they kept filling up again despite all the diuretics the doctors were giving him. Then his kidneys began to shut down too. We kept hoping right until the end, but he passed away on June 1, 2022, the day before what would've been his and my mother's 49th wedding anniversary.

(Proof that real life can be even crueler than fiction.)

I was only able to continue updating SWST while my father was sick because of that buffer I'd had, and I very nearly deleted the story from AO3 altogether after he died. I remember ruminating about how futile it was to continue with this project; I'd written almost nothing while he was sick, so my buffer was now gone and I questioned whether or not I'd be able to write, let alone write consistently, with the promised months of grief and general upheaval ahead. Even writing a story that I had, to that point, been passionate about felt utterly pointless.

It was strange though. I woke up on June 2nd thinking that maybe I should go ahead and post chapter 4 anyway, since it was already done and it was one of the chapters I particularly liked. So I did. And in the following days, we had my father's funeral and a part of me felt like I could breathe again. I was grieving yes, but the constant daily stress and uncertainty from his illness was gone, and I think that freed my creative drive to start working again. I remember the first day I sat back down at my computer with the intention to write and how much better I felt in general after I got some words onto the screen.

It's hella ironic that I planned SWST with grief and loss as major themes and it turned out I'd be processing such things myself while writing most of it. I know my own grief affected the story, though it's impossible to say to what degree; I get a lot of catharsis in general from writing emotional scenes, so I tend to go hard on them regardless. It didn't change the plot or direction of the story at all, since that was already planned, but it's certainly safe to say that I channeled a lot of my own feelings into some of the most intense moments. The ending of Chapter 9 stands out in particular as something that felt like it was coming straight out of my own heart.

Even on the hard days when I was feeling too overwhelmed and/or the words just weren’t coming, this story gave me a reason to keep going.  Just keeping the goal in mind and reasserting my resolve to be consistent and see this project through to the end helped me cope.  It both kept me grounded and helped me process what I was going through and it gave me something to look forward to when I uploaded each chapter and anxiously waited to see what the readers would think.

I started this fic as a means of testing myself: testing my commitment to writing consistently, to finishing a long-term project, and to getting over at least some of the many, MANY mental hurdles that have held me back from writing for way too long.  I knew that this story would always be near and dear to me if I managed to finish it, but it became even more precious than I ever could’ve imagined back in 2020.  It hurts that I must say goodbye to it, but…it’s forever mine.  I can say with my whole chest that I MADE THIS THING and I’m so very proud of it! <3

#my writing #swst #wip wednesday #personal

[kingdomvel]

20 questions challenge!

I was tagged by @tideswept and I wish I was making this tipsy too but sadly I'm not

1.) How many works do you have on ao3?

13, not many, but they feel like a lot hah

2.) What's your ao3 word count?

263,623 words which are... quite a lot tbh

3.) What fandoms do you write for?

Right now just Star Wars. I'm a bit of a hyperfixation kind of girl and, even if I have more ship I enjoy reading, I can't bring myself to write for them idk

4.) What are your top five fics by kudos?

I'll be there for you: 1,399 kudos (Yoonmin)

Keep me safe: 777 kudos (Yoonmin)

Sea & memories: 502 kudos (Hyungwonho)

The light in you: 462 kudos (Hyungwonho)

Returning Hope: 238 kudos (Obikin)

Damn. Lots of kpop here, I've assumed I'll never get as many kudos as I did then, but I don't really mind. Now I don't know how I dealt with so many people reading my stuff hah.

5.) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

There was a time when I didn't really but now I always try to respond, if I don't it's because I'm horrible at keeping track and I'll think oh I'll answerlater but then forget and by the time I remember I think it's been too long and it'll just be too awkward. But I love when writers answer so I try to do my best.

6.) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't write angsty endings, for the same reason I don't ususally read fics with angsty or ambiuous endings. When I read/write fics I want my characters to be happy by the end.

7.) What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

For the same reason as before, all my fics have happy endings. But maybe the happiest is the obikin physiotheray au?

8.) Do you get hate on fics?

Nope, and that's wild becasue I've seen some awful things both in the kpop fandom and in obikin. I think I've been lucky, only a couple slightly mean comments that I just ignore.

9.) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I don't write like pwp, but a couple of my fics have smut. What kind? hmm the loving one. I read so many very questionable and kinky stuff but I can't write it. Like, I would love to, but I can't make it work. For example I wanted the physiotherapy au to be much more kinky and horny but it just didn't happen. And if I was braver I would have writen welcome to out castle with a older obi-wan and younger Anakin.

10.) Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Hmmm nope, no crossovers. (Unless you count mixinxg different kpop bands but otherwise no)

11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of :S

12.) Have you ever had a fic translated?

A couple of girls once asked me if they could translate a fic of mine, but I think they never posted it.

13.) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Nope, but I'm open to try.

14.) What's your all time favorite ship?

This is impossible to answer, I appeal to my right to remain silent.

15.) What's a WIP you'd like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

The modern jedi one. I would LOVE to make it exist but I doubt I ever will.

16.) What are your writing strengths?

DIalogue?? I think??

17.) What are your writing weaknesses?

Descriptions. I don't know how to write descriptions and feelings. I'm better at showing those through actions.

18.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Hmm I've never done it. Guess it would be okay if it makes sense in the story?? And it's important to distinguish between, does the POV character understand what they are saying or not?

19.) First fandom you wrote for?

I think it may be a cody simpson self insert fic I wrote in a notebook when I was like 13 lmao

20.) Favorite fic you've ever written?

I'm very biased with this. Right now I'm loving writing the castle au. But also, writing The light in you was very important to me becasue it got me going through a very dark time in my life. It's not my favourite, it's not the best, but it has a special part in my heart.

#ask game #writing stuff

[eldritchlittleblackdragon]

2022 Fic Year in Review!

Originally from @sevarix-blogs.

Disclaimer: I only posted one new fic on AO3 this year, so I'm mostly going to be talking about stuff I've written but haven't posted yet (including updates for existing works). I tend to have a habit of getting myself into really long and involved projects, and up to this point I haven't had a good track record for completing them. But it is very much a goal of mine to finish a longfic one day!

Total fics written: 4 (Currently Working On a Ghost of Tsushima fic, A FE Three Houses Fic, An Obey Me Fic, and Two Great Ace Attorney fics- Only the Obey Me fic and One of the Great Ace Attorney fics have chapters up on AO3 currently)

Word count: Roughly 70k words, not including summaries I write for myself so I remember what I was trying to write when I last worked on a WIP (which is a technique I started doing within the last year or so!).

List of Fandoms: For this year - The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles, Ghost of Tsushima, Obey Me! One Master to Rule Them All, and Fire Emblem Three Houses

Most Kudos'd work: Of the fics I'm currently working on (that I have chapters posted for), the one with the most kudos for is The Devil You Know/The Devil You Don't. Technically it was posted in 2021, but I worked on updates for it this year.

Work you are most proud of: My Two Great Ace Attorney fics - Gardenias On Your Grave and Daffodills and Edelweiss (not yet posted). I came up with a lot of very cool bits of symbolism and I think I did a good job of integrating my oc into canon and fleshing out her relationships and I managed to have all the details for her story worked on, and trying to put together a full story arc is something I've struggled with in the story.

Favorite title: Probably the same as above, I put a lot of thought into the titles for those and made use of Victorian Flower symbolism which is fitting for the setting. But I really like the title I intend to use for my Ghost of Tsushima fic (Swept Away) as well.

Favorite Comment: "UGGHHH This is so painfully beautiful!! I love it!" -Comment left of Gardenias On Your Grave by Scarlett who supported me a lot when I was still exclusively working on prep work for that fic. ^^ It always makes me happy when a thing I wrote turns out well. I like comments in general, from detailed analytical stuff to questions to just 'wow I really like this!' It really keeps me going.

Work you enjoyed writing the most: All of them were so fun, it's hard to choose! I guess if I had to pick I'd choose my Ghost of Tsushima fic, Swept Away (which I haven't posted anything on AO3 for yet). I had a lot of fun fleshing out my oc for this fic and building her relationship with Ghost of Tsushima's protagonist, Jin Sakai. I also had fun researching Kamakura era Japan (the time period in Japanese history where the game takes place).

What you hope to write in 2023: Honestly at this point my hope is the same as it always is, which is to make progress on my works and get some of it onto AO3. But, I think what I hope for 2023 is to genuinely enjoy my writing and the process of it rather than stressing myself out about how I think I 'should' be writing.

I'd really like to get my Fire Emblem Three Houses Claude/OC fic in particular off the ground since it's actually a fic I started having ideas for two-threeish years ago and then just... didn't have the spark/motivation for it. The original working Title was The Raven of Leicester, but it has since been changed to Heirs of the Crescent Moon. There's a chance it may change again when I post the fic but we'll see.

link to your ao3: HERE

#lbd speaks

[grisailledreams]

For the WIP game, I'd love a snippet from The Chaotic!! :O :O

Aaaaaahhhhhh thank you!!! I had a feeling you would 💖 This one's my baby. I should have put a cw next to the title on the original post, but here's a big chunk of the prologue that doesn't need it, so we're good! It's one of a handful of sections narrated by the romantic interest.

🌿 🌿 🌿

At that same hour - four time zones ahead, in fact, but the same minute - I laid awake in bed, staring at the ceiling for the tenth day running. Some people in my position like to count seconds to give themselves something to do. I prefer breaths.

How long could I go without one?

I’d had this body for twenty-seven years, sixty-three days, ten hours, five minutes, and forty-eight seconds. Forty-nine. Fifty.

Breathe in.

No one had come to check on me because no one knew I was there. My neighbors were vaguely aware that I existed, but the enchantment I laid down over the town meant that they gave me space and never expected me to weave into the fabric of their everyday lives. I could walk among them as I pleased. Speak, if I wanted. Mostly, I didn’t.

That night, my mind drifted to the people who put me there. No one forced me to live in Iceland, but I wasn’t allowed to go home. She wouldn’t let me. Stars forbid I try to bring a little justice to our world.

The rage that burned inside me for so long had died down into a cold, sluggish ember about three years in. I hadn’t given up, yet. I was still hell-bent on finding my lost treasure. No more did my hatred fuel me, though, and I turned desperate. I’d started my search in Norway, where my heart broke the first time, before I spread outward across the globe. The faster the years slipped away, the more I had to face acceptance. I might never get it back. My purpose. The greatest work of my Homericly long existence. A culmination of creations and apocalypses flowing around me in a never-ending cycle. Death. Rebirth. Remember.

Ten years in, I bought the house in Iceland.

I wanted to see the ocean. The happiest years in any of my lives had been spent on the shore. The air was cold, the way I liked it. If I needed to lose myself in a crowd, Húsavík was a short jaunt away. It wasn’t a big city, but I could crush myself between a bunch of whale-watching tourists and mentally evaporate.

I’d strike out from home to continue my search, but this was the first time I had a place to return to. So many years, I’d simply moved on to the next town. Come up short. Keep going. It was as if I’d gone everywhere, seen everything - even the regions I didn’t think my treasure would be, as far south as Chile, Namibia, Madagascar. Nothing, again. I maintain that I’m the cleverest of my kind and even I wouldn’t have put it there. Anyone going to the trouble of hiding something from a god would want it within reach.

Already, I hear your question: if you’re a god, why did you need a house?

Give me a moment. I’ve already wandered too far off-track.

It was that night while I stewed in my doldrums and tried to count as high as I could before I needed to breathe again (forty-three) that I heard a miracle. A real one. Not like when the Devoted gives some corporate monster his commupance or the Warrior lets the underdog win a battle. No god had their hands in this.

Ados.

