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ashessonfire · 8 months

Note

Bonjour, lovely!! I adore your fics, your choice of words are just *✧delectable✧⁠* and I'm amazed at how you beautifully written Kaz. If you may, could you write a little fluff with the reader being a skilled painter/sculptor and she helps the crows in art forgery. (I personally love when there's a little angsty yearning in the mix but I trust you will blow it out of the waters). Mercii!!

Stolen hearts - Kaz Brekker x Reader

Prompt : As a crow who specializes in art, what happens when Kaz stumbles upon one of your personal sketchbooks and gets a little jealous? - Pairing : Kaz Brekker x Reader - Warnings : Jealous Kaz, Kaz being an idiot, he gets a bit upset but nothing too crazy :)

A/N : Hi my loves, this is a pretty long one but I ADORED this idea, and so I let myself run with it.This may just be one of my favourite things I have ever written so I really hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing this!! As always requests are open, and please check my list here for other characters I write for!!

click here for masterlist

click here for characters I write for

(Also it seems as if we are getting closer to finding out if we are getting a SOC spin off!! After the writers strikes we should hopefully know, so lets try keep the Grishaverse fandom alive on here!! <3 )

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"You want me to recreate that in two days? Kaz, the original is painted in oils, they don't even dry in that time!" You exclaimed, peering over the top of a stolen painting at your boss, his gaze hard yet not harsh.

"I am aware," Kaz began, "But that's why I hired you, isn't it? You have not missed a deadline once, and I know you won't miss it now," his firm voice rung out into the acoustics of his office.

And of course, he was right.

Although you would have to take a few shortcuts, you could feel your fingertips twitching against the oak frame of the piece, mind already composing each element of the scene. Tucking it beneath your arm, you let out a gentle sigh, nodding swiftly in his direction before departing from the room.

He had saved you, and this painting was only a fragment in your repayment of Kaz Brekker.

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A fire had swept through your village just beyond the confines of the Barrel, leaving you with nothing but your pouch, filled to the brim with pencils, inks, and as many types of paper as you had been able to salvage. The corners of your paintings began to singe as your home was engulfed, pain piercing your heart as you sprinted down the path to evade the impenetrable walls of flame.

Ketterdam beckoned you into her grip, as you ventured through the dim alleyways until shadow gave way to dazzling light displays. The Lid revealed itself to you, and with no other choice you slotted yourself in with the penniless street merchants that lined the alleys of Ketterdam.

For years, you offered sketches, portraits, and paintings to the rich tourists that marveled at Ketterdam's wonders. Although mere pennies were offered in exchange for your work, it was enough to renew your supplies and evade sleeping by the canal, or being trampled by tourists.

As time crawled along your skills blossomed, transforming your rough ideas into magnificent pieces, worthy of far more than a few kruge. Soon, you began to slip into galleries, memorizing each stroke until your mind could guide your hands without a single thought. Portraits that were worth thousands were then being passed into clueless pigeon's hands for only a few hundred kruge, as your skills were unmatched in the art of forgery.

Little did you know that you were being kept under the watchful eye of Kaz Brekker's wraith, your talents being thoroughly observed and reported back to the leader of the crows.

You were able to swindle the pigeons for a few months until the Watchstadt began to take note of the remarkable artistry of your paintings. Overnight, the tides of your fortune changed, awaking one evening to the thudding of leather against stone, inching closer to you as each moment passed.

In a desperate attempt to escape your fate, you clutched your belongings and shot down a back alley, shadows offering you a blanket of protection from the moon's shimmering light. However it seemed as if your luck had reached its limit, as several guards barreled out in front of you, as your other exits were swiftly stolen from you.

Tears began to blur your vision, lightheadedness overtaking your senses, the guard's words became muffled and distant, as panic overtook your being. You were barely aware of a gentle voice calling you from your terror, a soft hand wiping away the beads of pain falling from your eyes.

In the hours that followed, you scarcely registered anything but your gratitude towards Inej, and ultimately to Kaz who had been increasing the hours that his wraith was sent to protect you. In a few swift meetings, Kaz Brekker had settled a deal with you, sheltering you from the darkness of the Barrel, whilst securing a valuable new member of the crows.

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"Thank the saints that that is over," Jesper all but shouted, falling backwards onto the sofa in the common room of the slat. Placing yourself on a worn armchair opposite, you felt somewhat peaceful as your painting had been so seamless that the entire mission was cut short by a few hours.

After jobs, each crow fell into their own routines to unwind the tension that undeniably interwove into each of them. Kaz's cane thumped lightly against the creaking oak of the staircase, ascending to his room to continue plotting. Hushed whispers often omitted from Wylan and Jesper as they basked in each other's company.

Inej was usually missing, as she was now, exploring the endless expanses of rooftops whilst allowing the bitter air to cool her down. Taking in the couple across from you, and a now slumbering Nina beside you, you reached for the familiar leather binding of your sketchbook.

The glowing embers of the low-lit fire cast soft shadows on your friends, and the light washes of orange and red watercolour aided in your attempt to capture the peaceful scene unfolding before you. However, the absence of a certain presence pulled you from your portrait, thoughts straying to the man who undoubtedly was scheming once more in his office.

Since joining his crew, a small fondness for the "demjin" had harbored itself deep within your heart, impenetrable and unmoving. He treated you with a cold kindness, gifting you small tins of expensive paints, or the latest papers, completely dismissing the fact they were irrelevant to your job.

With a short shake of your head, the thoughts dispelled, returning your mind to the clarity it needed to produce your sketch, the flames from the fireplace dimming as the room began to fall into shadow. The peace that art instilled you with returned, as your heartbeat slowed and a sense of calm washed over you with each brushstroke.

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Settling into his chair, Kaz let out a short breath, tension easing slightly from his body as relief gripped him, all thanks to you. Your painting had exceeded his expectations, not a single person suspecting the image to have been forged, and the original stolen into the possession of the Dregs.

Few things could entrance Kaz Brekker, yet something about the way your colours melted into each other, or the clear emotion engrained into every miniscule detail of a painting pulled him in. Perhaps the depth of your sculptures, or the smooth yet carefully crafted edges of the clay coming to life in his imagination were to blame for his admiration for you.

Kaz's mind wandered as he thoughtlessly ridded his desk of it's papers, hastily stacking them into neat piles as he tried to shake his thoughts of you.

Suddenly, Kaz was startled from his inner battle, gloved fingers brushing against a foreign texture, a hard leather cover of, something? Curiosity urged him to retrieve the book from underneath the blueprints and paperwork, eyes scanning over the front in search of a clue as to what the binding held.

Carefully undoing a well tied string, the front page fell flat against his weathered desk, the candle beside him offering a gentle illumination. Kaz's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the contents of the book, the etches of the pencil being too precise to belong to any person, but you.

The charcoal marks formed on the fraying page to portray Jesper, content as he sat on a patterned bar stool in the Crow Club, eyes slightly creased in content. Thumbing to the next page, Kaz discovered another depiction of his sharpshooter, however this time he was polishing his guns. Unlike the previous image, Jesper was now depicted in a light wash of colour, bringing him seemingly to life.

Enchanted by your work, Kaz continued to marvel at each sketch and painting, however a sharp feeling grabbed at his chest as he came to a realization. Apart from a few pages here and there, the subject that lined the parchment was always Jesper. Turning the pages increasingly quicker, a feeling of dread seeped into his stomach, a twisting combination of jealousy and annoyance building within him.

A gentle knock broke him from these thoughts, as your voice called out in the hope you would be permitted entry. Carefully, Kaz slid your sketchbook to the opposite end of his desk, pretending to analyze a discarded stack of papers before allowing you in.

"Hey Kaz, I was just coming to check in on you, I didn't get to catch up with you after..." you began, speech diminishing as your eyes fell upon the bronzed edges of one of your sketchbooks. Your eyes lit up as you began to grin.

"You left it on my desk," Kaz stated, trying desperately to burry the knot in his stomach, as your expression brightened at the thought of finding the book full of Jesper. "I've been looking everywhere for this one, thank you Kaz," you respond, hastily reclaiming the book, folding it snuggly between your arms and your chest.

"It shouldn't be here," Kaz snapped, a sharp tone piercing the previously warm atmosphere, "It's your personal sketchbook, so it needs to stay personal. Understand?" Kaz bit out, stunning you into silence as you backed away towards the door.

"Oh," you began, "I didn't mean to leave it here," voice cracking as you battled through the shock of his manner, and the hurt of him snapping at you. "Make sure I don't see it again, although I'm sure Jesper would love to," Kaz concluded, practically spitting out your friend's name.

The dismay you felt began to ebb away as you took in your boss' expression more closely, your upset being replaced with something resembling humour. "Kaz," your voice quietly began, "You're not jealous, are you?" you question.

Although the room remained silent, his features spoke a thousand words to you, his eyes widening fractionally to reveal fright, face becoming tinged by a rosy blush. Before you could utter another word, Kaz had guided you to the arched doorway, pushed you through the threshold, and slammed the door before you could witness the tips of his ears turning crimson.

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Through the warped glass pane of his window, Kaz was stirred by the early rays of sunrise, face gently caressed by each stream of light that infiltrated the darkness. Despite the restless sleep he gained, the bastard was surprised he had managed to fall unconscious at all.

From the moment he had shut the door on you, feelings of jealousy and shame had consumed him. He swore he had heard a splinter echo throughout his chest as he recalled the hurt spreading across your face the previous evening.

Letting out a short breath of frustration, he slowly contorted his stiff limbs into a sitting position, and only then did his gaze cast onto the unfamiliar shade of leather perching on his nightstand. Unease began to spread through his body, fingertips sparking with anticipation as he reached over to retrieve the sketchbook.

Frustration began to wrestle with the discontent, as he unwound the ribbon binding the wrinkled pages together, yet the colour of the leather seemed to shift underneath his gaze. Unlike the book he had previously discovered, this one was made of a darker material which he could only liken to the darkness of midnight. As he angled the cover, flecks of gold appeared, the early sun dancing light off of each one, illuminating the leather as if it were a sky full of stars

Nimbly undoing the ribbon on the side, the first page fell open, and to his surprise, a neatly penned note fell out of the cover, revealing an image behind it that Kaz was sure he would have permanently engraved in his memory. A pair of sharp eyes met his own, and his breath caught in his throat as he questioned whether he was glimpsing into some sort of mirror.