The voice whispered so clearly in my ear that the speaker could have been lying beside me, curled up against my chest. My eyes popped open. My heart raced against my ribs. No one had called my name like that in a long time. I’d almost forgotten.

Almost.

#thank you!!!!!!! #ados is my special boi #the chaotic #writeblr #authorblr #ask meme #tag meme #my writing #wip excerpt

[vvitchering]

@chamomileteainabuttercup tagged me in a fanfic writing Q&A and despite my extended hiatus from writing, I guess I have enough to make this worth doing!

How many works do you have on AO3?

32, and I can't believe I have that many wow

What’s your total AO3 word count?

56,612 which is both impressive and depressing lmao

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The Romancing of the Bard (The Witcher, Geralt/Jaskier, the only thing that surprises me about this is how many kudos it got for being so short and unfinished and not entirely that original lmao I'm also a little salty that something silly like that did SO WELL and things I actually cared a lot more about were barely noticed)

For The Joy Of It (The Witcher, Geralt/Jaskier, this was written for a prompt on twitter and I ended up liking it enough to turn into its own fic. I like the themes, I like the ideas, I did what I set out to do, this was a pretty good one of mine)

Bloodmoon (The Witcher, gen but shippy if you want it to be, this is a favorite of mine still, even though I'm not involved in the fandom anymore. I'm proud that I managed to translate my thoughts to writing in a way that felt satisfying and did the idea justice, which is something I struggle with all the time)

Tokens of Affection (The Witcher, Geralt/Jaskier, I think this was one of the first fics I wrote for the fandom and it shows, but it's a sweet little story nonetheless)

All That We See Or Seem (The Witcher, Eskel/Geralt, I'm so happy this made the list. My magnum opus. I think out of all my fics (possibly excluding Bloodmoon) this is the one I was most easily able to See in my head as I developed it. My only regret is not being at a skill level high enough to really tell this story as it was meant to be told.)

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try to! I definitely always respond to indepth comments that say a little more than "good story" because I really appreciate when people take the time to tell me what they liked or what worked for them. That helps me feel like I've accomplished something and points me in the right direction for my next story!

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I don't tend to write angst, at least not of the unresolved variety, but Howl kind of.......is both of those things.....oops lol

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I don't, only because I haven't found myself in two fandoms at once that I think work well enough together to do a crossover that isn't crack. I think the closest I ever get to this is when I use elements or settings from one thing and characters from another, like HDM Daemons, or when I was obsessed with the idea of BNHA characters in a Promare setting. But no actual character crossover, no.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Nothing that made enough of an impression for me to remember. I think I get the usual "ew why does this ship even exist" crap once in a blue moon but I always ignore/delete it. I just don't have time for it.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Ehhhhhhhhhh, not REALLY? I've tried a few times, posted a few half hearted attempts, but that shit is hard. It's one of my biggest struggles and I hate that I still can't even do it in a way that feels comfortable to me as a writer and doesn't read extremely awkward.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Again, not that I know of.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Once or twice, but I'm very picky about collaborations because I know myself and I know how difficult I am to work with. I'm protective of my ideas and I'm stubborn and I find it hard to try and mesh two different points of view on a subject most of the time. I do love to discuss ideas with my friends but when it comes to actually co-writing, I find it too hard 99.9% of the time. Which isn't to say that .1% where it does work isn't super fun! It is! But I think its worked successfully literally once or twice.

What’s your all time favourite ship?

This changes almost monthly at this point LMAO right now I'm really into symbrock (venom), dincobb & bobadin (the mandalorian), and lokius (Loki) still kinda intrigues me despite the show pissing me off

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

All of them. I hate having wips, I just want them to be done, how do I make them Done???

What are your writing strengths?

I've been told I'm good with descriptions, which I agree with. I do tend to see how I want things very clearly in my mind's eye so it's relatively easy for me to just describe what I'm seeing.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Literally everything else ;w; I'm very weak with action scenes, I always feel like my dialogue doesn't work/is clunky/is ooc, and I can't plan out or carry a plot to save my life. As much as it annoys me when pacing is messed up in media, I also can't pace things well. I either end up rushing through or dragging things out too much.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I think it depends. Multiple sentences worth is probably too much and ultimately unnecessary. I will definitely abandon a fic if I'm forced to keep looking for translations. But I'm a huge fan of peppering in a character's native language if it's appropriate. I did this with Trek for Spock and I do it now with Star Wars for Din and Boba. I think a word or phrase here and there is a good way to encourage immersion and bring characters to life, but there has to be a balance.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Supernatural way back in the day, but none of those made it to ao3. I think there's a few still floating around here though.........

What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

I have fun with every fic I sit down to write, honestly. In the moment, it feels good and fun to be working on something. It's after I'm done that I tend to get down on myself. If I HAD to pick, Bloodmoon was a lot of fun. I liked having a bigger cast of characters to write about and the action scenes in that one came so easily for once! I also enjoyed writing In Passion or in Laughter a lot because non-human POV stuff is always really interesting and fun to write. I'd like to write more Venom stuff some time.

Not gonna tag anyone because I can't keep track of who has and hasn't done these meme things so if you're a writer and you made it to the end of this and you want to, consider this me tagging you :)

#writing #writing q&a #tagged in #my fics

[illegiblewords]

Fic Writer Meme

Swiped this because it looked like fun!

Name

Fandoms

Most popular oneshot

Most popular multichapter

Actual worst part of writing

How you choose your titles

Do you outline

Ideas I probably won’t get around to, but wouldn’t it be nice?

Callouts @ Me

Best writing traits

Spicy Tangential Opinion

Tagging: @nilim, @azwoodbomb, @wouldyouliketoseemymask, @parvus-pica, @peregrineroad, @spiral-seeker, @frostmantle, @autumnslance, @strangefellows, @redbud-tree, @maccaroni-eh, @entropytea, @prettyparadoxes, @ivalane, @kunstpause, @fogfens

Name: Illegible or Illegiblewords lately. I’ve switched it in the past a few times.

Fandoms: I’ve been in Final Fantasy XIV for the past couple of years now. Passively I might be in Pathologic fandom and Dragon Age fandom? Maybe others too on and off. I was in comic fandoms for a long time but honestly that spiraled into a hot mess of epic proportions so I’ve mostly peaced out of there. Still love stories, characters, and buddies from there though.

Most Popular Oneshot: Ironically it’s Ideation for Bladerunner 2049 haha. I did exactly one fic there right after seeing the movie and didn’t go back, but I thought it was very good and I had a specific story I wanted to tell. It’s one of my most popular fics, and given it’s gen too I’m actually kind of happy about that.

Most Popular Multichapter: The Immortal Wound for FFXIV fandom! I had only just started writing for the fandom, and the series leading up to this fic was my first time writing NPC shipping in FFXIV. I was seriously, SERIOUSLY nervous at first! I wrote the first fic, Posturing, as a personal challenge to do an ambiguous protagonist/NPC since I saw other people doing that and wanted to see if I could pull it off. Posted it at around 4 in the morning then deleted within a few minutes out of anxiety lol. A week went by before I read it again, realized I still liked it, and put it back up for good. That being well-received helped encourage me to keep trying, and by The Immortal Wound it was getting solid attention. The experience really meant a lot to me!

Actual Worst Part of Writing: Probably chapter maps within the outlining process for me. It’s needed for how I approach things, but shit is anxiety-inducing and stressful af lol. I basically plan each event out in high detail before actually writing the fic, so when the time comes for me to legit write I’m more or less following a plan I can trust. Making that plan is the tough part.

How Do You Choose Your Titles: Often titles are the last things I figure out before starting the fic itself. I know I like punchy stuff if I can manage. Sometimes it’ll be one word, sometimes it’ll be a quote or song lyric, sometimes it’ll be a saying, sometimes it’ll be a phrase that feels fitting. I go fast and loose usually, and tbh I’ve tried to tell myself not to overthink it too hard. I do try title related works in ways that have some thematic link when I can.

Do You Outline: HahahahahaHAHAHAHAhaha yeah. Straight up my outlines are eldritch terrors for their detail, length, and complexity. I don’t mean that as a brag at all, seriously--I tend to get frozen a bit if I don’t have an outline by and large because it’s hard for me to keep track of what’s in my head and plan accordingly. Just end up with too many moving parts + revision and pacing get wonky otherwise.

Depending on the project I might have sections tied to setting, characters, magic systems, religions, etc. at the top. Fanfic this is less likely but does crop up sometimes.

To give an example of the first bullet of the first chapter of an ongoing fic:

Post-Shinryu, the Warrior of Light lingers in the Royal Menagerie alone at his own insistence to search for the Eye of Nidhogg. In the process he remembers the fight against Zenos and Shinryu. Note he was overcome by an almost feral rage at Zenos’ assumption that he was the target of anything resembling lust. Those attentions (“bite down upon my jugular”) belong to another, but note similarities of two pale-eyed, long-haired blondes. Seeing Shinryu, the Warrior had no idea whether Lahabrea survived within. The fusion was horrifying to see and as he fought he didn’t hold back because besides obvious dangers, he was also ready to mercy kill if needed. Also note Warrior wanted to intervene against Thordan for Lahabrea but wasn’t fast enough, questions a little privately how far he’d have gone against him. It might not have mattered even if he’d managed since he knows Lahabrea was going crazy and unable to listen. Locating and examining the Eye, he recognizes how drained it is. Certainly not enough to threaten him when dealing with post-battle exhaustion. So he reaches inside with his own aether, relentless in pushing aside every foreign element—Nidhogg, Thordan, the corrupted Rhalgr, the places Zenos caged them all under his own will. Zodiark’s tempering is what helps him ultimately find Lahabrea, who is barely alive. Zodiark’s tempering has preserved what it could but has a much more tenuous grip in consequence. When the Warrior finds him Lahabrea isn’t even aware, functionally unconscious. The tempering flares against him defensively and this time the Warrior focuses on it. This is all that has allowed Lahabrea to stay alive. He could force himself closer but there is no vessel. Besides, the process of separating a fragile soul so deficient in aether is too great a risk. So he keeps the Eye.

It’s not the only bullet of comparable size for that chapter. The overall piece has at least 40 total chapters, but probably more.

Ideas I Probably Won’t Get Around To, But Wouldn’t It Be Nice: Tbh probably some of the earlier WIPs I have that aren’t finished already. Not just FFXIV (Dead Language, With Good Intentions) but other fandoms. I could end up circling back in the future one day but who knows.

Callouts @ Me: “NO MORE WIPS HOLY SHIT YOU HAVE OVER 20″, “RELEARN HOW TO DO DRABBLES”, “GET UR PRESENTS DONE”, “REVIEW OTHERS MORE THE STAGE FRIGHT IS RIDICULOUS”.

Best Writing Traits: I try to write any character as the hero of their own story/with the capacity to be someone’s favorite. I do my research and prioritize telling a good story first and foremost. I can change my writing style according to need and am good at capturing the cadence and word choices of different characters.

Spicy Tangential Opinion: If no transaction has been made (esp. monetary), no one owes you shit online. Not reviews, not hits, not praise, not agreement, not content of any sort. It sucks to feel like you’re creating to a void. It sucks to be passionately in love with a rarepair when other ships are drowning in art and stories.

People still don’t owe you.

If you don’t like someone else’s content, create something exploring what you do like... or even why you don’t like that content. Tell a story. Create art. Make photosets and playlists and analyses. If it is not a literal crime (as opposed to portraying fictional crime), don’t discourage other creators no matter how awful you might find their stuff. Lend your own voice to an alternative as convincingly as you can. And if that doesn’t persuade others, you need to keep honing your own skills.

If you want more of something to exist, spread inspiration. Again this can be in storytelling, art, photosets, playlists, analysis, you name it. Give form to your passion. And if others disagree or don’t respond, keep working at it. This is a skill too, and it takes practice.