With a desperation he himself could not even comprehend, Kaz began to flip through the pages, the guilt he had initially felt now burning him from the inside out, singeing at his chest. Each portrait captured his every emotion, each stroke precise and beautiful in a way he had never experienced before.

Gently unfolding the corners of the note, Kaz's gaze deepened with each curling letter of your short message -

Dear Mr Brekker,

After your discovery yesterday, I thought it only fair to also show you your notebook too. I have one for each of the crows, yourself included, and so I kindly ask you not to panic further about Jesper being the only muse of my pieces.

Love, your favourite artist

P.S ~ You also have a second book, if you are interested.

Kaz's breath hitched at the word 'love' before his mind could even comprehend it, head spiraling with thoughts of you as he pictured your gentle teasing laughter as you penned the note to him. The guilt and shame became so consuming in that second that his chest constricted, and he knew the only way he could alleviate the weight was by visiting you.

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A sharp knock pierced through the silence of your room, pen stopping mid point as you called a gentle welcome to the man behind the door. Kaz's figure slowly filled the doorframe, waistcoat slightly untucked, and hair somewhat out of place as if he had raced to see you.

A teasing grin began to illuminate your features, and the sunrise seeping through your window was more than bright enough to display Kaz's rose dusted cheeks as he averted his gaze. Without so much as a sound passing through his pursed lips, a gloved hand directed itself towards you, clutching onto the dark sketchbook.

You smile faltered, the glimmer seeping from your eyes as your lips fought to stay curved, as you questioned, "You didn't like it?" Kaz shifted his dark gaze to meet your own, brows lightly furrowing as he grumbled "I thought you might want it back."

Your gaze softened as the walls you had been beginning to construct around your heart crumbled, "Oh, I meant it more like a gift Kaz, plus I have several more books dedicated to you anyway," you uttered tenderly. The figure before you lowered his head towards the object in his hands, knuckles whitening beneath his leather gloves as his grip hardened.

After a fleeting moment of your boss' gaze sweeping over your features, he gave a swift nod in gratitude, the scent of ink and secrets trailing behind him as he ventured back to his office. Disappointment clung to your chest at his swift departure, hoping that he would have remained in your presence for a few moments more.

However, as your gaze travelled upwards to glimpse at his departing figure, you noticed how he had faltered in your doorway. His broad shoulders were facing you, allowing you to to observe every deep yet ragged breath that lifted his chest.

"I..." He began, voice so low that it was barely audible, "I'm sorry for last night, I shouldn't have said those things to you," Kaz almost spat out, the words tasting foreign on his lips as he attempted to quickly escape to the confines of his office.

"Kaz," you called out, hope unravelling the knots of anxiety from previously, leaving you with streams of a newfound confidence, "I just thought you should know you are my favourite subject. No one else in Ketterdam seems to have a better facial structure than yours."

Kaz could hear the thick inflections of your smirk within your words, ribbons of humour intertwining with each letter you spoke. Despite your teasing being met with a remarkably loud silence, your words had planted themselves deep inside Kaz's heart.

Racing back towards his office, the beat of his cane against the oak panels of the slat hastened by the second.

Yet not even they could match the pace at which Kaz's heart was beating, as his mind replayed your words over and over in his head until the way the word "favourite" was all he could hear.

Thinking back to your short note, Kaz's lips formed a ghost of a smile, since not only were you his favourite, but he was yours.

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Kaz Brekker tag list : @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @ell0ra-br3kk3r @swhisperer @sleepynightchild @atlasiiae @kaiinohh @sannunah28 @at-the-chateau @withbeautyandragendrage @animalistic00 @whos6claire @any-corrie @daisydark @shara-ne @xxinvisiblexx @ldhpeter @viperinferno @kozbtchx @wishyouwere-sober (please comment if you would like to be added to the Kaz Brekker taglist)

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P.S - The best way to support writers on here is to repost / repost + add tags! If you could spend a minute or so doing this, it would mean the world <3

#kaz brekker x reader #six of crows x reader #six of crows #shadow and bone #six of crows imagine #kaz brekker #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x reader imagines #kaz brekker x you #shadow and bone season 2 #ashessonfire #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker headcanons

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loverhymeswith · 8 months

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Let's Be Alone Together || Part Two

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x F!Reader

Summary: When Tommy finds out you have a date, things don't quite go to plan.

Word Count: 2K

Warnings: drinking, smoking, Tommy scheming, mention of death, not beta-read

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love for part one! And a big thank you to @a-reader-and-a-writer and @lorecraft for helping me talk through the ending <3

Part One

“What’s going on in here then, eh?”

The familiar male voice draws your attention away from the rumpled newspaper in your lap. You haven’t been reading it so much as worrying at the corners of the pages, a nervous habit brought on by your anxiety towards tonight. Lifting your gaze to the small mirror before you, your chest tightens as you catch sight of the figure in the doorway. Thomas Shelby might not be a large man, but his presence is always commanding.

Your fingers stiffen, one wrong move away from tearing the paper as Tommy stalks into the kitchen, his sharp blue eyes keenly assessing the scene. While you haven’t been avoiding the head of the Shelby family per se, you had hoped not to run into him again quite so soon.

Ada pauses her ministrations behind you, having just pinned the last piece of your hair into place. “She’s got a date tonight, Tommy. We’re helping her get ready.”

“Is that so?” Removing his cap, Tommy acknowledges Polly who is sitting beside you at the table. He pulls out a carton of cigarettes. “A date with who?”

Once again, Ada beats you to a response, the satisfaction over her matchmaking skills plainly and painfully evident. “Lewis Powell.”

Tommy repeats the name, his tone as unreadable as his expression as he rolls a cigarette across his lips. When his gaze finds yours in the mirror, you quickly look away; the memory of those lips brushing your fingertips is still too fresh in your mind. If it hadn’t been for Finn banging on Tommy’s door four nights ago, you can’t help but wonder where else those lips could have been.

“He comes from a good family, Thomas,” Pol tells him, an unspoken warning hanging between them as she offers her nephew a light.

“Oh, I know where he comes from.”

“Well then, you might look happier about it,” Ada interjects, joining you and Pol at the table. “Lewis is a fine match. And plenty of women are remarrying now. Don’t you think it’s about time she gets back out there before all the good men are gone?”

Pol nods. “There’s no sense in her being alone. Not anymore.”

Cheeks warming as you fight off the prickle of irritation over being spoken about as if you’re not in the room, you return your attention to the paper. The impending date with Lewis wasn’t your idea. In fact, you’d rejected the suggestion at least three times before you realised Ada was not going to accept no for an answer. When it comes to the Shelbys, you’ve learnt that taking the path of least resistance is often the only way forward.

White smoke curls in the air around you as you sense Tommy draw closer. You glance back to the mirror and find him watching your reflection intently. “Do you?” He asks, resting one hand on the back of your chair. “Feel alone?”

The last thing you want is to sound ungrateful after everything Tommy and his family have done for you. But if you’re being honest, you have found yourself wanting something - or someone - more. The pain of losing your husband is never going away, but surely that doesn’t mean that you should be denied a future.

And then there’s the way your body reacted to Tommy the other night. The way your stomach - and thighs - clenched as his warmth breath kissed your skin. It was only for a moment, the briefest stirring of something between you. But it opened your eyes. You don’t want to be alone. Not anymore.

You blink away the smoke and the memories. Tommy is off limits.

When you finally answer him, your voice is barely above a whisper, terrified that you’re going to upset him. But you owe him the truth. “Sometimes I lie awake at night and it feels like the loneliness might eat me alive. Sometimes, I think I want it to.”

Tommy nods curtly, as if you’ve confirmed something he already knew. He stubs out his cigarette in the glass ashtray and then with a swoosh of his coattails he's gone.

Ada picked the restaurant for your first date with Lewis. It’s a new place that has recently opened on the edge of town. Apparently, it’s run by one of the Italian families that the Shelbys frequently do business with. But that should come as no surprise. One way or another, everyone in Birmingham has had dealings with the Peaky Blinders.

As you follow the waiter to your table, you feel your nerves begin to return. For the last few hours you have barely given a thought towards the man you are about to meet. Because ever since his sudden departure from Ada’s kitchen, you’ve been preoccupied by thoughts of Tommy and his reaction to your admission. But any guilt or fear of seeming ungrateful towards him had quickly turned to frustration. Tommy is your friend, not your brother or your father. Who you choose to spend your time with should be none of his concern.

Realising you’ve become consumed - once again - by thoughts of Tommy, you barely notice that your table is already occupied. Sensing your arrival, your companion for the evening raises their head, and as you find yourself staring into a very familiar pair of blue eyes, your heart skips a beat.

The shock quickly subsides, turning instead, to anger. “What are you doing here, Tommy?”

Tommy murmurs your name in greeting, his voice infallibly and infuriatingly casual as he indicates for you to sit.

Temporarily forgetting your surroundings and plainly ignoring the waiter, who has pulled out your chair, you level the head of the Shelby family with an unwavering stare. “Where is Lewis?”

"There was a change of plans."

"A change of plans?" You repeat incredulously, the side of Tommy you witnessed the other night rapidly turning to a distant memory. "What did you do to him, Tommy? What did you say?” The art of threat and intimidation is a familiar move in the Shelby family playbook. You’ve witnessed it time and again, but this is the first time it’s been used against you.

Tommy clears his throat. “Unless it is your intention to cause a scene, you might want to take a seat.”

Begrudging his cold, calm logic, you do as he suggests, relieved when the waiter finally takes his leave. “Tell me what you said to Lewis.”

Tommy maintains eye contact with you as he sips from a glass of whisky. How long has he been here, biding his time as he awaited your arrival? You notice with a start that he’s changed his clothes since earlier, dressed up handsomely for the occasion. His actions, whatever they may have been, were clearly premeditated. “I paid him a visit. Made sure some things were understood. His decision not to come tonight was purely his own.”