I’ve found it shows when work is created out of a sense of guilt, fear, or obligation. The quality is much lower and no one latches on to keep building in-turn. And IMO it is essential to build up rather than tearing down.

[cenedrariva]

3, 10, and 4 for writers' ask?

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

listen i have so many wips and fic outlines that i probably won’t get to before everyone moves on from this fandom, i swear! there’s at least 12 just in cql/mdzs fandom, and dozens and dozens from all my previous fandoms, it gets so bad i have to offload them to other people as prompts sometimes because like the story needs to be out there somehow!

i suppose, have this one scene in my head

so, XY and WWX as best friends and street delinquents getting drunk together and lamenting the fact that they both have crushes on super noble good guys dressed in white, like why them!? They’re so shiny and pure!

meanwhile in a distant room, LXC is listening to XXC talk about his crush on this kinda shady guy dressed in black, he’s cute and has such a good sense of humour! But poor LXC is inwardly a little stressed because this sounds exactly like the guy LWJ was talking about the other day. Oh no, what if XXC and LWJ have a crush on the same terrible guy?!

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

This is a hard one, I’ve written so much its hard to remember specific sentences or paragraphs.

i like this bit, it really conveys the kind of scary intensity of XY’s affection as well as the way he can’t really express it without some kind of violent imagery

Dàozhǎng let Xuē Yáng play with his hair. Xuē Yáng ran his fingers through the silky black locks, teasing them loose from the ties.

“Xiǎo Xīngchén, pass me the comb,” Xuē Yáng said, and even though he couldn’t see it, he could feel Xīngchén’s smile. He was so lovely. Xuē Yáng wanted to bury his face in Xiǎo Xīngchén’s hair. He wanted to climb into Xīngchén’s arms and drown in his scent. He wanted to crack Xīngchén’s ribs open and crawl inside his chest and live inside him and forget the rest of the world existed. Let Xiǎo Xīngchén’s heartbeat be the day and the night, let the pulse of his qi be the air in Xuē Yáng’s lungs, let Xīngchén’s laughter be the water on his lips.

10. How would you describe your writing process?

my writing process involves a lot of daydreaming and thinking about writing, repeating sentences in my head over and over. I’ll think intensely about a scene or arc for about 3 days without writing a word, and then i’ll sit down and get out like 8k.

sometimes, i’ll act out particular scene details, like what kind of stuff you can see lying on the floor, or pacing around as you rant, or i’ll try to daydream about the exact physical sensations a particular emotion might give. sometimes it can get a little exhausting or upsetting, especially when i’m writing things like panic attacks

i try to get in character as i write, to get their internal voices sounding right instead of just like myself. getting in character usually involves refreshing myself on the backstory of the character, and referring to their 3 key traits, which i have in their character notes. but i’m also part of a discord server that chats about xy all the time and that helps keep in character too

for a longfic like Red Azalea, i start off with the basic concept, in this case a slow progression XY redemption story with a romance, and then I’ll outline some of the basic plot points I want to cover. some are like goalposts, some are relationship milestones. this is all the broad concept stuff, like

xy saves xxc

xy travels solo, xxc travels with sl and aq

xy and xxc meet up occasionally so xy can get moral guidance and praise

eventually sl and aq grow to like xy more, found family happens

happy ending

after that, i’ll start making a more detailed outline, usually with ideas for specific scenes, what emotions everyone should be feeling, what their thoughts about each other are, and also where in the timeline we are. there are also notes to myself about stuff to look up. right now, Red Azalea’s notes and outline are about 40k long.

finally, i sit down and write the actual scenes! right now i’m writing them largely in chronological order so i can post them each week, but i frequently refer back to my notes file to make sure the plot is on track and the emotional relationship arcs are working. Once i finish a chapter, i send it to my beta @giraffeter and she looks over it and gives me feedback.

then i ignore the chapter for a week or two until its nearly time to post, then reread it to check its working. the time left ignoring it helps make any mistakes or weird bits easier to spot. i do final edits on tuesday, and then post!

Thanks for the asks!!!

#ask meme #writing questions #averageace

[kangaracha]

wip roundup?????????

i would say that i am currently actively working on five of these things. i’m losing track of what i’m doing. it’s not good. send planners. send help.

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ZOMBIES STUFF?

my hand in yours (8-9k done) wyliza oneshot, estimated finished wordcount 20k????? mostly canon compliant because i’m a genius

in a week (i’m gonna guess 4k done) zeddison/wyaddion, post-apocalypse au, just another keeps request that got out of hand what’s new. estimated wordcount ummmmm......25k? 30k? 15k? somethin like that.

and you will run and run and run (3k done) zeddison, au, dystopia/uprising sort of thing, multichap, probably 40k? the plot doesn’t make sense so don’t expect this one anytime soon unless you’re willing to send me five asks a day telling me to finish it lmao

+ 19 prompts

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THINGS THAT SPECIFICALLY EXIST BECAUSE KEEPS WANTS THEM?

part 2/3 of prompts: - pstd au - hozier au/feral wolf addison au - that one forest fire oneshot i wrote 200 words for - l m a o that hunters trappers killers series HEY KEEPS REMEMBER THAT

all the things left unsaid (46k done) The Torture Fic. i’m gonna go post chapter 2 right now. i had to go to the google doc to check the word count. estimated wordcount 65k.

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THINGS THAT KEEPS DOESN’T WANT BUT I KEEP GIVING HER ANYWAY?

goldmine, goldmine (landmine) (4k done) atla fic, lotta original characters, a deep dive into fire nation culture, why am i doing this to myself. estimated wordcount 25k.

(stay low, stay low, stay low) (5k done) snowpiercer fic, first month in the tail, watch the show read my fic losers. estimated wordcount 10k.

the slaughter of the lambs (75k done) assassin’s creed fic. it’s basically an original novel if you have a basic understanding of the games you’ll get it please read this shit. estimated wordcount 150k. i’m currently editing part 1.

untitled (13k done) original short fiction. vampires but cooler, underworld, theatre kids, shenanigans. estimated wordcount 30k. never had so much trouble titling something in my life.

heart (100k done) original fiction. religious apocalypse, angels and demons and a whole lotta bullshit, supernatural vibes but Better. estimated wordcount 200k.

+ 4 original novels currently on the backburner

+ a pokemon fic (est. 75k)

+ a mcu fic (est. 60k)

#zombiedadfics #zombies 2 #disney zombies #assassins creed #snowpiercer #atla #writing update #this is basically a to-do list #if any of this sounds interesting u better tell me #public opinion is effective in swaying my attention span #these wordcounts are so pleasing except for the new stuff #fucking 4k done #so embarrassing smdh #i usually don't tell you guys shit until i hit like 7k at least 10k preferrably #ok i'm going to GO POST THAT CHAPTER NOW JUST CALM DOWN KEEPS

[translucentpthalo]

#posting wips to keep myself on track and remember they exist #acrylic #mixed media #my art

[ashenburst]

Far Goes The Farrago, Chapter 1 - A Sound Little Betrayal

First chapter of my WIP because I have nothing else to post. *auctioneer voice* AND HERE WE HAVE A STEAMING HOT STORY ABOUT DEMONS, MURDER, EXISTENTIALISM AND FRIENDSHIP, COMING FROM A SEASONED FANFICTION WRITER! 

Consider this a psychological Fantasy, eh? The blurb should be:

It is a tale of the unknown hero or the greatest villain: he who has forgiven the devil. But long before seeing his epilogue come true, Ulrich started off as an entirely different person: a fake hero, some unfulfilled hope, tightly promised failure. His inner demons were yet to be brutalized by the outer ones. Briefly put, this is a story set in a foreign world, delving deep into supernatural activities, all of which are slowly dying and being prohibited by humans. Ulrich is an arbiter, one of those who are trained to bring out that prohibition. As many good men, he is distraught by unjust fate. To battle it and prove his good, he must resort to nefarious ways and gather a wicked company to his aid. No training could've possibly prepared him for the inhumane adventure that awaits, orchestrated by none other than the Devil himself.

Very excited to offer this chapter to you :3 more is published on Wattpad, and the best version + some additional content is on my Patreon!

We always seek greatness in others, never in ourselves. A fact so true and firm, known to Ulrich, and yet, he fled from himself.

Where to? It didn’t really matter. The goal was reverse – not to run to, but to run away.

Heaviest sentiments sought a compensation. If the mind were so busy processing them, then surely, other stimuli needed to be deafened. It was the subconscious who stilled Ulrich so; he’d been pacing, insolently small and scared in the vast crowd, and in some vacant moment of clarity, he found it, his very own hyperfixation. A critter perched on top of a stool, quaint and big. How come he hadn’t noticed it? Was it because it looked like décor – or was it because of his own disregard for… everything? He should’ve laughed.

Nevertheless, he neared. It didn’t move much, just a stare here and there, swing of the head from one side to the other. Nobody else but Ulrich seemed to pay it any attention, which provided him with some privacy, or even better, intimacy. The best kind of it at that: the one where the other party wasn’t even existent.

When meeting a future acquaintance, Ulrich knew how to behave. Do the dreaded handshake, and fortify it with a sure stare in the eye. He had no trouble doing those, despite his somewhat reserved nature. Strangely, the problem was still in him, or on him, to be exact.

Years ago, he had read, then distinctly remembered, some author’s words, lamenting about fair eyes of “unruly ice, turquoise waters hungering and withering in the cold” – and upon the reminder of his own sharp gaze, never fair, forever protruding, every reflection would be scowled at; for in there, grew a pair of icicles jabbing at the souls of the seen. He wished for a softer look, overflowing with docile colors, but alas, he could not break the ice. Perhaps others would imagine what hid beneath, as they were, easily, far less tender than Ulrich in their living.

But here? This was a perplexing community. Ignorant and invasive all the same. The overlapping presences were enough of a distress on their own.

On the other hand, the bird… the parrot? It lacked reason, therefore, of course it wouldn’t be affected. It wasn’t affected by almost anything at all, since, well, despite the commotion, it barely moved.

He stepped closer, and it didn’t react. He took yet another step, and it barely moved in its humble residence. Just a tiny, tiny, parrot step. It was nothing compared to Ulrich’s – and it placed him so near the parrot that he might as well be intruding its simplistic home.

Out of all the places on this bird to aim his interest at, he picked an unconventional one to be shot. Ulrich had the opportunity to indulge in its eyes, without noticing his own. Inside awaited a wondrous resort, ripe for his imagination to sow, his scythe that of ardent focus.

The salon and its decadence were flooded with black. Saturated crowds drowned in mute darkness. Dry luxury too suddenly dipped into those murky ponds, pleasantly distant – finally modest. With Ulrich’s anxiety at its staggering peak, the predicament was clear. It was high time the world sank.

It was a damp place, inert and peaceful. Just like all that was good, the universe could never sustain it.

In an instant, death. Ponds fluttered, wise eyes turned primitive, and Ulrich was woken up from the stare, by a stare. Beady eyes mirrored it all, for Ulrich to see: a harmless shadow of reality, where nothing could impact, nothing mattered. He was yearning to slip inside, stay inside, cocooned in reflections. It was much easier than confronting the world – and equally as impossible.

It should’ve been simple. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he’d escape. Black would overwhelm, and in it, he would find everything and anything. It was both the martyr and the cornerstone of consciousness! The provenance of dreams, the dear night’s shroud! And, and in Ulrich’s exceptional case, it was a savior, just a day old. It was black who gave him life!

Yet, this black… it was different. It noticed, it moved, but, but it stared and shivered, and – enlarged. Feathers puffed, head bobbed. Ulrich’s fascination then renamed itself: unease.

The grandiose parrot was no longer as restful. As it shook its great head, feathers in a scarce crest swayed like artificial rods, limp and long, quite – unnatural.

To make it even more terrifying, it was of morphology immense, dark like drowse, cheeks skinned red. There was a budding tongue in that twisted beak, pointed exactly at him as it opened the mouth wide –

Then screeched with a ripping pitch and opened its massive, unexpectedly massive wings.

It startled him. His heart got chased into his throat. He screeched back, and fell back, landing on something rather soft and still. As someone who had horrid experience with bumping into people, Ulrich immediately recognized his fault. He hopped away to face the victim of his fall.

And the victim, well… despite his face being largely covered with a beard, his sentiments were clear. Dour in both bearing and expression, the man had been preparing for a relentless lecture. Ulrich was in the midst of mental preparations too, ready to apologize in a plethora of sorries, but… by the looks of it, he didn’t have to. Although he barely looked at this mountain of a man, he saw, clearly, a drastic shift in expression, from utmost gloom to total glee.

And this person, this once outraged fellow, now hollered at Ulrich as if he were dearest family,

“The heart of the celebration himself! The savior of the Hartschnapps! Ernst Sondermann!”

Ulrich’s fake name resonated throughout the crowd, spoken with such vigor, such elation, it might as well come off as laughter to some faraway folk. Wonderful, how everyone took it for granted – a mere name, more of a nickname.

And it was the right one! It was not false, it was fake – and the very black that saved Ulrich also scarred his cursed pseudonym, rendered it a seething wound, something his frail soul could barely tolerate.

Now he was reminded of his misplaced fame and glory, the precursor of this entire gathering, the consequence of black. Despite the man’s happiness in tone, Ulrich perceived it as the worst scolding, and felt accordingly.

But he couldn’t show it to anyone, ruin this entire ordeal by heroically abandoning his heroism. He had to play along, and his act was poorly executed. In contrast, his shrill laugh could easily pass as a pitched sob.

What did not help was the fact he was stared at by manifold.

He said his sorry, blurted out some diminutions, and continued down the trail, somewhere off – and he knew, he delved deep into words of nonsense, and at some point, he halted, finally meeting the heavy gaze of the man. He was waiting, so, in other words, Ulrich…

Ulrich was not interrupted. He was waited for, and he was esteemed. Something otherwise appreciated, and on this instance, incredibly awkward.

“Lastly, I believe we can infer that this was a poorly woven accident,” he tried to conclude, clasping his hands together. A blink at them, then a blink back at the man – he was too uncomfortable to keep the polite stare one would expect in a conversation.

And what he got was another speech of joy and honor.

“Poorly woven yet perfect for the occasion!” This man tapped forcefully with his engraved cane, emphasizing his oncoming words. “I wouldn’t have dared to approach you by myself, mister Sondermann! Never! But fate has brought us together, and I am honored to be bestowed even with the opportunity to meet you. Indeed.”

He finished with a brisk nod and some twitch in his beard. It must’ve been a smirk, short-lived one. Ulrich had stacked some fancy words for a similar response, but was now, surprisingly, overwhelmed. The man insisted on approaching him, taking over the conversation.

All Ulrich got was a handshake and many, many words of assurance, none of them important. Some long name, he heard – why did the people of Aurun assign such dreadfully complex names? Even if Ulrich managed to remember those (a feat of its own), greater length meant more room for mistakes.

This man, he said he was… Titus Augustine Donao? Ulrich just smiled to it. It was revolting, the amount of times confusion was the cause of his smile. That was all he could do, for mister Donao took over. Suddenly, the world revolved around him, his pleasure and his reputation and his lovely newspapers. Ulrich could barely keep track of it, especially with the constant smacking of the cane against the floor, but he somehow survived. Shaking, perhaps, but he made it.

As soon as he realized the chatter was reaching its end, he felt his mood lighten, and as soon as its end came, he dashed away from the stressors, the damned rich folk, and their blatant hapless extravagance.

Looking for a proper place to hide, Ulrich retreated himself away from the lower section of the hall, almost running up the few stairs, down the pristine marble floor, to reach the bar – the spot where he would not only sit to rest, but also be left alone. No parrots to scare him, no people to condemn him with their praise.

The salon was enormous, fitting for the occasion. It took him a dangerous lot of footsteps to reach his goal. Ulrich already met the major and similarly influential people in this huge complex – he had expected them to show up. What he did not expect was a celebration of this scale, solely in his honor. There was a grand hall, in whose corner he found the parrot, and away from it, there was a bar and a secluded dining area, where, as he spotted, some fine gentlemen played cards in peace. He had no intention of joining them.

But the bar, the bar was lovely. Dim lights provided a seclusion of sorts, and as far as the line of the bar stretched, almost none sat there. Ulrich occupied the most distant stool, ordered tea. Peppermint, of course, he told the barista.

He was unnaturally overjoyed by the fact that he was alone. Nobody wanted to bother a poor duckling like him, despite being in his uniform – it couldn’t compare to the excess in aesthetic every single person showed. He didn’t stand out, and although he was embarrassed of it at first, it proved to be his salvation. He blended in with his inferiority.

He wasn’t even sure how much he wanted to be noticed by them. The wild crowd, everyone pretending to be his friend for a minute, then storming off elsewhere for a similar verbal parade. They were all the same. fake, just like him with his fame and merit.

Ulrich dropped onto the bar’s smooth, cold, so pleasantly cold surface. Brown marble. Could’ve been polished wood, but in Aurun’s fashion, it had to be marble. Cold, hard and soulless. Perfect footing for his heavy soul.

That… that mister, the last one he had met, Titus Donao, who he had fallen on… he was the last drop in Ulrich’s sullen ocean. A shameless narcissist, just like the rest of them, startling him in a startle, and then… simply, fulfilling the duty of being good.

Ulrich did not blame him. He did not blame the parrot, or anyone else. He blamed himself for allowing the fanfare to flare this long. It would be perfect, if he could just… extinguish it in peace. Make everyone forget and go home.

He could’ve done it, but he didn’t, cowardly. And he believed he deserved some escapisms, then? Despite him hiding the great truth? He deserved to dream of a better self?

No, not in the least. But that would happen! Inevitably, his career would advance, due to his “success”. He was becoming famous. He had no idea what it brought to his life, and knew it took away one thing: peace.

His tea arrived and he sipped on it. Such a lullaby for the senses.

Sadly, they picked on something… revolting. An odd gent sat by his side. Ulrich wouldn’t like to call it pessimism, but he knew this man would talk to him. Thus, he peeked, more of a precaution than curiosity, and noticed, firstly, a long face, acute and sleek in every manner. Then the clothing, plenty of browns complimenting each other to form a rather tame suit.

What attracted Ulrich’s attention the most was elsewhere. A silly hat of brown leather was slouched on this person’s head, and as if stuffed with fresh wheat, many pale strands escaped it, all unkempt, wild and independent. Even his ear was hidden underneath that mess.

Then came the side peer of yellow, a glisten like few Ulrich had encountered in his brief life. It was entrancing, but it could not last, simply because: two peers met. The discussion had to be struck.

It wasn’t something one would expect – a riveting conversation all at once, skipping the formalities and small talk, and resorting to something bigger, truthfully engaging. Somehow, fates clashed, and what Ulrich got was exactly the unexpected.

Spoken by the stranger was a mystery anyone would long for. An oddity, some romantic subtext in poetry, where the meaning had to be dug out and felt by each heart. Not in many instances in life could the heart be brought to such use, but this… this one, it necessitated wonder.

All strangers had one talent in common, that being: bizarreness. Not one person would be more qualified for a miracle than a stranger. The tool of this one was a gentle voice, and it inquired,

“It’s nice, isn’t it, this place? Doesn’t feel real.”

Neither did his statement. Ulrich took the liberty to stare. He knew he mustered one of those sorrowful faces, but he did not, by all means, feel sad – he was simply invested. Although few in number, they were the heaviest words to land on his eardrums.

“Much like a dream,” he replied with a slow nod.

A small curve appeared on the stranger’s lips – amusement, and in the very next moment a bow of the head to hide it. “If this is your dream, then your nightmares must be competing with Hell,” was how he estimated Ulrich, and he was right.

Ulrich’s brows went upwards. He was shocked, pleasantly, to find out someone could relate – not only relate, but… approach him in such a peculiar manner. Now abysmally curious, he asked, just to get him to talk, “And you would know?”

The blond did not answer for a bit. “Nobody would.” How distasteful, coming from such a captivating apparition. Ulrich was not disappointed. This event alone was, he knew, insignificant, and yet, something his memory would cradle for years.

He decided a smooth way out, a compromise, “To each his own Hell, then.” Ulrich lifted his glass both as reconciliation and a late greeting.

This man had no glass to greet back, but he managed. He acted as if he had one of air, greeted back with it and, how generously, showed a semblance of a smile. Ulrich let out the most honest laugh this eve had heard.

The stranger offered him a hand, and he accepted, albeit hesitantly. After performing the handshake above his drink, Ulrich had introduced himself – a stupid custom, as the stranger pointed out afterwards.

“Everyone knows you.” He retracted his hand from Ulrich’s formally gloved one. “But you won’t know anyone. You’ll forget us all, all of our jolly faces and names. But that’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Ulrich couldn’t disagree, but the vanity, the wisdom, the straightforward mannerism of this man! It rendered him speechless, but he knew, he wanted to talk, he needed to say something so more could be told, but…

He was left without a clue. Previous agitation did not help in the least, so, not knowing what else to do, he resorted to honesty.

“You are terribly correct, sir. I am both glad and ashamed the truth resonates within you too.”

“It resonates within everyone! But they ignore it, it’s too much for their crammed hearts,” he replied with newfound vigor. He then turned on his stool, arm spread towards the people and their vain heads, to reintroduce Ulrich to the setting.

“And it’s their souls you want to protect?”

It was no disapproval. Ulrich was surprised to find pity on his pallid face.

“It’s an arbiter’s duty,” he mumbled, “and my humble wish.” Taking a sip from his tea, he listened to the blond’s retaliation.

“So, you love them? The people?”

Ulrich set the cup down. “I don’t have to love them. I just believe that… every man deserves good –”

But he was immediately cut off with, “Don’t you hear the venom in that hall? Is that where you wanted to pour your heart out? Who you wanted to shiver with and be loved by?”

What could Ulrich say? “So long good is not betrayed, I will stand by it, and I will offer it to all. It can’t do any harm.” He looked away. “And I won’t suffer either. I understand the bad sides of man. I stray from them, should they prove… dangerous. And those people, who you claim to be… venomous?” Then he too pointed at the crowd. “Perhaps all they need is an antidote.”

The blond had a shift in expression, from aggressive focus to blandness. “Then you’re better than I thought. A shame.”

He tapped his own hat and left Ulrich. No goodbye, no wave, no glance, no nothing. The stranger remained that: a stranger. Ulrich was left with a somewhat bitter tinge on his tongue.

The person left to the area where cards were played; so be it. Ulrich looked down to his tea. The aroma tempted him to calmness.

He rubbed his hands. The tea, the slight tiredness, they all seemed like a proper invite to sleep. He certainly felt so, but on the other hand… his thoughts couldn’t settle. This interaction in particular stunned him, and with every gentle sip, he would realize that, indeed, it stunned him, yet he couldn’t make out much of it.

Mere minutes passed, and an alarming scream shook his frame. Shouts of confusion followed, stomps of footsteps and chairs scraping, and forcefully, Ulrich had his attention averted towards the ruckus

He caught glimpse of cards flying around, people gathering. In the midst of it all, a man writhing on the floor. Shadowed was his spotlight by the concerned crowd, and he stole the show with an act so blatantly desperate: shrieks and tosses and turns, as if it were a matter of life or death.