“So, you scared him off.” Tears of betrayal sting your eyes as your suspicions are confirmed. You had been foolish to ever imagine that Tommy treated you differently. That you were safe from his scheming and machinations.

He offers you a cigarette across the table but you shake your head. You don’t want anything from him. “Why? Why did you do it? Were you even listening to a word I said earlier?”

Before he can respond, the waiter returns with a bottle of expensive-looking wine. Tommy inclines his head, indicating that he should pour two glasses. Only when you’re alone again does he continue, lighting a cigarette. “Lewis Powell is not good enough for you.”

You shake your head, biting your lip against the threat of more tears. “That’s not your decision to make.” Whatever Tommy said or did to stop Lewis from coming tonight, you can guarantee that word will have spread by morning. No man in their right mind will want anything to do with you now.

Tommy is quiet for a moment, his piercing gaze studying you through the thin cloud of smoke. “You’re right.” His expression has softened, as if he’s only now just realising how much his actions have upset you. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“I’m not a Shelby, Tommy.” You reach for the wine glass with a shaking hand and take a long sip, eyeing him over the rim. “I don’t need your permission or your approval.”

“Of course not.”

Deflated by his unwillingness to engage in a further argument, you settle back in your seat with a small sigh. What’s done is done. Pushing him further will achieve nothing. “You could have at least warned me. Why did you let me get all dressed up for nothing?" The crimson dress you picked out had cost a small fortune and Ada had spent hours fussing over your hair.

Tommy doesn’t take his eyes off you as he sips from his own wine. "I had no intention of letting the evening go to waste.” He pauses. “Unless you want me to take you home?”

Despite your better judgement - there are a multitude of reasons why dinner with Tommy Shelby is a bad idea, not least because the gradual shift in your feelings towards him shows no sign of thawing, even after the stunt he just pulled - you find yourself agreeing to stay.

In what you can only assume is an attempt to make up for derailing your plans, Tommy spends the rest of the evening being more attentive and engaging than you ever thought possible. His guard is down as he regales you with stories from before the war - of his colourful childhood and his love for horses. Of his mother.

For a few wonderful hours, you are both able to forget the truth. There’s no trace of the feared leader of the Peaky Blinders, nor the tortured war hero attempting to smoke away his pain. Tonight, it’s just you and Thomas Shelby and you find yourself wishing that didn’t have to change.

When the meal is over and the bill is settled, Tommy helps you into your coat. You shiver involuntarily when his calloused fingers skim your bare shoulders, and your attention drifts to the clock on the wall. It’s late, but there are still plenty of hours until sunrise.

“Arthur and John are waiting outside. They will see that you get home safely,” Tommy explains, leading you to the exit. Indeed, through the restaurant’s front window, you spot a pair of figures standing in the shadows across the street.

Uncertain whether you’re more disappointed or confused, you place a hand on his arm, stopping him in his tracks in the doorway. “You’re not taking me home?” You’re not sure what you were expecting, but at the very least he might have walked you back to your house.

The restaurant doorbell chimes as Tommy ushers you outside, the cold air stealing your breath away. “It’s better that you go with them.”

You plant yourself in front of him, your back turned to the two brothers waiting across the street. “Why? Do you have somewhere else you need to be?” Inexplicably, this feels like rejection. You don’t know why you’re so surprised.

Tommy’s jaw works, his expression full of conflict when he finally meets your gaze. “Because if I walk you home, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop myself from coming inside. And that would be a bad idea.”

You can feel your heart pounding away in your chest, the sound of it almost deafening as it rings in your ears - you know the next words you speak to be the truth. “And what if I want you to come inside.”

Tommy drags his gaze away from you, shaking his head. You recognise that look - Tommy Shelby, the immovable force - and resign yourself to disappointment. As he raises his arm, beckoning over Arthur and John, he meets your gaze for a final time. “Good night,” he murmurs softly, before walking away.

Taglist: @a-reader-and-a-writer @crysxtal

#tommy shelby #cillian murphy #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby x reader

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sleepymccoy · 2 months

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Please choose your favourite of my (imo) niche star trek headcanons

Now that I'm writing these, I wonder if any of them are straight up canon that I've forgotten lol

I'm gonna further defend my headcanons under a readmore, but it's up to you if you want to read that or just vote on the summary 😘

Scotty's actor is Canadian. Also he's so Scottish? Like, he's called Scotty, he drinks scotch, he is Scottish, so on. Too much. I think he has Scottish heritage, maybe his mum is Scottish, so he knows the phrases and his accent work is comedic but solid. But he himself was born in like Quebec

I have a whole post on McCoy's ex wife being Vulcan, it rules, give it a read here

The way America crumbles in trek history I think opens them up to invasion. I don't think Russia is still in charge, I think they've moved on from that and country borders are less political more cultural in TOS times. But I think briefly Russia had everything and Chekhov is joking about that when he says shit like that saying is Russian. We know, Chekhov, everything was Russian once, get over it. His joke is less about things being Russian and more like someone making the same joke about how everything was Roman once

TOS writers had a little cheat sheet of characterisation rules I saw here once and one said that Sulu has many varying interests, so if you need an info dump that's not one of the other main guys things, use him. So I've taken that and gone with he isn't actually into plants, it was just a six month project to better learn how to take care of them. He spent a lot of time complaining about them to Chekhov. Basically a hyper fixation and once he figured it out he lost interest, but retained all the knowledge

Cos Rand has that trick of heating up the coffee with a phaser on low. That's resourceful with ship technology that uses batteries, not mainframe power. I think she knows what matters when a ship breaks, and food and comfort need prioritising cos she grew up on a ship that was always broken. Broken ships are easier to tolerate if the coffee is served hot

I think Chapel's fiance kinda sucks in that ep, even if it was just a robot copy, and I think she loves being in space. I think she feels both relieved and guilty about it all, it's bad

#star trek tos #poll #star trek

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pokechbi · 10 months

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I love your writing so much!! I was wondering if you could write about könig and ghost finding out that y/n is a couple years older than them! How would they react? If you’re not taking requests feel free to ignore this!!! Thank you!!

Hi ♡ Anon ♡ !!! Tysm !!! I'm so glad you love my writing. Thank you for the very unique idea !! I was so lost at how to even go about this at first but once i started i literally could not stop! So ty! Ya'll are bringing me out of my writers funk fr im so so grateful 💗

JSYK: I know zilch about military stuff so forgive me for any inaccuracies!

WC: 1.1K ♡

Enjoy 🎀

♡Konig & Ghost find out you're a few years older than them...♡

König

During the time that the KorTacs and T141 had joined forces, you had gotten pretty comfortable around the newcomers. Specifically one big, mountain of a man named König. He was a no-nonsense man when it came to his work, but aside from his duties he fared to be a pretty decent friend that you often hung around in your free time. You often asked him about his life in the military, learning many skills of the trade since he was a Colonel, and you had only managed to grow yourself to second lieutenant, the lowest commissioned officer rank.

While you were on the topic of years spent in the army, somehow your ages came into play and while he was still protective of revealing his exact age to anyone, he lead you on with the fact that he was in his mid-thirties. You were no priss, so talking about your age was something you didn't mind. When you revealed to him that you were a few years older than him over lunch, he paused, taking in your new revelation.

"You're older than me? How can that be? You look so...young" He trails off, stabbing at his lunch with his fork. You glanced at him, a surprised look on your face as you chuckled. He wasn't the kind of man to give out compliments very often, so it scratched a new itch hearing him use them on you. "Well thank you, that's very kind of you, König" She replied, her eyes darting from his eyes to the table.

"You carry yourself very well. Physically and emotionally, so I guess it's no surprise that you're older than some of us." He continues, his German accent thick on some words more than others. You smile at him as you blush slightly, waiting for him to finish chewing so he can continue speaking. "There's a quote, by the German novelist Franz Kafka. Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old." He clears his throat. "So...never stop seeing your beauty, I guess." He pauses after speaking, standing suddenly as he walks away from the table, striding towards the door before you could begin to reply.

You knew his social anxiety had caused him to distance himself from people sometimes, but you had no idea why he was still anxious near you after all the time you'd spent together. You were only just friends, right?...Right?

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost was fond of you, unlike some of his other unit members of T141. He admired the way you carried yourself on the field, possessing a natural leadership instinct that he had worked endlessly, for years to attain. He envied you at times. He envied your ability to take risks without much thoughts of consequences, and you always trusted your gut. Which 100% of the time proved to be right. He knew it was some weird woman's instinct that always overpowered him. It sometimes embarrassed him when you outdid him mentally, standing your ground and showing him who's boss in front of his soldiers. While you were still under his command, he saw you as his right hand woman, always by his side to have his back when he needed you.

The team had just finished a debriefing for the new upcoming mission that you all were set to leave for in a few days time. You reeled at the information that was revealed, running your hands over your face in frustration. He sat by your side, trying to cheer you up with his sarcastic jokes and self-deprecative witticisms. Ignoring him, you shook your head as you flipped through the classified files once more.

"In all of my 37 years of living, I haven't come across a terrorist quite like him. Jesus." You sigh, standing to your feet as you begin to pace the room.

"Excuse me?" He stood suddenly, pacing over to you slowly. Your neck cranes as he approaches you, towering over you like a building. You hated when he did this. You placed a hand on his chest, trying to push him backwards. "Come on, Simon. Back up. You know I hate when you do that." You say frustrated, your hand meeting his hard chest as you swallow hard. He doesn't budge, staring down into your eyes as he bores a hole into your very soul.

"Never mind that." He disregards her demand, stepping closer to her. "You're...older than me? Since when?" He asks in disbelief.

You chuckle at him, the smile falling from your face as you realized that he wasn't making one of his stupid jokes. "Yeah... so? What's wrong with that?" You say, crossing your arms over your chest, causing your breasts to perk up the slightest bit. His eyes slyly graze over your covered cleavage under your tight black turtleneck, so quickly you wouldn't have caught it if you blinked. Realizing what he was staring at caused your stomach to flutter, your gaze shying away from his as you drop your arms to your sides. You were alone in the room now, the silence thickening the air between the two of you and making it hard to breathe.

"Uhh... No. Nothing's wrong with that, it's just..." He trails off, ending his sentence with a chuckle. "It's just that what, Simon?!" You press, raising your voice at him the slightest bit. Your blossoming friendship with him was on the line, and you gave him a stare that read: choose your next words carefully, boy.

"It's just that...It explains a lot. How you've always been so... confident. So right about everything. I get where that's all coming from now." He chuckles softly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, scratching under the hem of his balaclava. "Trust me, I like it more than you know." He finishes.

You smile at him slightly and nod your head, suddenly understanding why Simon had favored you all this time, the puzzle pieces all fitting together now. You realized that he liked the fact that you acted older than him. Your usual feminine maturity making him feel secured in his team. You made him feel confident in his actions, as long as he was by your side. There also might have been another reason he wasn't upset at all at this news, and that was because Simon "Ghost" Riley, had a thing for being controlled by a woman in power.

There was now a clear cut reason he'd tag along next to you in his free time more than usual, asking for your advice on career-altering and mission-making decisions. He trusted you, more than a friend, more than his soldier. He trusted you as his woman, even if you didn't know you were his yet.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

#ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod mw #simonghostriley #konig #fanfic #cod headcanons #cod mw fanfiction #ghost x reader #konig x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #konig x you #ghost headcanons #konig headcanons

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em-dash-press · 11 months

Text

Why Creative Writing Might Make You Anxious (Even If You Love It)

When I sit down to write, sometimes I get so anxious that my stomach gets queasy. It can happen even when I’m wondering if I’ll have time to write today.

Anxiety affects even the best writers, so let’s talk about why your favorite hobby might also put you on edge.

Your Stories Involve Topics You Care About

Great stories always have centralized themes. Your theme drives your plot, informs your character’s choices, and draws readers in.

They’re essential, but they can also be deeply meaningful. You might feel the weight of being a voice on the topic, even if you’re talking about it through a goofy or unrealistic story.

Solution: Remember that you’re continuing a conversation, not presenting yourself as the all-knowing leader on any given theme. Give your perspective and thoughts on the theme through your work. Your unique take is why your readers will pick up your work.

Your Work Relates to Your Past or Present

Inspiration comes from anywhere. You might get an idea while walking the dog, but you can also think of stories when reflecting on your past or present.

Sometimes that means opening up parts of our history that wounded us. They might still feel like pressing on a bruise, even if you’re only writing a story for yourself.

Solution: Be gentle with yourself if you’re writing about a deeply personal topic, event, subject, or period in your life. Recognize that your anxiety is likely your brain trying to protect you, not sabotage you. If you can’t let it wash over you and continue your writing, consider starting therapy before writing your short story or novel. OpenPath is a great affordable option, along with sliding-scale therapists in your town. You might need to process that sensitive subject before you can write about it.

Your Story Feels Complicated

Longer stories can be overwhelming, even if they’re stories we desperately want to finish. They might involve more plotlines than you’re used to handling or a bigger cast of characters you need to develop.

We grow as writers by taking on new creative challenges. A few things I want to remind you if you feel like this is the source of your creative writing anxiety:

There’s no rush to finish a story. Ever.

Give yourself extra time when you’re trying something new. You wouldn’t expect a new runner to finish a marathon in 2 hours.

Take breaks to reset your energy, especially when you feel frustrated or anxious.

It’s okay to not finish a story.

Read that one again.

It really is okay to not finish a story.

You might come back to it in a year or two or three when your plot management or character development skills are better. It’s never a mark of failure to leave a draft in a to-be-finished folder.

Solution: Read through the bullet points above. Be gentle with yourself. Practice in shorter story forms, even with the same characters. You always have the judgment-free choice to finish a story or delete it entirely.

You Don’t Have a Plot Outline

Free writing is great. It’s a completely valid way to write short stories and novels. Some people excel at it. Others need an outline.

You might feel anxious about your current writing sessions because you don’t know where your story is going or how it will end. It’s a normal thing to experience and doesn’t make you any less of a writer—even if creating a plot outline changes your writing method temporarily.

Solution: Acknowledge that it’s okay to change your writing process sometimes. Every story needs a different support structure. Write your story idea in a single sentence, then expand on it in a paragraph. You can transform that into a bullet-point list or outline that makes writing the story more manageable.

You Haven’t Been Writing For a While

Some writers dream of having the time to write every day. Others like to write, but wouldn’t want to spend hours every day with their latest draft.

No matter what you prefer, sometimes returning to the craft of writing can spark anxiety if it’s been a while since your last creative venture. Whether it’s motivated by guilt, embarrassment, or shame, you’re not alone. It’s a typical form of creative anxiety and it’s something you can absolutely handle.

Solution: Give yourself some slack. Writing routines always change. Sometimes life draws us away from our creative writing for months or years at a time. You’re still a writer. Whatever your story becomes will be valid.

You Have a Loud Inner Critic

We’ve all been there. You’re trying to write but your inner critic is holding you back. You might want to jump into editing so you only continue with a perfect draft. Maybe you’re constantly polishing your world-building or character details.

The pressure naturally translates into anxiety. It’s okay to step away from your work if this anxiety makes you uncomfortable. You can always return when your inner critic is distracted or you feel more naturally confident.

Solution: Ask that inner critic to take a backseat. They’ll give you a powerful advantage when you move from the writing phase into the editing phases. Linework and structural editing can always happen later. But to reach that point, you need a draft. Preferably, your worst draft possible. Go wild with your writing—that’s what a first draft is for.

-----

It’s okay to love creative writing and also feel anxious about it. I think the only time anxiety didn’t affect my writing was when I was a kid and had never received criticism, constructive or otherwise.

Be gentle with yourself as you reflect on your anxiety triggers and potential solutions. You’re in the for the long run. Sustainable help will be your best source of help.

#writeblr #writing encouragement #writing advice #writing tips #writers of tumblr #writing anxiety #creative writing

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charliedawn · 2 months

Note

Hey, I don't see any post saying requests are closed. Please correct me it I'm wrong, and I'll resend this ask when they're open :)

I saw one of your slasher posts about an new patient who was an omega and I've been wondering how a/b/o au slashers would react to a beta new patient who they saw as their own pup?(basically everyone is a father figure to this kid lol) I love platonic fluff and you're one of the few slasher writers who write platonic stuff and I love your writing, please stay hydrated and have a good day! :D

Here you go 😁 And thank you.

Freddy Krueger:

"You and I…we gonna be best buddies."

Freddy is a beta. Meaning: no real dominance or protective instincts.

He’d basically laugh his ass off while you run around and cause havoc or eat popcorn with Pennywise while they watch.

He’d train you in the ways of 'don’t give a toss' and 'get outta my way, bitch'.

Freddy would still protect you if he sees you in real danger, but he’d be the type of cool dad who just wants to chill and walk around in flip flops.

Brahms Heelshire:

Brahms would be a worry heart.

He’d worry 24/7 about you.

Have you eaten ? Have you drank ? Have you slept well ? Are you hurt ? Do you wanna play ?…

He’d cry his eyes out if he sees a scratch on you and whoever would dare cause you harm would end up beaten up.

Brahms is strong—even though he is an omega. He’d be the one to take care of you and make sure you’re perfectly safe.

Arthur Fleck:

Arthur would give you the best advice. He’s a beta—but used to be an omega. He’d have the heart without being overemotional about things.

"Don’t worry, things can look up. You just gotta wait and see."

"Be a doll and smile. Smiling will open up many doors for you."

"Do not listen to Freddy, sweetie. He is a bad influence. Matter-of-fact ? Do not listen to anyone else but me and Michael."

He would be your voice of reason in your darkest moments, but don’t ALWAYS listen to him because he is a patient for a reason…

Penny:

Overpossessive. Overprotective. Overthinking. Overdoing.

Penny would be the embodiment of "over-the-top". Doesn’t have any chill and would bite and scratch if anyone as much as looks at you the wrong way.

He can also read minds…which can be kind of a problem.

Penny *growls at a nurse* : "I DARE you to say what you want to say, coward."

He would also be very playful and play with you all day long. He’s got unending energy and would even put on shows for you.

Michael Myers:

Michael would be the only responsible one, as the Alpha of the slashers.

He’d make sure to never allow you near his knives or any sharp objects. He’d teach you self-defense. He’d also cook for you and teach you all of his skills (non-lethal)

He would also protect you but, would always use a weapon that won’t be too traumatic for your adorable self…like a baseball batt or a something else to just knock out the person who dared attack your person.

But Myers ? Myers would kill for you.

Myers has no parental instinct or remorse.

He kills because he can.

Father Paul Hill:

Father Paul—as a Beta—would protect you with his life. He always wanted to be a father and would immediately take you under his wing.

Comparing to other slashers, you could almost call him a pacifist. He would never start a fight. Never.

He would teach you and give you a proper education. He would also take care of you and give you the affection you need.

And if you get hurt ?

He’d protect you—no matter the cost.

Father Paul *covered in blood and crying* : "No…No no no…Not again. Please. Not again."

Patrick Bateman:

Patrick Bateman would teach you how to kill and get away with murder. He is a Beta himself, but always hated that title because he always saw himself as an Alpha.

He’d explain to you the human anatomy and how to chop off a body in the most efficient and effective way possible.

He would also teach you the ways of society and bureaucracy like no one else could. Patrick is very observant and dangerous. He has no empathy.

Meaning: Make sure he KEEPS liking you.

Patrick *looking at you and wondering if having a kid is worth it and how he’d do it to get rid of you before smiling and locking the thought into a very far away box at the back of his mind*

Vincent Sinclair:

Vincent is an Omega. He would fight tooth and nail to protect you.

He’d also let you braid his hair and you’d draw together or do some fun artsy activities.

He’d show you how to do pottery and play with clay to make animal shapes or even human-like.

But, Vincent is in therapy and is being closely monitored and watched so he wouldn’t show you how to make wax people.