The thick fence of people allowed Ulrich not to thoroughly examine the star. It was only after the imbalance that the cause of it all was revealed. The people supported him, as he slowly rose, only to reveal –

The blond stranger, his face disfigured in pain, certainly a sight unpleasant. Huffs and violent hacks fell all around him, while his curled-up form barely held its ground. His hands, he was clutching his own hands, holding them on his chest – but why? What had happened?

Pulled by natural magnetism, Ulrich abandoned his seat, hesitant to delve into this trouble… and yet, firmly affirmed that he couldn’t leave it at that. It was too strange, too unsettling, even for his senses – let alone his mind. The stranger hadn’t yet betrayed his good will, after all.

Before he managed to, however, a demand struck him in his tracks.

“A word, if you’re available, sir.”

Ulrich whipped his head around to be met with a tall woman. Hers was a magnificent mane of hair, curly and potent, much like a dark halo. It framed a stern brown face, unforgiving and cold in her grey eyes.

He had to stop and stare. Just a moment, and he got back to his senses. There was a more severe situation going on.

“This man, have you seen –”

She spoke, her voice that of trained authority, “I have. There’s nothing you can do, unless you possess supernatural means to aid.”

Ulrich was a little startled. This lady, firm in her composure and speech, she wasn’t… quite the sort he was used to. She didn’t act around and sweeten her words – no, they remained monotone and overbearing. Swallowing, he tried to shoo his heart away from his throat.

“Then… absolutely,” Ulrich murmured and offered his hand once he had his posture straightened. She squeezed it straight away, and – what the hell?! Her grip was too firm and short-lasting, and way too painful for Ulrich’s liking. He could feel his bones rub against each other!

He stared down to his hand, taken aback by pulsating pain that remained. But the woman didn’t seem to notice.

“My name is Maria Merkator,” she introduced herself, “I am Aurun’s Minister of Police Affairs. It is an honor to meet you.”

His heart leaped. He hid the borderline injured hand behind his back, folding his both hands there. After a cough, he formed the proper voice to answer. “The honor is mine,” he replied mechanically, “I suppose I needn’t introduce myself.”

“Indeed. Your actions are an introduction of their own. It is exactly because of them that I am here. If you would allow me?”

What actions? Did she know?

“Go ahead,” he whispered through his tight throat.

She gave him a curt nod. Her face remained devoid of any emotion. “I am in desperate need of men like you. Men who can deal with demons.”

The truth was avoided! Relief washed over him, but it was not absolute. Troubles were ongoing. So, demons, and him to battle them? The worst idea ever to befall the Minister, surely! He simply wasn’t fit. He would die if he were ever to even see one.

He laughed his stress out, then coughed to buy some time. In the edge of his vision, the Minister’s blank expression was seen, and on it, lips pressed in a strict line.

And after all, out of all the talented and notable arbiters in this world, why would… why would she pick –

Exactly. He garnered some much-needed poise. “I thought arbiters come to aid when summoned? I’m certain you can acquire even better people than me.” Then he peeked back at the Minister, saw her eyes tarnished and mute. To play it off coolly, he sipped his tea a little.

“They do, but largely defective. I won’t inquire why or how, but the fact stands, and our experience here confirms it,” he heard her speak.

As if Ulrich was supposed to justify them! Nevertheless, he assumed the answers. It wasn’t a matter of humbleness, more… his own lack of talent, for he knew he was one of the defective bunch, and the rest of them, they were the same, and probably even worse.

But he faked his surprise. “Defective in what sense?”

“Unqualified. Incapable of matching a street ruffian. You, on the other hand, slayed a demon.”

A violent tinge in his heart.

“It was luck,” he blurted out, dodging the lie.

“Pardon?”

He looked once at her, and saw her brow raised upwards, so cruelly. “I had more luck than brains,” he attempted.

“Don’t give your merit to fate and its pseudonyms. It was you who did it,” she disapproved.

“Not me, no.”

“Then who?”

Ulrich clenched his jaw. He was digging his way to the grave possibility; would he want to bury himself like that? He hid his mouth behind the cup of tea, as if, hesitating to drink.

“All those who had taught me?” His inner doubt made his outer statement come through as more of a question.

“You’re too humble,” she sneered.

He clenched his jaw once again, teeth scraping against each other so hard, he forced himself a cringe. Narrowing his eyes, he muttered, “I strive to be.”

“And you’re too mild-hearted for someone who has slayed a demon, mister Sondermann. It’s so nonsensical, one might say, even poetic.”

He shivered, grossly accused. The ending, the false name, it struck him as an even worse allegation! And it was the worst allegation, for it was true!

Ulrich stared at her. Indeed, she was correct. It was poetic, an egregious exaggeration, much like plenty of modern poems. And if, if the rest of the world was drowning in hyperboles, then… maybe, just maybe –

“But that’s how things are, ma’am. I apologize if this is not the man you want to see defend your city.”

He should become part of it, and vanish, a humble word among the ludicrous metaphors. Perfect destiny for him, for he failed to adapt. He had to accept; it was just.

“Maybe it is.” She paused. “Rest assured, if you have no other business, you are invited to stay and battle Aurun’s blasphemies. You’ll have your accommodation and support of the police, should the need arise.”

“I… of course, I accept.” And he smiled with all honesty.

“Excellent. Tomorrow after lunch, come to the main police station. Another capable arbiter shall be waiting for you.”

Another one?! Perfect to contrast his idiocy! To witness his foolishness! That was exactly what he deserved! He was horribly elated!

“I am looking forward to our cooperation,” he told and stretched his smile. It hurt so much.

Did she know, could she even assume what harrowed the abysses of his vibrating chest? Sprouting from inner oblivion, came a bitter thought, correspondingly as dark: he was willing to play the role of a hero, just so these people could have one. How utterly ridiculous.

She nodded, as if to confirm his sufferings. “As am I. Farewell, and good health.”

“Likewise –”

But she did not wait. She too, just like every single person in this colossal mishap, did not care. It made him desperate. The justice of the city, too, lacked a heart, it seemed. She did not understand her wallops, she did not know, just like anyone else, how much it devastated Ulrich. Except now, for the first time, he had grown awfully anxious. His heartbeat, a race.

Sadly, the tea, it couldn’t help. What was left of it, he downed quickly – at least, as fast as its heat allowed him.

He asked the barista if there was a balcony of sorts. There was one, and it was located left from the bar, down the hallway. He knew his next goal.

Tethers bound him to the chair, weight unknown and unpleasant. He struggled to rise back to his glass feet, but rushed, hurried vastly to eliminate his presence! Only one person was enough to bring him to the brink of dread, let alone the whole crowd.

He moved, at last. Hallways were narrow. Walls, spiraled all around him, threatening to collapse. It was, perhaps, between them, that he realized something was wrong with his head, that vertigo was settling in. Must’ve been the stress; he’d always been the sensitive soul, to a fault.

He took hold of his head, holding it for a few moments, as if to clasp his consciousness. Squinting his eyes, he wondered – just how far could he make it in this state? Would fate present him with another way out?

Gazing down the hallway, he wondered, if perhaps, his future was just as linear and suffocating.

Before he could continue, then, all of a sudden, a creak. He turned around to see if he was caught red-handed in his cowardice. Yet, no one was seen. His mind truly was a mess, he concluded with a huff.

More steps onwards, and he reached the semi-glass door to the balcony. Tugging it open, he was greeted by moist air and secluded darkness.

He dashed to nature’s heavenly pianissimo, away from the salon and its counterfeit music. He had been running all evening, escaping, hiding, reversely dynamic. Finally, he was awarded for his efforts, for outside, nobody awaited. Wet patterns on the marble floor informed him before stepping that the skies had been weeping thoroughly. Still were, in fact. His nostrils, no, his entire being was refreshed by their sorrow. It was so much lighter than his own.

He trod forward, accepting the breezes with arms spread wide, and attempted to reach the edge of the rain. The downpour carried solace unto him, and he yearned for more, came closer for more. Even when the raindrops landed on him, when the pitter-patter tapped gently against his uniform, he did not stop.

It had to be a physical boundary which would stop him. Clutching, clawing at the fence, he found nothing else but the cold. It gnawed back, left him numb. How sad, that the lonely numbness gave him more life than the entirety of celebration.

Before him expanded a city, and measured in avarice – it was vast. Measured in neglect, it extended even further. He could not make out its horizons; the rain and his tired eyes ensured so.

At the sight, he was reminded of the extremes it nurtured. Buildings, renovated and over a century neglected, stood hand-in-hand, comrades despite the extremes. In poverty and fertility, they did not share. Their habitants weren’t any different. Contrasts so large, Ulrich’s perception was daunted. His idea of the city – long ruined. This evening, it served as yet another absurd plague, another mystery for his incapable attention.

He remembered incisions on the walls. Cracks in his mind slid further. The poor condition invited crevices, ill thoughts, ill recaps, to destroy what was left of the mistreated construct. He needed introspection.

Closing his eyes, he could finally tend to his mind. What he found out? He was so confused. At least that was certain of one thing, and one thing only.

It was the entanglement in his own thoughts, like the endless worms that structured his brain. The start was incomprehensible, the finish fictional, and everything between those two points, only curves and turns and whirls and twirls. A patternless weaving, akin to raw wool.

Where had his mind gone to? Why was it so detached, even from his body…?

He barely felt. Humid winds nestled in his uniform. Cold torrents escaped his fingers. He cradled the air like an old friend, who knew him better than he did, because, after all –

Ulrich did not know himself.

It was a makeshift hug, desperate consolation by the fact that there is some absolute in the universe, some truth, that the fates were definite and their Strings stretched infinitely. That, perhaps, Ulrich was a part of it for a reason, that there was a reason for this torment. That his soon to be sacrifice would matter, not because he wanted to matter – because he wanted to matter to others.

There was no one else to confirm that, to confirm anything. It was almost impossible to believe alone, and he tried, he tried so hard, but it was too difficult. And so, in his loneliness, he realized he’d been hugging himself.

His senses landed in some state of anxious languor. He had never felt anything quite like it before. It was much like a dreamscape, presented through hazy ramblings of a dying mind. Through them, a stimulus was registered, so rough, so haphazardly unpleasant.

He was not alone. Someone was intruding his breakdown. A shadow at the door.

He dropped a weightless callout. “You…”

“Me?” It was familiar. Ulrich narrowed his eyes.

“Who?”

That person, standing at the entrance of the balcony, spread their arms in a surrendering manner, it appeared. “You don’t know me.”

Ulrich tilted his head a little, acknowledgment for the sake of it. He dropped the hug – he was no longer lonely. The stranger himself had arrived.

Although his talks were interesting to listen to, Ulrich hesitated to… accept him. He was interrupted in the worst moment, the height of his vulnerability, something he just could not show. That alone caused him discomfort.

He cleared his throat, raising his voice to outpower the rain. “Yeah… listen, I am in an awful mood, and unless you have something important to say, please, please try to leave me.”

But his demand did the exact opposite. The stranger neared, and Ulrich was watching every single step of his.

“What happens to be bothering you?”

What? Did he actively seek to… care? Why was he still nearing him, would he…?

“I don’t think you’d understand even if I were to explain, so…”

He would. He actually crossed the line between the dry and the rain, only to get near Ulrich, and ask, “Are you sure?”

Ulrich’s eyes widened. “Why do you care?”

“Why, isn’t that what humans do?” His expression darkened, twitching every now and then as raindrops fell onto it. “Or at least, should do. It just happens to be rare nowadays.”

True to that statement, the world revolved, and Ulrich had found only one genuine person in the entire ordeal. The only one who wouldn’t betray his good.

“Then, how are you? I’ve seen you… fall? Something happened for sure,” he cared back.

The stranger chuckled – it was a distinct sound, more of a titter. “Just a little accident, worry not. A condition, it’s hereditary.”

Falling and screaming in agony was hereditary…? Ulrich blinked in confusion, then repeated after the stranger.

The blond confirmed with a nod, then stepped closer to Ulrich, only a meter or so away. The meaning of his expression could not be discerned, not with the rain there to disfigure it.

“But you’re the heart of this party, it would be a shame to leave you unattended. Especially since you look so malapropos. Don’t worry about me,” he convinced, almost forcefully, attempting to forge eye contact with Ulrich who shied away from it. Baffled and tired beyond measure, Ulrich finally inquired,

“What do you want?”

Victory steadied his voice. “To tell you a story. Stories holler lessons, breathe lives, heal as much as they scar. I do think one would relieve you.” There was such gentleness to his words, and yet, Ulrich was unfaltering. His smudged line of thought continued the sentence with sarcasm, as always, spontaneous: nothing would relieve him except for sheer oblivion.

He remained silent, narrow-eyed and narrow-minded. The quiet was perceived as a mute yes.

“Not too long ago, an incident has occurred in Aurun. A public figure of solid reputation is involved. Maybe you’ve heard of it…?”

Ulrich waved his head no – wrong move, for it caused him dizziness. He frowned.

“A reformative essayist, your typical educated man with a… mildly, yes, troubled mind.” A nod from the speaker to confirm the speaker’s thought. “Also an owner of an esteemed bookshop. He was the cause of the scandal, the scandal being, hiding horrendous smuggled goods in his shop. Only after the entire folly did his antics surface and make sense.”

“What kind…?”

“Loud and bold and flamboyant, quite the two-faced snake, but very active in terms of society and aiding it. In private, he was… stingy, even, and oftentimes shooed people away from him, whilst keeping problematic folk around. He had some fame, here, not much,”

The stranger showed his hand, then clenched it. “Only a handful, if we were to measure it in our imagination. But he abused all of it. Influenced so many.” He looked back to Ulrich, expectant.

“So, he was just like everyone else,” Ulrich guessed.

The blond smiled widely, the first time he revealed such a smile, so radiant and loose.

“Indeed! Indeed,” he repeated in delight. “But, my point would be this. Men like him, loud and extreme about their innovations… they’re the ones who push and tug the world. But I believe it’s you, the so-called normal folk, who keep the world on its feet.”

Now, despite his lovely conclusion, it didn’t make any sense. Did Ulrich hear that well?

“Pardon, you said, normal, me?” He blinked, as if that would clear his thoughts.

“Yes. I’m sure you’re normal.” He nodded to himself. “That you are so much less than what this party has made of you.”

Ulrich had no idea what this meant. What this story was about, and why he was supposed to be… normal? Why would he even assume that? How did it even… help? Each and every line of his mental narration was interrupted by aches and blanks. “Sir, I pray that you’ll come to understand that… I’m exhausted, and I cannot begin to understand you,” he excused himself, then leaned against the fence – almost slipping and falling, almost. Another miniature heart attack to strain his assaulted nerves.

He quickly got an apology, multiple of them, actually.

“No, no, it’s fine. If anything, I enjoyed the conversation…” He was unsure of his own statement. “I haven’t quite caught your name, mister…?”

“Elior Truco.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mister Truco.”

Reaching out to shake Elior’s hand, Ulrich expected a crushing grip, just like the one he had fallen victim to some time ago. Surprisingly, however, Elior’s hand was barely felt in his, and Ulrich was relieved to avoid yet another unpleasantry. He let out a sigh, even offered a smile. It was returned. The time had come for them to part ways on decent terms – or so he hoped.

All of a sudden, thunder roared. Ulrich twitched, almost squealed, for his heart jumped violently, and continued throbbing against his ribcage. Wouldn’t that mark a dramatic farewell?

Hands slipping from each other, a distinct tinge slithered across Ulrich’s palm, at first merely a disarray of his perception, then actual, burning pain, digging underneath his skin.

Inevitably, he stared down to his hand, and saw unfamiliar darkness on it, darker than his glove. A pool expanding and overflowing from the edges of his palm. He stared, paralyzed due to disbelief, taking in the pulsations of… of that, there, when Elior finally spoke up,

“Is that blood?”

It was only then that the realization settled and fear rose.

Ulrich looked back to Elior, immediately pleading him to dignify him with some, if any sort of clarification, all while meekly holding his bloodied, aching hand.

And he didn’t know. He looked at his own gloved hands, frantically flipping them over, running his fingers over them. His lackluster reaction only shoved more anxiety unto Ulrich, who stared at the oozing darkness, abandoning his being and pounding his senses.

Only seconds into the buffoonery, Ulrich couldn’t handle it anymore.

He yelled, asking Elior what he had done. The storm agreed, shattering the skies with lighting and its thunderous anger.

More excuses, more blabbering. Elior offered to help, murmuring, laughing oddly, uncomfortably, looking at any place other than Ulrich. He was shaking so much, Ulrich, he had no idea what to do, what was happening to him, to Elior –

“Elior!”

At long last, the blond looked up, “So, it’s a deal?”

And finally, Ulrich screamed a croaked “yes”.

And the deal would be completed. Elior took Ulrich’s hand and raised it up, high, for the raindrops to pierce it. Ulrich’s gash was subject to the brutal drumming of the storm. His eyes screwed shut, he silently endured the first wave of pain, and then, quickly, once the reality dawned upon him, he wheezed,

“What the hell are you doing?!”

The blond wasn’t fazed. He didn’t react at all. Panic began to overwhelm, begging his body to move, to seek refuge, but despite the urgency…

He couldn’t battle against it. He tried, he strained his arm, his muscles, but… they were all powerless. They didn’t listen, they couldn’t. He was estranged in his own body, caged in palpitations of pain. And panic was all over, tormenting him for reasons unknown, escapes none.

Gathering a cold glare, he pointed all of his frustrations at Elior, and then – then all of it diluted. Elior’s golden eyes shone, hawkish, with Ulrich as his sure prey. And they too, widened, glowing harshly in the evening’s gloom, melting the eternal ice of Ulrich’s spheres.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? To ache for once? To suffer?” His was a voice tenacious and righteous, assaulting Ulrich’s ears. “To finally add some trouble to your merit! Add weight to your title! You’ve always wanted this!”

But… but Ulrich just asked for help, for… for anyone to come by, to… just be good to him… it’s what he deserved? Or he wanted?

Strength was fading. But he would, with the last of his senses, offer at least one last revolt, the final kick before succumbing. “Let me go,” he begged, afraid of himself – the kick was but a worthless twitch. How come? How come he failed?

Yet another surprise. “As you wish.” Elior complied with a smile.

He swung Ulrich’s hand with much force, and carried by the inertia, Ulrich staggered and – fell, sprawling himself across the wet marble, squeaking his way through.

Another round of pain, another distant sensation, reaching him in weak waves. He closed his eyes, once again, clenching his jaw to overcome it all. Confusion, confusion was all over, blinding his logic and tearing him apart.

He barely managed to curl up. He barely… barely found some strength to even move. Where did this weakness come from? His intuition did not wage, but rescued with the irrational, and he stared at the one possible culprit with tired, so terrifyingly tired eyes.

No longer was that man a stranger. He was an enemy, and he, Elior was heard somewhere, misplaced words falling around with the rain. Only one statement was discerned.

The offering to one final dream. “You are needed, Ulrich.”

Black saved him. The veil of oncoming darkness was imperfect. In the lulling fade of his consciousness, there was but a single lesion: the most devious smile Ulrich had ever seen.

#writing #story #original story #original work #first chapter #book #bookblr #oc #original character #books #write #far goes the farrago #original #content #original content #aspiring author #author #philosophy #literature #self publishing #classic literature #classic lit #devil #demon #fantasy #ulrich adler #mephistopheles #writer #wip #work in progress

[stupidfatpenguin]

Hey! So one of my favourite authors who write for the Hobbit just posted a new WIP, so I thought I’d write a recommendation post to highlight my favourite pieces they’ve written and share it with the rest of you!

So sit down strap in for Salty’s Fic Rec Friday, I guess. This week featuring: Twisted_Barbie

Some of the reasons why I enjoy their work is their fresh take on tropes, plentiful surprising turns and movie-esque style. I haven’t read every single piece due to personal preferences, but here are the one’s I’ve read and that I recommend you read as well! They are all, of course, Bagginshield because I’m on this ship for life it seems...

The Lost Kingdom of Erebor Rating: G Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins Archive warnings apply!

The Lost Kingdom of Erebor is my absolute favourite. I started reading it as 11pm, a mistake since I couldn’t put my phone down and ended up reading until morning. It is just so exciting. It reads like a semi-horror-mystery story where Bilbo, an archaeologist, is flown into New Zealand by his friend Gandalf to investigate a site which might be the long thought mythical Kingdom of Erebor. Except, Erebor does exist, and its legend also includes a curse. I won’t say anymore, but honestly, this story is gold. DO MIND THE TAGS, but if you’re looking for something exciting and tragically romantic with some unexpected twists, this is for you!

The Best Laid Plans Rating: M Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins, (Kili/Bilbo Baggins)

Look, I’m a sucker for emotionally constipated dwarf kings who makes brash decisions and then ends up realising their mistakes. This is an Erebor-never-fell-AU in which Thorin attempts to arrange a marriage for his nephew Kili... except, as the summary says,  “the best laid plans often go awry.” Read this on my flight to Asia last October, and read it again in January. It’s just that much fun. A good twist on the arranged marriage trope, and while the ending is predictable, sometimes all you want is to grin stupidly as your OTP has their happy, uncomplicated ending...

The Labyrinth Rating: G Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins

This one is a Hobbit/Labyrinth AU, and as far as twisted fairy-tales go this is gold. I had a lot of fun reading this as a bedtime tread for myself. In this, the tale of the Dwarf King is a bedtime story meant to keep hobbit children from being naughty... but while putting little Frodo to bed one night, Bilbo discovers that there might be more truth than fantasy to this story.

The Raven Rating: E Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins

While I read them from time to time, I am not an active fan of the traditional ABO tropes in storytelling as they tend to be repetitive. This fic, however, is one of the few that surprised me very positively! It’s exciting to see the laws of the universe meshing with the setting of Middle-earth, and there is a bit of history and plot beyond the smut (which, to be fair, is full of tension and eventually pretty fantastic.) No archive warnings, but do mind the tags!

The Lion of the Shire Rating: M Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins Archive warnings apply!

Ok, so this is their new WIP and having never touched The Prince of Persia I have no idea where this is going, but so far I’m so excited for it. In the first chapter of only 1k words the stakes and tension are already set incredibly high, and I’m honestly waiting with bated breath for the continuation... I trust the author to take me for a ride though.

-

Anyway, thank you for reading until the end. I hope you have some new material to keep you going through the weekend in these times of quarantine... Also, I think I’ll try and make this a regular thing maybe, just to document what I’ve read. I sometimes lose track of that tbh.

Remember to toss a kudos to your author! oh valley of plenty

#bagginshield #The hobbit #The Hobbit fanfiction #Thorin Oakenshield #Bilbo Baggins #Thilbo #Salty recs #Salty's Fic Rec Friday #Twisted_Barbie #Comments keep fandom alive tbh

[gaslightgallows]

First lines meme thingie

I got tagged by @teadrinkingwolfgirl! 

Rules: Post the first lines of your last ten fics read or written and then tag others to do the same.

I haven’t read anyone else’s fics in ages (mea culpa) so I’m really doing this to remind myself of what WIPs I’m supposed to be working on. XD

Tagging! @firesign23, @rivendellrose, @cigaretteburnslikefairylights, @pendragyn, @kiwimeringue, @timetravelbypen and anyone else who’d like to play!