He would also be very affectionate with you and give you a lot of hugs, unlike Bo who would just pat your head and call it a day.

Jack Torrance:

"Let’s get takeout." Jack’s favourite sentence.

Jack would be a very lazy and chill kinda dad for a beta. He would take you to movies or read you a book.

He also loves food so…he’d get you pizza or nachos and you’d just settle on the couch with him and do nothing—just chilling.

He’d be the dad you go to when you don’t wanna do anything and you’re tired. He’d also be the type to live in his pajamas and tell you that it’s too early at 1pm.

You would then just sleep or he’d tell you things about his old life if he’s up for it.

He would protect you if you are in danger, but he would make sure that you don’t get into trouble in the first place cause you can’t do no wrong when you’re chilling all day…

#freddy krueger x child!reader #brahms heelshire x child!reader #arthur fleck x child!reader #penny x child!reader #michael myers x child!reader #father paul hill x child!reader #patrick bateman x child!reader #vincent sinclair x child!reader #jack torrance x child!reader #slashers x child!reader #dad slashers #slashers au

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athanasius-symposium-of-writings · 26 days

Text

A Requested Birthday Gift

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY DARLING NOVELIST MY MAIN MY HEART MY -screaming- also i totally reference this fic lol

Rated Explicit | Warning: threesome, consensual use of drugs

“Hypnos,” You stop midway heading toward your room for a much-needed nap when the Novelist approaches you, “Do you have a moment?” Politely and gentlemanly he strolls over invading your personal space, his hand caressing your cheek giving you the physical affection you much needed. Post-match aches are annoying like it is how you imagine phantom pain is, it lingers and you often seek comfort or nap it away.

“Anytime for you.” Closing your eyes as you tilt your head to the side basking in his presence and touch.

“How easily you say such things,” Orpheus’ hand slips down your cheeks until his fingers dance upon your chin. Tracing your jawline, he moves much closer until his other hand holds your waist, body moving and guiding you, “I shall take you up on your word.”

Orpheus is smooth, well aware, and skilled in getting you to bend to his will, have you pressed against the wall in the hallway to the private guest bedrooms. Your hand goes to his chest grabbing his suit coat tugging him even closer as he kisses you. Sweet, reminding you he misses your presence, and then consuming as wants your attention completely on him.

“Orpheus.” Breathy as he switches from your lips to your neck, “We should go to– Oh!” His leg is between yours applying pressure to your crotch.

“In a moment, allow me to be adventurous, my little writer.”

You nod trying to keep your mind in the presence and not drift off giving into the sensations of his touch.

“I have a request for you,” He is careful not to remove clothes though it is tempting as he kisses your neck and under your chin, “A personal request.”

“A-anything.” Barely able to stay focused.

The Novelist smirks before holding your face to look directly at him, “It pertains to my– Our birthday, my love.”

You blink to regather yourself, “Oh? Do you want to change plans?”

“Of sorts, we would like your permission to try something new with you.”

Something new? You raise an eyebrow while biting your lip as Orpheus rubs your crotch against his thigh, it makes you nearly distracted, “Okay, ah, I am at your ah ah Orpheus!” Covering your mouth when you moaned far too loud.

“At my…?” Teasing you as he keeps going, “Grant us permission.”

“All that I am is yours to use as you wish.” Poetic and romantic, needy and wanting, he adores his little writer.

“I shall hold you to that.” Kissing your cheek as he removes himself from your person, “Find us in the library.” Whispering in your ear.

You shiver both aching and yearning, you wish he would finish what he started but you know the reward is at the end.

Especially when us mean both Nightmare and himself.

Orpheus leaves you after giving you a heated kiss, one that leaves you further flustered than what you are. When he leaves, you adjust your clothes to look decent before moving away from the wall to chase after him.

The door of one the room opens and you turn to see Luchino leaning against the door frame with a casual and clearly known smile.

“Seems you'll be having a bit of fun,” The older man says, it is a bit embarrassing to know he heard all that, “Orpheus restraining himself after such words spill out of his lover is commendable.” A clap before he moves to return to his room, “Good evening, Hypnos.”

God, you are lucky it was the Professor and misfortune it was the Professor who heard that.

The library is well secluded, rarely anyone but the Journalist or Novelist come here. You have a few times but again it is always empty. Yet, you still try to keep your voice down despite the library always being seemingly avoided.

You can wonder about that later, right now you are barely able to keep your mind from drifting to that pleasant numbing abyss brought to you by Orpheus.

Orpheui because there is more than one? That makes you giggle as Nightmare is rubbing his beak against your face, that rough two-tone voice saying your name followed by a chuckle when you try closing your held open legs.

“Such a lovely voice, my love.” Orpheus speaking from between your legs, he kneeling with his hand guiding Nightmare's unseemly large cock against your well prepared hole. “Let us see how long you can keep using it, hm?” The cock, of dark purple coloring with precum glowing purple, catches and enters your wet heat.

“Ah!” You have taken his cock before with plenty of prep, but God, it is always a deep stretch inside of you. Nightmare groans, his grip on your legs a bit firmer as he lowers you carefully.

“Beautiful, truly.” The Novelist made sure before doing this to have your explicit permission before attempting this. There is a drink he used on himself and a mutual acquaintance that he gave to you, a cocktail of an aphrodisiac based along with alcohol— He made sure it is extra sweet for you. It is both to help with handling Nightmare (who is enjoying himself watching you attempt to ride him), and to last longer— You are not very well trained yet in lasting more than a round with either of them.

“Easy, easy,” Nightmare speaks as he rests your legs on top of his open legs, “We have you.” His hands on your waist as Orpheus stands up to hold your upper body, your hands reaching out yearning to be touched again.

“Say what you need.” They both speak to you, your eyes struggling to focus on who is in front of you. When you open your mouth literal gibberish comes out with whiny moans. Your hands gripping and tugging on his open shirt begging, or trying to form words, for them to start using you.

With lack of awareness, you spill easily how badly you are enthralled by Orpheus— Both of them.

“Next time a lower dosage,” Touching your face, examining your dilated eyes, the way you cannot properly form words, and neediness behavior. “Oh, dear one, you are enjoying this quite well.”

His gift is you, you who has given him a new perspective. Orpheus loves you, they both do terribly so, the thought of him once more not having you will never be entertained.

“Orpheus!” The raven creature is not willing to wait for his counterpart to enjoy the sight.

“Good, you can say our name.” Praising you as he pets your hair affectionately, “However, I am going to need to use your mouth for my own pleasure, Hypnos.”

You nod but he doubts you actually know what you are agreeing with, he will only take as he usually does.

Using your mouth on Orpheus’ cock, Nightmare uses your inviting hole, delighting in their gift.

Even better is you stopped caring about how loud you are, all that matters is him him him.

#orpheus x you #idv orpheus x you #orpheus x reader #nightmare x reader #idv nightmare #nightmare x you #identity v x you #identity v x reader #identity v #idv reader insert #idv orpheus #idv novelist #idv x reader #reader insert

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abbyshands · 2 months

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Can I say something really quick? The person who wrote that post complaining was just trying to shame smut writers 😭 I did stalk them and had porn links of "Ellie and Abby" so I really don't understand from where she came from. Aldo you are right, writting it's such difficult and more difficult write fluff things. At the end of the day please mind your business and write whatever you want bc no one pay you for it, it's a HOBBY

i've seen sooo many people talking about it so i'm not sure which account originally said it, but !!! regardless of who did, i absolutely agree. i'm just wondering why it's a big deal for people to make and post smut? i'm not a big fic reader at all, but if i ever feel like reading and i check a fic's warnings and i don't want to read it, i just ... scroll? is that not what you're supposed to do? why do we have to bring down people in the process? that's what makes me upset. i write for my job in real life as well, just like the fiction i write here, and i can tell you that, with the amount of angst and fluff i've written for work, it's tiring to come up with ideas, and executing them is even more exhausting. don't get me wrong: i'm grateful for being able to make money by doing what i love. but i get really hard on myself with all that i write, especially those two genres. it takes a long time to write, which is why i never want to rush it, and i always want it to be presentable. smut isn't like that for me. i'm okay with making a quick drabble. but for me, genres like angst and fluff, or even dark content (which i have also written) is where i feel like my skills as a writer truly show. so when i send it over to clients, or when i post it publicly in general, i want it to be perfect, at least in my eyes. you know?

and you're so right! any genre you write should be for fun. that's all. like, when did we lose the "fan" in fan fiction? so much more to worry about than a bunch of sapphics just having fun. unless what you're uploading (mainly smut wise for this take, but also in general) is wrong (morally, legally, ethically, etc), then i don't understand why you need to feel ashamed about posting it. this in mind, write what you want to write.

#kitlyn’s anons ♡#lyn speaks ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚#abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #the last of us #the last of us smut #tlou2 smut #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us

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heliads · 2 years

Note

Hi there, I absolutely love your stories !! The writing is just beautiful <3 I was wondering if I could request a hunger games fic? a finnick x reader, where they're in the arena and the reader got badly injured at the start and finnick has to help them survive through the game and the reader tells finnick to just leave them, but he doesn't want to, he wants them to make it out of the games together and it's all angsty but then they make it out alive to the transport safely and its a nice fluffy ending. I know you have a lot of requests for stories, so don't feel pressured to write this! Thank you for being such an amazing writer I love your work <3

ok so i didn't actually see the part about reader getting injured at the beginning so i simply had it happen at the end. sorry about that rip but i was 2.8k words in (out of 5k!) when i realized and it was too late to change it

masterlist

You only have a few minutes left before your life ends. After that, you have no idea how long you’ll last. Maybe you’ll be able to brave it out a few days. If you’re lucky, you’ll make it a week. Then again, if you don’t manage to survive the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, this could be your last hour alive. That’s how it always is in the Hunger Games, you suppose, the only difference is that this time you’re not watching but one of the tributes.

Your mentor is in front of you, one hand on your shoulder, trying to impart some last minute wisdom. You’re fairly sure that only stylists are meant to be down here right now, but your mentor is particularly known for his impressive bribes and so you’re treated to the final bit of coaching he can offer you.

Your mentor straightens his back, looking you dead in the eyes to inspire you as best he can. “Look, what happens out there is anyone’s game. Don’t let the Careers talk you into thinking differently. Just take it minute by minute.”

You nod mechanically. “Try not to die, basically. I got that part already.”

Your mentor forces a smile, like he’s mentally running through all the money he’s going to lose when you get out on the first day. “Hilarious. If you can, try and find an alliance you trust not to stab you in the back.”

You arch a brow. “Any ideas? Last time I checked, most people other than the tributes from the first three districts were sticking by themselves.”

“Actually,” your mentor comments, “I do. Find Finnick Odair, if you can. He’s someone you want to befriend.”

You choke back a laugh. “Everyone wants to befriend Finnick, the guy’s got all the sponsors practically eating out of his hand. What makes you think he’ll pick me for an ally and not another Career?”

Your mentor just shrugs. “You tell me. The training session in the Capitol was live streamed, as you know. Everyone saw Finnick looking at you. We couldn’t make out exactly what he said, if he said anything at all, but you’ve definitely got his attention.”

Your mentor gives you a questioning look, but if he wants to hear details about what went down during training, he’s going to be left as empty handed as every other watcher in the Capitol. You’re not even sure what happened during training, and you were there. All you know is that you were minding your own business, trying to refine a few skills before your inevitable death in the arena, and glanced up to see Finnick staring at you appraisingly.

He hadn’t given anyone else more than a quick glance, so naturally Caesar Flickerman and the other Games commentators jumped on that moment to speculate about a potential alliance. In truth, you don’t think it meant anything other than Finnick sizing up the competition.

And, even if Finnick had been interested by what he saw, it’s not like it would go anywhere. Finnick’s already popular enough in the Capitol due to his looks and inherent charm, he doesn’t need an ally to survive.

He especially doesn’t need you as an ally. The moment your name came up in the Reaping, you could practically see your death flashing before your eyes. You’re going to try as hard as you can to survive, obviously, but you don’t harbor any secret dreams about winning the Games. You might eke it out longer than a couple of days, but you have no chance of beating the combined forces of the Careers, Finnick, and a few of the other strong-looking tributes from the other districts.

Still, your mentor is only trying to give you hope, so you throw him a bone and nod in agreement. “I’ll see what I can do,” you say, and even though both of you know it means nothing, your mentor can at least walk away from this with a clean conscience. He tried to save you, and now that burden rests on your shoulders instead of his.

An electronic voice sounds out from a speaker embedded somewhere in the ceiling, telling you that you have thirty seconds to enter the circular pod in the back of the room so you can be transported up to the Games. Your mentor nods at you one last time.

“May the odds be ever in your favor,” he mutters.

If he says anything after that, you can’t make out a word of it. Plexiglass walls have shot up around you, blocking out any and all sounds other than the tumultuous beating of your heart. The metal surface of the floor beneath your feet starts to lift, and just like that, you’re entering the arena.

A few seconds later, you’re blinking in bright sunlight. You can see the other twenty-three tributes arranged in a massive circle around the Cornucopia, which seems filled to the brim with all sorts of necessary supplies. The other tribute from your faction is somewhere to your side, and across the circle you see sunlight sparking on golden blond hair. Finnick.

You don’t have much time to stare at him, though. A countdown is echoing through the arena, ten then nine then eight. You have to make a plan quickly, or end up dying in the bloodbath about to ensue. The timer reaches zero, and then you’re off with the rest, charging towards the Cornucopia in the hopes of getting at least something to save your life.

There’s a small bag, gunmetal gray, lying in the tall grass, and although it can’t hold much you race for it anyway. Another boy tries to reach it at the same time, but you get there first. Grabbing the strap of the bag, you swing it at his head. It connects with a heavy thud and he goes down like a stone. Seconds later, a knife thuds into his sternum and he’s gone for good.

The sight makes your panic flare again, and you turn and sprint away from the Cornucopia without another thought. A few older tributes try to follow you, but you’re high on the adrenaline of trying not to die so you’re able to lose them. The tall grass melts into denser brush a few paces away, and you hurry into its protective shade.

After that, the only thing you can do is try to get away. The most dangerous tributes will be commandeering the Cornucopia, and once they tire of that bloodshed, they’ll start searching for individual people in the thickets. Your best shot at survival lies with getting as far away from them as possible while you still have time.

Your feet thud on packed earth, sending up sprays of dust that stick to your shoes. The jacket you’re wearing shines with some sort of reflective material, which makes you wonder if the nights get cold out here and you’ll need the warmth. With the sun shining, it’s plenty hot right now, but that could change once the light leaves.

Everything could change when the light leaves you. Surviving the bloodbath at the Cornucopia was a very important step, but from here, it will only get harder. You’ll have to find food and water, all the while trying not to die from the fists or blades of vengeful tributes.

It seems like an impossible task, and it most likely is, so you distract yourself with survival tasks to keep your mind off of your imminent death. There are plenty of hanging vines and sturdy plants around the area, so you start to make some rope out of carefully knotted stalks and stems. It can help you make a hammock for sleeping, or if worst comes to worst, a tourniquet to stop at least some bleeding.

You manage to find a good position tucked in the hollow roots of a large tree, and keep your hands busy while you watch the surrounding area for any signs of trouble. A few other tributes have come streaking past you, always running off into the distance without catching sight of you. A few times, they’ve been followed by other tributes. Most of those encounters end violently.

By the time the first night comes, you’re feeling fairly proud of yourself. You’ve got a shelter and some basic supplies, thanks to the bag you managed to snag. According to the images projected onto the sky, ten tributes have already died, including the other tribute from your faction. You would mourn, but you never really knew the other tribute all that well. They were just another stranger in this crowd of two dozen that underwent the misfortune of having their names pulled in the reaping.

The goal is to stay out of the melee and thus stay alive, but that only works until noon of the second day. You dared to venture out of your hiding place to get some more water, and a boy from District Seven materialized out of the brush, eyes locked on you. For a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to entertain the hope that he might not want to kill you, but then he grabs a hunting knife from his belt and lunges at you.

You turn and start running as fast as you can. The boy is hot on your heels, and it’s all you can do to not lose any distance between the two of you. You can’t run like this forever, and after a few minutes you can already feel yourself slowing due to the rocky terrain and lack of proper food in the arena.

A sudden idea occurs to you, and you dart past your shelter long enough to grab something from the hollow in the tree roots. It costs you a few seconds, which is enough for the boy to catch up to you once again. He grins, displaying crooked and cracked teeth.

“Hold still,” he says, but you don’t give him enough time to finish the threat.

Instead, you hurl the woven net you’d taken from your shelter at him. The edges are weighted down with stones, and it leaves him stumbling to remove the twisted knots. You grab the net and wrap it more around the boy’s arms, knocking the hunting knife from his grasp.

He flails at you, knocking both of you to the ground. The boy is starting to get the net off, too, and when your hand closes around the hunting knife that had fallen to your side, you start to mentally prepare yourself to use it.

You never get the chance. Just as you start to raise the knife, a spear thuds into the boy’s chest. His head snaps back, and then he’s still. You stare at the dead boy, then slowly raise your gaze until you find your supposed savior.

Of all the people you expected to help you out, you’re surprised to find Finnick Odair standing before you. He yanks the spear from the boy’s chest, wiping the bloodied tip carefully on the ground by his feet, then plants the metal shaft in the ground and leans against it idly.

You remain still, hardly daring to make a move lest he remember that you’re still a tribute and he could spear you just as easily as he had the other boy.

Finnick opens his mouth to speak, but it isn’t to issue a threat. Instead, his voice is thoughtful. “That’s a nice net,” he mentions contemplatively, “Great knots. You whipped that up fast. I think I want to ask for some pointers.”

You stare up at him. “If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.” A spear to the chest wouldn’t be the worst way to go. Judging by the other boy, it’ll be fast. The other tributes may not give you that sort of blessing.

Finnick refuses to act on this, though. “Kill you? Why would I kill you? I was very clearly talking about this net. I don’t know where you got the idea that we’re killing people.”

You arch a brow. “Perhaps it was the spear still in your hand. You know, the one you just used to kill the other boy.”

Finnick chuckles once, evidently unbothered by this. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’m not trying to kill you, though. I was trying to save you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You frown. “Why would you want to save me?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “I want us to be allies.”

With that, he jams the butt of his spear into the ground, using it as a counterbalance to reach down and extend a hand to you. You consider the outstretched palm for a second, then take it. Finnick pulls you up surprisingly easily, and seems pleased that you’ve accepted his offer.

You’re still not entirely sure you want to trust him, however. “Why would you want me as an ally?”

“You seem smart,” Finnick says simply, “I want someone who’s going to make sure we’re not going to run headlong into danger for no reason. Plus, I want more nets.”

The nets thing actually does make sense. You remember hearing that Finnick was from District Four, fishing, so he’s probably been around nets and tridents his whole life. They do quite well for killing people, as the two of you just demonstrated a few minutes ago.

Your mentor’s words flash through your head. Find Finnick Odair. Well, you have now. He’d better be pleased.

At last, you nod. “Alright, then. Allies it is.”

Finnick claps you on the back. “Excellent. We’re going to make a marvelous team.”

As surprising as it sounds, Finnick is right. The two of you actually get along quite well, and you both have different survival tips and tricks that you teach the other. The whole net-and-spear tactic takes out another few tributes during that day.

Even still, you can tell Finnick is itching for more. That night, he leads you towards a flat clearing near the Cornucopia. Setting up a camp there would be suicide for anyone, but the Careers are enough of a threat that they even have a fire going.

Finnick whispers something in your ear. “We need to start getting them out. I’m thinking we do it one by one. It’s stupid to rush all of them at once, so if we get one here and there while they’re alone, that should work.”

You incline your head, studying the camp. “Which one should we kill first?”

Finnick’s brow furrows as he considers the firelit figures. “The leader. Colt Hardhill, the blond one that keeps strutting about like he owns the place.”

You follow his gaze to where Colt, a muscular District Two tribute, regales the other Careers with conversation that may not be particularly insightful but makes up for it in volume.