The Patience of Angels (Good Omens)

“Right,” shouted Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of the First Circle of Hell, “shut up, you lot!”

The rabble quieted down, but not without trouble – Hastur had to set a few unruly demons on fire before Beelzebub could finally make themself heard without screaming. They settled into the chair at the head of the long, long table, with Hastur at one elbow and Dagon at the other, and surveyed the assembled with resigned disgust (which was the most neutral emotion Beelzebub could summon).

Every demon with any scrap of authority was there, every prince and duke and a bunch of other ranks besides, by Satan's own order. Except for Satan himself, of course. He hadn’t been to a board meeting in a year, which wasn’t like him – he usually at least came to the once-a-year all-staff meetings. But the boss was still sulking and licking his wounds after that business in Tadfield. Beelzebub supposed he had the right to sulk; after all, six thousand years of planning had been flushed straight down the toilet, all because of one disobedient brat.

There was something marvelously poetic in that, somewhere, but Lord Beelzebub did not possess a poet’s soul. (Though they had possessed a few poets, over the centuries, but they hadn’t picked up much in the way of insight.)

Sideways (MCU, Stoki)

Loki was not expecting to see Captain Rogers again – vastly preferred not to see him again, in fact, along with the rest of the Avengers – and when he did, the first thing he thought was that wasn’t sure about the new beard.

Thankfully, Captain Rogers couldn’t see him, so he didn’t have to concern himself with the captain’s feelings on the matter.

In theory, the less Loki had to see or hear or be aware of Earth, the better. In practice, he'd learned enough about humans to realize that it was at least prudent to keep tabs on Midgard and its infuriatingly stubborn inhabitants. Unlike Odin (not quite late, not quite lamented, safely and comfortably sequestered away in the most inconvenient corner of the palace dungeons), Loki did not have the ability to see and hear all things within the Nine Realms, so he’d had to take the Gatekeeper into his confidence.

Heimdall was... he wasn’t entirely sure what Heimdall’s opinion on the matter of Loki pretending to be Odin was. He recalled the first time he took the throne—

‘Took.’ It was given to me, justly, by Asgard’s own laws of succession and by order of... the queen.

—when Heimdall obeyed his commands up until the moment Loki relieved him of his duties. He knew better than to make the same mistake twice; Heimdall had guarded the Bifrost for longer than Loki had been alive, and he’d learned a thing or two about the watcher’s loyalties. With the true king alive but incapacitated and Thor having abjured the title, who was there left to be king, save Loki?

And it clearly didn’t matter to Heimdall that Loki was technically supposed to be dead.

Upon the Mountains, Like a Flame: Chapter 10 (MCU)

"Are you truly going to prevent Loki from using his magic to defend himself?"

"I have said that I will. It is the only possible way of ensuring a fair fight, especially if Loki and Sigyn are to face Theoric together. Unless you wish to make it that easy for Loki to defeat him. His power has grown--"

"No," said Frigga, "he hasn't." She sounded tired. "He had help. From whom or who, I know not, but I do know the scope of our son's power."

Odin stopped his disgruntled pacing and turned to face her, and suddenly Frigga felt very cold. "Are you certain? We have never been entirely sure what manner of power to expect from one of his... lineage."

"If Loki had learned by nature how to shield his appearance and his identity from us both, he would have used it – and crowed about it – long before now. As it is, he can transform himself into any number of animals in order to bedevil his brother, but we always know it is him. And before you ask again," she continued, "no, Sigyn did not help him. This manner of magic does not belong to her."

Odin conceded that point, at least. "Sigyn's preference would have been to slip away from Asgard between dawn and morning and never look back. And you would not have been able to find her, I think, any more than I would have. And yet... she stayed."

"For Loki."

"For love of him," Odin sighed, feeling old, as he had when Loki had pleaded for Sigyn's hand in marriage. "They make a frightening pair, those two.

The Art of Weaving (Sequel to “The Art of Spinning”) (MCU)

“He lacks compassion.”

“Lacks...” Thor stopped dead in his tracks. “Father, he spent a month caring for Mother and wouldn’t leave her side even when I wanted him to come to Svartalfheim with me. He helped me free Jane from the Aether and find a way to defeat Malekith that saved the last of the Dark Elves from slaughter, when you and I would have gladly let them all die.”

“And what has been the result of those good deeds? A long-dead race returned to the Nine Realms, upsetting the balance of power even further, and my heir abandoning his birthright to waste the next century in the company of a woman who will be gone in a blink.”

Thor remembered his brother’s parting words, the tight, sorrowful embrace, and the lock of hair Loki had given him. “He gave up his chance for freedom. He accepted responsibility for his crimes, even though we know now that he was being manipulated. What more would you have from him?”

“Nothing. I am grateful to have my youngest son back. But I would have my eldest reclaim his place as well.”

But Thor shook his head, and stepped away from his father’s fond hand. “I can never be the king you want. Loki can. He is like you in ways that I am not.”

Odin went suddenly still. “What do you mean?”

“I lack your ruthlessness.”

L'éternité de la damnation, l'infinité de la jouissance (Crimson Peak)

It had been two years. Two years of independence and travel and writing and of seeing the world. Her life would never be normal again, but at least now it felt charmed instead of cursed. At least during the day.

At night, she still dreamed of red-soaked white nightdresses, and of Lucille Sharpe haunting the crumbling halls of Allerdale. She woke with the taste of blood in her mouth, and visions of Thomas screaming in hell.

She didn’t know if he deserved that. He had done terrible things, but how many had been of his own choosing? He had not been a good man, but he had so desperately wanted to be.

Demon in My View (Good Omens)

Normally, Aziraphale was loath to part with any of the books in his collection – though he was not above going against his own grain for people whom he knew would love and cherish the tomes almost as much as he himself did – but in this case, he was delighted to make an exception.

"No charge. No, I absolutely insist. After all, my dear boy, they were meant to be yours."

Adam thanked him politely, and then asked, "Do you still have that wicked flaming sword?"

Aziraphale winced a touch at the adjective but let it pass. "No, no, I'm afraid not. I was required to give it back."

"That's not fair. It was yours, Crowley said it was. And you did help save the world with it. They should give it back to you."

"Well, perhaps they will, one day."

And His Feet Were Made of Clay (Good Omens)

The bookshop of A.Z. Fell was closed. It was the middle of the day and every shop surrounding it was open for business, but most passersby didn't seem to notice the bookshop, and the ones who did weren't surprised that it was closed. In fact, if you examined the diaries of London citizens going back to eighteen hundred, you would find countless entries complaining about the fact that Mr. Fell and Co. (Aziraphale had added the 'Co.' in the eighteen-forties, when he realized he needed to start pretending to be his own son.) never seemed to be open, and that when they were, the very nice gentleman inside was always curiously reluctant to actually sell you anything.

The thing that Aziraphale had always liked most about his corporation was that it looked human. It lacked basic human needs and drives, but it could simulate and perform those functions with perfect adequacy, and really, that was beside the point, because it looked human. It looked unique, the way humans did. Looked like God the way humans did, and the way angels most emphatically did not. Angels had been created by the Almighty with a variety of ineffable functions in mind, and what they looked like when they weren't cramming all their eyes and wings and wheels into a chunky bipedal casing with odors and fluids reflected those functions.

Humans, as near as Aziraphale had been able to figure out in six thousand years of watching, had no preordained function. God had made them because they were fun and that was enough, and he rather liked that about them. Envied that about then, even. (Envy wasn't something he was supposed to admit to, but he lied to himself about so many other things that he simply couldn't have this one on his conscience.)

Although if they did have a function, he was convinced that they existed for the sole purpose of making more of themselves.

A Pause From Thinking (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine)

“Doctor, I appreciate the courtesy call, but it this is some sort of human mourning ritual, I’m really not interested.”

"I didn't think you'd be interested in mourning. I just thought you might want some company. A loss is a loss, after all." Julian poured out the whiskey and handed Garak a glass. "Here's to terrible fathers."

Lots of Rules and No Mercy (sequel to “I Say, Why Not?”) (Tron) 

It was about a month after Alan was first able to communicate with his security program that Tron made the request—not out of any doubt in his user's abilities, but out of respect for the human he looked to as both creator and guardian angel.

"His name was Ram," said Tron, the words appearing on the screen beneath his angularly-rendered face, his voice coming through the headphones like an echo of Alan's own voice. "We were in the MCP's holding cells together for a while. He was just an actuarial program, but he was good at the games and..." The blocky, pixelated face didn't convey one-tenth of the emotion Alan was sure he could hear in the program's tight, gruff voice. "He was a good friend."

"I'm sorry." Alan felt silly, even after a month, apologizing and offering sympathy for the erasure of a program. He was a software engineer after all—he'd been writing and rewriting and erasing programs since high school. It had never been that big of a deal before. "I'm sorry, Tron."

Tron seemed to gather himself together. "Alan. Can you resurrect him?"

Alan stared at the face on the screen, unsure of what to say. He knew Tron couldn't see him or his expression of dumbfounded shock, but the silence said enough. "Forgive me," Tron murmured, seeming to bow his head in the way that made Alan the most uncomfortable. "It was impertinent of me, I shouldn't have asked—"

"It's not that," Alan blurted out. "It's just—I wouldn't know where to start," he added, trying to ignore the uneasy thrill of his creation's simple faith in him.

The Goblin Emperor’s Garden (The Goblin Emperor)

It became Maia’s habit, following the drama of his first Winternight as emperor of the Elflands, and once his wife-to-be decided that he no longer needed quite so many dancing lessons, to hold small intimate suppers one evening a week in his private dining room in the Alcethmeret. Sometimes he entertained several people, sometimes only a few, but nearly every week, Csethiro Ceredin was at the table.

If it was only the two of them at supper, she sat opposite him, where he had the privilege of listening to her speak until the small hours of the morning on all manner of topics, while he forgot about his meal and tried not to drown in her brilliant blue eyes. If there were others at table, she sat at his right, and though she had other social obligations on such evenings, it was worth it to Maia, to be able to sometimes, quickly and surreptitiously and not always entirely secretly, squeeze her hand under the embroidered tablecloth.

His secretary and all of his nohecharei always noticed, and he suspected that they desperately wanted to tease him about it. His nephew Prince Idra also always seemed to notice, and as he and Maia grew closer, Idra did not hesitate to tease him.

“You should be careful,” Csethiro playfully warned the prince, one night after the rest of the guests had taken their leave and the three of them were alone at table, lingering over dessert. “For someday your uncle will find you a wife, and you will make just such a fool of yourself, and he will be as shameless in laughing at you.”

Idra and Maia both blushed, stamping their utterly dissimilar features with a moment of family resemblance. “If I am so fortunate as to someday have such a wife as to be worth making a fool of myself over,” said Idra, half-bold and half-shy, as only a fourteen-year-old boy could be, “I should thank my uncle profusely for his choice, and not mind the teasing.”

“Well spoken, cousin,” Maia said gratefully.

#gaslight blogs about fic #first line meme #good omens #mcu #space vikings #star trek deep space nine #crimson peak #the goblin emperor #tron

[lire-casander]

Good writer ask: 1, 5, 9

1. of the fic you’ve written, which are you most proud of?

I’ve received this question three times, so instead of just choosing one, I’m forcing myself to go through my fics and choose one for each one of you. So, starting with this ask, one of the fics I’m most proud of is wait for the stars to fall. Right now it’s complete AU, because I was going through the edits for the sixth chapter and realized I created a whole different background for Forrest than the one the show has given us. I’m a bit deflated about writing for RNM right now, but have no doubt I will finish it.