“Actually,” you counter, “I don’t think Colt is the leader.”

Finnick frowns. “Then who is?”

You jerk your chin towards a smaller boy in Colt’s shadow, literally. You recognize his name from the rankings, Lark Steelgrave. He doesn’t say much, but has a way of sticking to Colt no matter what.

“Look at that one. Colt may be the public figure, but Lark’s pulling all the strings. If we take him out, they’ll all be stumbling like headless chickens without somebody to tell them what choices to make.”

As the two of you watch, Lark says something offhandedly about making sure that they have enough stores of firewood so their clothes stay dry. A few moments later, Colt’s voice booms out across the campfire that they should all get more firewood so their gear doesn’t don’t mold. Lark doesn’t look angry that Colt is stealing his thunder, far from it. In fact, the boy’s teeth flash in a pleased grin.

Finnick whistles under his breath. “He’s been putting ideas in the guy’s head all along. Colt is like Lark’s puppet.” He glances over at you, smiling in earnest this time. “See, what did I tell you? I need you for your genius ideas.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t seem to stop a grin from surfacing. “I’m no genius, Finnick. I love a good compliment, but at least keep them somewhat realistic.”

Finnick laughs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, that was perfectly realistic to me. Every day, I never cease to be amazed by your intellectual capabilities.”

You snort. “Now you really are being excessive. Anyone could have seen that Lark was up to something.”

Finnick shakes his head. “Not me. I would have taken out the wrong guy, remember?” His face falls for a second as he realizes something. “You still don’t believe that I want you as my ally, do you?”

You sigh. “It’s hard to picture it. You can get that, can’t you? You’re the one with dozens of sponsors raining gifts down on you every day. What is it about me that makes you think you want me as a partner? You could have been with the Careers if you wanted to.”

Finnick’s lips purse. “You really can’t see it? Y/N, I trust you more than anyone else here.”

You stare at him beseechingly. “Why? The only time we’ve ever even seen each other before this was in that training session, and we barely talked at all then.”

Finnick spreads his hands. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Everyone else wanted to win me over in the hopes of getting some of my sponsors, or extracting a partnership that they could use to stab me in the back the first chance they got. You, on the other hand, looked at me once and couldn’t care less. You weren’t bothering with their faux showmanship, so I knew then and there that I wanted you as an ally.”

“And what about the Careers?” You ask, careful to keep your tone neutral even though your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest, “You could have stayed with them and stabbed them in the back before they killed you. My apathy isn’t exactly a strong point in my favor.”

He grins in spite of himself. “Of course it is. You’ve been a friend, Y/N, a real friend during all of this. You think they would make this half as fun? When I’m with you, I don’t feel afraid of the fact that there are twenty-two other tributes all trying to kill us. I just feel normal.”

“And what if I end up stabbing you in the back, just like the rest?” You hazard.

Finnick lifts a shoulder. “I’d rather have it be you than anyone else.”

His tone is light, but his eyes lock onto yours, deadly serious. You realize with a shock that he’s telling the truth.

“Well,” you say cautiously, “I’d rather die by your hands than anyone else. I knew that from when we met for the first time in the arena.”

Finnick smiles, remembering that initial day. “You genuinely thought I was going to kill you. It was funny.”

You swat him in the shoulder, although it only makes his grin broaden. “Of course I did. You had speared somebody ten seconds earlier and you were standing over me with a bloody weapon in your hands. What else could have possibly happened?”

“You mean you don’t look at people pointing weapons at you and think they’ll make good friends?” Finnick asks, teeth flashing in the dark as he laughs.

“Of course I don’t,” you return, “I’m not crazy.”

“What, and I am?” Finnick pretends to look outraged. “I’m hurt, Y/N. I thought I trusted you, and you’re calling me crazy.”

“Perhaps you are,” you counter, “you chose to be friends with me, didn’t you?”

“Ah, but I don’t regret that in the slightest.” Finnick says.

Your laughter trails off quietly. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, blond curls turned almost silver in the moonlight, that makes you feel something more than fear. Your heart’s pounding, but for the first time since you entered the Arena, it’s not out of terror that you’re about to die. Far from it.

Finnick takes a half step closer, and just as you’re sure that the two of you are about to do something you’ll regret, his eyes flicker to the side and he freezes in his tracks. You follow his gaze, glancing over his shoulder, and notice a red light blinking steadily in the shade of a tree. A Capitol camera, broadcasting all of this live to the watching masses.

You step back just as quickly as Finnick does. For a moment, you forgot that this is all televised, that there was anyone else in this world except the two of you. Reality comes crashing down as it always must, but for a moment there, you really thought something was going to happen, something that you would welcome just as gladly as Finnick.

Neither you nor Finnick talk about that moment, and soon enough, it fades back into the distant past. The two of you are able to take out Lark when the boy is alone checking the traps, and after that, Colt goes haywire. The Careers fracture for the first time, and thanks to a few well timed kills, you and Finnick are able to eliminate a few more of your enemies.

During the last attack, though, you don’t get away as easily as you should have. Finnick was grimly efficient thanks to the fantastic gift of a trident sent in by one of his sponsors, but even despite all of his success he wasn’t quite fast enough to save you from one of the Careers lodging their knife into your leg.

It hurt like hell, obviously, and you were able to kill the Career and push their body off of you, but the damage is done. Blood is pouring down your leg, and you don’t even dare remove the knife until you’re back at the base you and Finnick set up a few days ago.

Finnick turns to you once the last Career ran off, and you don’t think you’ll ever forget the way he looked once he realized that you were hurt. He has always been this positive, joking boy, but at that moment every drop of happiness left him. Even that familiar spark vanished from his eyes, leaving his stare cold and tormented. It was like he was the one bleeding out, not you.

He’d rushed to you immediately, not bothering to let you even try to put weight on the leg but picking you up bridal style. Finnick raced back to your camp, where the two of you tried to salvage the injury as best you could. It’s bad, that much is obvious, but luckily the two of you have accrued a fair amount of medicine from both sponsors and raiding other tributes’ camps.

Still, it’s a pretty bad injury, which spells out a clear weakness. Finnick is still fussing about trying to tie the bandage just right, but you place your hands on his, stopping him from doing anything more.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, “you know what this means. I’m not really in fighting form anymore.”

Finnick eyes you tentatively. “What does that mean?” His voice is casual, but surely he must know what you’re hinting at, because he’s suddenly gone still.

You sigh. “You know what it means, Finnick. You can’t afford to have me slowing you down, not when you’re so close to winning. There are only a few tributes left, you can take them out if you time it right. Go finish this, Finnick. Leave me here.”

Finnick shakes his head mechanically. “I can’t do that. If anyone finds you here, they’ll kill you. I’m not letting that happen.”

You squeeze his hands. “It was going to happen anyway. I’ve fought it off for a while, especially thanks to you, but my death was inevitable. You’ve still got a shot, though. I always wanted you to win.”

“No,” Finnick says, voice ragged, “I’m not doing this. I’m not leaving you.”

You laugh quietly, the sound so bittersweet that he flinches. “You don’t have a choice. There’s only one Victor, remember? One of us was always going to have to die. If you leave now, at least it means that both of us won’t lose our lives, only me.”

Finnick remains silent, and for a second you think you’ve managed to convince him before a new light of determination flares to life in his eyes. “Not a chance. They can have two Victors, they’ll make it happen for us. I will make it happen.”

You realize what he’s hinting at. Finnick has considerable sway in the Capitol, as evident from his numerous sponsors. If he refused to kill you, there’s a good chance that a lot of the Capitol heirs would stand by him.

You start to shake your head, but Finnick raises a finger to silence any and all opposition. “Don’t even try to argue. I’m not letting you go, sweetheart. Not a chance.”

You scan his face, but find no signs of change. He’s standing by his decision, even if it gets him killed. At last, you just exhale slowly.

“Alright, then. You really are out of your mind, you know that?”

Finnick cracks a grin at last, but there’s a haunted edge to it that wasn’t there before. “Of course I know that. I’m rather proud of it, too.”

Despite Finnick’s best hopes, both of you know that the odds of you making it out aren’t that great anymore. Over the next few hours, Finnick takes trips out of the shelter to take out solitary tributes. You stay back and try to make sure your leg doesn’t fall off, fixing knives and mending nets and doing anything you can to be useful.

At last, there are only three tributes left: you, Finnick, and one of the Careers who’d managed to elude your combined wrath all this time. The Gamemakers must want a showdown, because they arrange for the ground to start cracking and crumbling beneath your feet, forcing the three of you towards the central plains where you’d started the game. You limp as fast as you can, watching the ground where you’d once stood fall away like an avalanche.

Eventually, the three of you are left on the plain, the rest of the ground gone, stranding you as easily as an island. You’re holding a knife in each hand, and Finnick has his trident. The final Career has a sword, but judging by the way his hands are slick with sweat, he’s been injured too.

Still, he puts up a good fight. It takes both you and Finnick giving every drop of your energy to take out the final guy, and when it’s done, the two of you collapse on the ground, breathing so hard you think your ribs might pierce your lungs.

Your wound has reopened, but Finnick pulls you close anyway, heedless of the blood streaking both of your clothes.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, “I’m not letting you go. You hear that?” Finnick raises his voice to a shout, staring straight at the nearest camera, “We’re not killing each other! Two victors just this once, alright? You can make an exception this once.”

It must be a testament to Finnick’s popularity in the Capitol that the stunt actually works. A transport appears overhead, the grass nearby bent almost all the way over due to the force of the circling wind. You don’t entirely remember how you got in, only that there was a sharp prick in your arm like a needle and then the entire world fell away from you.

When you wake up, you almost think you’re hallucinating. The bleached white walls and beeping devices beside you make no sense, and then you remember that you actually did it. You and Finnick won the Hunger Games. Glancing around, you realize you’re in a small room holding only you and a few other doctors, although the door to the hall outside has been left ajar.

You can hear shouting from outside. Curious, you leave your hospital bed, padding quietly to the door and pushing it open. You start to limp out of instinct, but you discover that you actually have no pain, and when you lift the edge of your hospital gown to check, your leg appears completely healed.