Why am I proud of it? It’s really a simple answer: it’s the first long, chaptered fic I embarked myself into in ten years. It’s supposed to be a S2 fic, with all my headcanons for the season that’s now breaking us, but I took too long in writing and posting it, and now it seems it won’t be done until well after the actual season 2 is over and done with. But believe me when I tell you, I’d rather live in my AU world where I get to hurt the characters than go through the motions of the events in a season that’s wrecking me.

5. what inspires you to write?

It’s usually music. A line in a song, or the beating of a melody. Sometimes it’s a line from a list of prompts, and others it’s just something I see on my way to work or back home. There are many things that can inspire me.

For example, I once wrote a whole fluffy fic for another fandom inspired solely on the image the lines dancing on the kitchen tiles from McFly’s song All About You. It started with the main character dancing on the kitchen tiles with his partner’s son, and it was freakingly sweet.

There are times when I write out of order. Sometimes a line comes to my mind and I have to write it, and the whole fic revolves around that line. It doesn’t even have to be the first line. @hannah-writes has suffered through my shitty planning in writing when I have a line that I’d love to us so I create a whole universe around that line.

9. a passage from a WIP

Right now I’m writing for 911 Lone Star, but I can give you a few lines from wait for the stars to fall, because I have 8.5 chapters written so far out of 10/13, and I think I need a bit of a push to go back to writing it. 

From chapter 8, completely unbeta’ed, and possibly spoilery, but I doubt any of you keep track of that fic anymore.

“Guerin?” he hears at his back as he rounds a corner and stumbles into an alley he doesn’t recognize. He stops but doesn’t turn around; he knows whatʼs going on, he knows that he starts hallucinating when he hasnʼt had food or alcohol in a while and he canʼt remember the last time he ate or drank. 

And his hallucinations always feature Alex. 

“Guerin, hey, stop!” the voice is still calling his name, more frantic now. He keeps walking until he reaches an open, scarce buildings around him and a small tree in the middle of a square he didn’t know existed in Roswell. He falters, tripping over his own feet, and finally stopping to lean against the trunk of the tree, exhausted and defeated, unwilling to allow the hallucination to take over him but unable to stop it altogether. 

“Go away,” he whispers, eyes fluttering closed. It’s all he can say, drained out of all energy. 

“Iʼm not going anywhere, Guerin. You look like shit.” 

When he opens his eyes, it’s to a sight of Alex Manes frowning at him. He looks good in his grey oversized sweater and jeans, his hair tousled as though heʼs just got out of bed — or as though someone has run their fingers through it. Michael feels a surge of jealousy and a pang of regret at the thought, at what could have been but wasnʼt because heʼd wanted easy. He doesn’t even think about the absurdity of Alex Manes not wearing a coat in the middle of December. “Alex,” he greets feebly. 

“I saw you stumbling out of your truck,” Alex begins. His voice had turned soft and worried, and Michael can’t have any of that. 

He needs Alex to be angry, to rage, so he can match Michael’s own feelings about himself — the blame and the fear and the pain and the regret dripping off him in waves so forceful that barrell through his whole existence. Instead, every time heʼs faced Alex these past weeks — always showing up to rescue him from yet another fight, to pick him up at a hell-hole of a bar in the middle of nowhere, to bait him out of the drunk tank when not even Max would care that he frozen to death in that place — Alex has always been caring and soothing, albeit distant. It’s felt like Michael could always count on Alex to save him but only as a friend, and thatʼs exclusively on him. He shouldn’t have gone to Maria when all he wanted was to sort himself out. 

He should have gone to the only person who holds the other half of his soul.

[justkindaoverhereobsessing]

I WAS GOING TO ASK YOU TO REBLOG THIS SO I COULD ASK. YAY. 1, 5, 11, 14 (WAAO), 17 (croissant croissant oui oui oui plus baguette), 18, 22, 25, 36, 49 and the most important of all, 50. ❤

1) How old were you when you first starting writing fanfiction?

It was more than half my lifetime ago—I was 10!

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?

I only have a couple, lol, but I’d have to say We Are an Ocean. I’m not sure if I love it or hate it at this point, but I’ve put so so so so much effort and time and love into it! It’s my baby! 

11) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?

Not on major plot points, but... About ten years ago, I wrote a oneshot based in the late 1940s, and someone pointed out to me that seatbelts in cars weren’t really a thing back then. I did go back and change that, lmao. Fly free, kiddos, you’re on your own in a car crash! 

14) How did you come up with the title for We Are an Ocean? 

I HAD SUCH A HARD TIME WITH IT. I knew I wanted it to be friends-with-benefits turned lovers turned partners in every aspect, but the gradual change there over the course of the story makes it hard to choose a single theme... and I almost always name my fics based on theme! I literally spent two days scouring quotes in about twenty different themes, and finally found the quote I used and decided it was good enough. It was defeatism more than anything, lmao! Here’s the whole quote from which I got the title of the fic: "Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean." -Ryunosuke Satoro. 

17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on. (I cheated and did three from my ‘oui oui oui plus baguette’ story, as you put it, lmao.)

“Où sont lez… what was it, again?”

“Forget it. Stay close to me and avoid getting lost, because I do not think you will never be able to speak French, Tony DiNozzo.”

“Why would I ever need to, when I have you?”

18) Do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?

I have one! It’s a long and sordid tale of heartbreak and drama, lmao, so I’ll spare you the details, but basically, I co-wrote it with someone I was very close to. When we had a falling out, I rewrote much of the story for my own sanity but didn’t post it—it was just for me. Eventually, when I’d gotten whatever closure I needed out of it, I stopped doing that, too. The story still exists somewhere in the format of text messages on an old phone shoved in a drawer somewhere, but what was posted back when that person and I were still close is all that will ever be published. (I did get a tattoo because of the whole experience of rewriting by myself, though... song lyrics from Hamilton! “I picked up a pen; I wrote my own deliverance.”)

22) Do you have a story that you look back on and cringe when you reread it?

SO MANY. Actually, I keep meaning to go back and delete pretty much everything I wrote prior to 2019, lmao. Thanks for the reminder! 

25) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?

YES. As you know, I’m an incredibly easy crier. I usually don’t, though... I like to say that I hurt my own feelings instead. When I’m writing, I’m usually so focused on the forest that the trees can’t make me cry, lmao. There’s so much going on in my head—plot, dialogue, word count, staying IC, timing, descriptions, continuity, throwing in pianos to piss you off, pacing, grammar, keeping track of clothes if I’m writing smut, etc. It makes me a little removed from my story until I give it a read-through when I publish it. Once, though, during my RP days... my partner and I were writing a story that I KNEW would make me cry but I still wrote it when I was in public. I was on a long-distance overnight bus from London to Amsterdam with 100 strangers and there were NO TISSUES. I got snot all over myself. Gross. 10/10, would recommend embarrassing yourself that badly in the name of art at least once in your life!

36) Can you give us a spoiler for one of your WIP’s?

Sure, I’ll give you a few! For WAAO, spoilers with no context: guilt/grief/fear/rage all wrapped up in one devastated character, the worst international trip in the world, a therapist, Anacostia Park, and a baby that wants to be passed from person to person every 90 seconds. 

49) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?

I can, lmao, cause I’m scarred for life. I was roughly 8 years old and even back then, I was very shippy... I was looking for a Harry/Ginny story to read. The one I found involved Harry cheating on his wife with Cho Chang and in the end, Ginny got pissed enough that she straight up murdered him. Wtf. I’m still not okay. 

50) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?

WAIT THIS ONE’S HARD. WTF SOFIA. Ummmmmmmmm... shit. I guess I’m going to go with fluff, because angst is no fun if it doesn’t resolve into fluff anyway, and it’s hard enough to write the occasional smut fic without it being the only thing I’m allowed to write! Yeah, okay, my final answer is fluff. But I don’t like it and you’re on thin ice for asking this question, lmao. 

Fanfiction Writer Asks

#thanks for the ask Sof! <3 <3 <3

[bvlavender]

A Story A Day Keeps COVID Away – August Reviewed and September Anticipated

♫ I want to forget / that school starts again in September / though things get worse before they get better / can COVID just go awayyyyyyyyyy ♫

August was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it month. There were notable world events (mostly negative, because 2020), and there were notable A Story A Day Keeps COVID Away events (the start and collapse of my first serial), but personally… it became a foggy, forgettable mess, even as I lived it.

September is not going to be that. I’m going back to school, which means structure, stability, and stress. An anchor, as grounding as it is unwieldy. My track record regarding time management has been pretty hit-or-miss, but in a way that I’ve learned from. I know what caused the misses and the hits, and I’ve planned to account for that. And I’ve banked on my passion for creation to drive me to stick to my plan in a way that nothing else could.

My stories depend upon my sanity. My sanity depends upon my stories.

I shall act accordingly.

Anyway, without further ado:

Top 5 Stories for August 2020 of A Story A Day Keeps COVID Away

While there are some stories that I am definitely less pleased with or more proud of than others, this list is pretty arbitrary. August was so much of a time vortex that revisiting the month caused me to stumble upon things I’d forgotten I’d written. But whatever, let's take a handful and rank them anyway, why not.

5. 08/01/20: The Blank

I felt like this one had to be up here somewhere. I have so many longer stories I want to tell, but I’ve not been able to do more than brainstorm for years (and I’ll likely be brainstorming for years to come). Writing about a fundamental concept of one of my works outside of drafts was hard enough, but posting it online? It was both more and less daunting than I thought it would be. And I want to commemorate that first.

4. 08/27/20: Death Becomes Her (Review/Apology/Masterpost)

In a similar but opposite vein, I wanted to take note of this… suboptimal work. I think what bothers me is less the story and more the fact that it weighed on me for so long. If my WIP longer stories have taught me anything, it’s that I’m not a pantser, and I shouldn’t have thought I’d magically become one when I started Death Becomes Her. But this is a learning experience, which is what the review highlights, and what I want to make sure I remember.

3. 08/07/20: Eunoia

I found this post a while back about lesser known forms of self-harm, and it shocked me just how much of the stuff that was listed were things that I did. Consciously or unconsciously, I was hurting myself. That wasn’t the only thing that got me to change my habits, but it was a step forward in a long and arduous journey towards not treating myself like garbage whenever I feel like garbage. This poem encapsulates a part of that journey. I’m not always on maximum self-care mode, and I likely never will be, but I’m in a place so much better than I was a few years ago. Accept yourself. Love yourself.

2. 08/28/20: out of my mind

In a diametrically opposed vein, this poem is about an unhealthy mental state? At least Eunoia is trying to combat the toxicity, this one just stews in the feeling of noping out when existence is one big yikesfest. But then again, it can be healthy to acknowledge and sit in those feelings of… not feeling. So those two poems might not be as dissimilar as they first appear.

1. 08/15/20: Paronoia

Most orientations don’t feel the need to differentiate between sexual and romantic attraction. But a person who is asexual and a person who is aromantic will have different struggles. There will be overlap, of course; they fall under the same umbrella, and many people are aroace. But when aspec struggles are discussed or depicted, it’s usually through someone who is asexual. Or someone who is aroace, but with a focus on how the lack of sexual attraction causes them difficulty, with less attention paid to the romantic side of things. There should be more out there on the aro part of the A in LGBTQIA+, and I hope this piece contributed to that.

~~~

And that's that for August! Whether September is better or worse (though let's be honest, 2020's likely just going to keep the punches rolling), I'll still be here, and I hope you will be too.

We'll get through this.

#astoryadaykeepsCOVIDaway #coronavirus #covid-19 #writing #writers on tumblr #monthly review #happy new month #♫ba de ya♫ #say do you remember #♫ba de ya #the whole month of august? #ba de ya #never was a sunny dayyyyyy