The commotion in the hall outside grows in volume, so you creep out of the door and follow the sound. Down the hall, you notice that a young man about your age also dressed in a hospital gown appears to have broken out of his own room and is currently trying to fight off a couple of beleaguered doctors. He’s shouting about seeing someone, and then he turns and you recognize him at last.

Finnick catches sight of you at about the same time, and his face lifts with such hope that it makes you smile. He pushes away from the doctors and races to you, wrapping you up in a hug that lifts you off of the ground a few inches.

He whispers something against your temples as he sets you gently back down on the ground. “I was so worried. I woke up and you weren’t there, and I thought–I thought–”

Finnick’s voice trails off, but you know what he means. Finnick was terrified that Snow had taken matters into his own hands and punished him for trying to have two Victors by killing you off the second you were separated.

You’re alive, though, blessedly alive. “I’m here, Finnick,” you reply, “I’m fine. We’re both fine.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, then your cheek, then your lips. “Don’t you ever leave me,” he says, and you smile.

“I won’t,” you promise, and it’s an oath that you don’t mind keeping. You and Finnick have a great many years left in store for you, and you intend on living all of them out together.

temp thg tag list: it's the boy i told you about @thatfangirl42

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writingquestionsanswered · 5 months

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hii ! even though i write fanfics and don't plan to stop, i would like to write a book one day. now i know the writing style differs from professional published books, but i don't really read much or know how to tell what makes a book good, so i was wondering if you could recommend books to read with prose, pacing, etc that as a writer you find would help "defanficise" me? maybe any book would work and this is a stupid question but i thought i'd ask😅

Fan-Fiction Writer Transitioning to Original Fiction

So, some quick things to start off...

Merriam-Webster defines novels--what you're referring to as "professional published books"--as "invented prose narrative that is usually long and complex and deals especially with human experience through a usually connected sequence of events."

The only real difference between fan-fiction and novels is that the subject matter is borrowed partly or fully from existing narrative material (aka "canon"), but when you write fan-fiction, you're still using prose narrative that (typically) deals with human experience through a connected sequence of events.

My point is, if you write fan-fiction, you already have most of the skills you'll need to write original fiction, including novels. It just takes some time and practice to learn how to invent your own characters, worlds, and plots.

As far as what books to read, every reader has their own preferences for the kinds of stories that interest them. It's very difficult to recommend books to a total stranger because just because I like a book doesn't mean you will. But what I can tell you is all novels contain "prose, pacing, etc." so you can go to the library and choose literally any novel that sounds appealing to you, and you're off to a good start.

In other words, read the books that sound interesting to you. Try books in a variety of genres by a variety of authors. See what genres you're drawn to the most... that may be a genre you'll end up writing in. If you have a genre interest now because of the fan-fiction you enjoy writing, try Googling "best [genre] books" only where it says "genre" put in the genre in question. Like "best sci-fi novels" or "best fantasy novels." That will help you find lists of book titles and summaries to read through so you can start to put together a "to be read" list.

Have fun with your reading and writing adventure!

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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alvindraperzzz · 8 months

Text

One thing I want to see explored more in both canon and fandom is Cassie’s relationship with Diana’s mission.

Cassie is a powerhouse. She’s a fighter. She’s aggressive, and loves kicking butt and taking down villains who deserve it. She’s been that way from her earliest appearances, and it never really changed, all the way through the end of preboot. That may be fine for most superhero characters, but it’s a constant that just doesn’t really make sense for a protege and disciple of Diana of Themyscira, who has a mission, ideals, and an approach to heroism that differs from most. I can’t think of a single plot line that explores Cassie’s relationship to Amazonian ideals, and how they (should) affect her work as a hero.

What are those ideals? What is Diana’s mission?

The specifics tend to change between eras, writers, and reboots, but Diana’s mission is to bring peace and justice to man’s world. That’s pretty vague, and broad, and Diana is canonically often distracted from it by crimefighting and superhuman threats (which, fair, hard to teach peace when some megalomaniac is tearing up a city).

“The superheroes of this planet and beyond… their mission is to avenge, to protect, to police. Mine is different. My mission is to teach, to learn, to serve. Hippolyta preached, as I and all Amazons believe, that with understanding and respect all things are bearable, believable, and possible.”

In its simplest explanation, Diana’s mission is one of peace and equality. She’s an ambassador, bringing Amazonian forms of diplomacy and social structure to man’s world, and creating reform through education, opportunity, and service.

“I am trained as a warrior, Barbara, but I am trained also to think of those skills as a last resort. There is no human conflict which cannot be served better with words than with the sword.”

Her greatest tools are not her lasso or gauntlets, but reason and compassion. Violent force is her last resort; while her use of violence varies by writer, that was a recurring trait for the best WW writers.

“We have a saying, my people. Don’t kill if you can wound, don’t wound if you can subdue, don’t subdue if you can pacify, and don’t raise your hand at all until you’ve first extended it.” —Wonder Woman, Vol. 3, No. 25

Diana may utilize violence when the situation calls for it, but her objective first and foremost is peace. Before violence, no matter what they do to her or what they’ve done in the past, she reaches out. She tries reaching people through conversation, treating enemies and ordinary people alike with kindness, respect, and empathy. Love without discrimination. Redemption and transformation over punishment.

Cassie adores Diana. She believes in her, and shares many traits. She absolutely believes in helping people, and that protecting another is worth her life. But she’s also inclined toward holding grudges, and often has a very black and white perspective on good guys and bad guys. She has compassion in spades, but has a difficult time putting herself in other people’s shoes. She was always gung-ho for a fight, but after Donna’s death, and the string of losses that follow, she grows increasingly angry and unforgiving in both her heroic and personal life.

I want Cassie to argue with Diana’s nonviolent principles. I want her to struggle with understanding and incorporating this pacifistic view, when violence is so ingrained into her own view of superheroes.

I want her to grapple with Diana’s teachings, and be at war with herself because a bad guy might deserve punishment in her eyes, but that isn’t always the right path to justice.

I want Cassie to act as a diplomat.

I want her to talk villains down, instead of punch first, ask questions later.

In that Titans storyline where she visits Alcatraz and sees the terrible conditions there, I want her to say, “What the fuck is this?” And force a prison reform.

I want her joining Diana on outreach efforts, advocating as Diana does for education and equality, and acting as her liaison.

Just. Stories about Cassie dealing with the teachings of her mentor and the Amazons, whether it’s enacting those teachings or coming into conflict with them.

#cassie sandsmark #diana of themyscira #she’s a brute force kinda gal and that’s great but it shouldn’t be that way every time #I know it’s probably a difficult thing to work into superhero comics #considering how much action and fight scenes play a role #But good writers managed a fine balance of Diana’s views and her handling of conflict #don’t ask me where those screenshots are from I forgot #the second one is definitely byrne’s run bc that’s his art style #I need a tag for my Cassie meta #this is my third or fourth big post on her #talking about cassie #cassandra sandsmark

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atom-writings · 8 months

Note

Hi!!!!!!

Can I request the main 8 with a poet/writer s/o?

The main 8 find their s/o's poems or writing about them and it's like how much they love them !!!

(hopefully this makes sense :D have a nice day!

Also your writing super coolio )

hetalia allies + germany with a s/o who's a writer

1.6k words ~ gender neutral heacanons + mini scenarios

tw: swearing, thats it!

a/n: i believe this is after the cutoff so its only 6 characters sorry! also ty :)

America

Alfred may not seem like it, considering his less-than-stellar attention span, but he can be quite an avid reader if he wants to be.

In fact, when he was travelling the western frontier, he often wrote poems himself.

He loves your work, (he’s always the first one showing up on release day!) but he doesn’t love how much time it takes away from you.

Seeing you exhausted and frustrated after a long night, trash can filled with discarded drafts, just breaks his heart. He’ll make sure your office is always stacked with

Alfred wasn’t usually so easily swayed by cheesy romances, despite his sweet soft for them. But now, reading your book, he couldn’t help flushing at every interaction his favourite couple had.

The one he was reading now, well, it just took the cake. Spending the day wandering East Potomac Park? It was something out of his dreams- just endlessly… familiar?

Wait, hadn’t he done that recently with you?

Oh.

He set the book aside, burying his face in his hands as he blushed wildly.

Guess the blue-eyed, blond love interest hero was a bit more than a stereotype after all.

England

Ah, a writer. Arthur has long admired the literary arts, having many a classic writer come from his home. Yes, he’d quite enjoy someone like that.

He loves reading your work, regardless of what it is, but he’d prefer you read it to him. Then he can get all of your silly little notes along with it. Just for him <3

Although he wouldn’t appreciate you spending all day working. He’s not needy usually, but by the time you two go to bed, he’s DESPERATE for your attention.

He tries not to disturb you, though.

From the moment he picked up your work, he could tell where your inspiration for the main love interest came from. Sandy-haired, green eyes, tall but not too tall, always how you had described him.

Of course, that made his reading even more of a joy.

The only thing that bothered him was how the protagonist described themself. Always dismissed, below-par, never worthy of his love. Now, that just wouldn’t stand.

So he began to write as well. In between the margins, on attached papers, on the sides, everywhere. Correcting every disparaging thought.

Then when he finished, he handed the book back to you, with a cheeky comment.

“It was absolutely wonderful, my love.”

Whether you ever saw the notes or not didn’t matter. He had made the book even more perfect, at least to himself.

France

As said before, Francis is a very artsy guy. Very artsy. Although he’s not always skilled at making art himself… so having another artist would help with that.

He’s absolutely the number one collector of your works. Every scrap, every trashed draft, every misprint, he’s keeping everything.

He’s also pretty ok with how much time it takes! It gives him time to relax, or maybe even join in working on creative projects.

Although he would insist on regular breaks. Fortunately, Francis is a hedonist at heart, so those breaks will always provide much inspiration.

True beauty is rare. Living for so long had proven that time and time again for Francis. It isn’t natural, it isn’t easy, and it never lasts. But…that doesn’t make the pursuit of it any more meaningless.

Even more rare than its existence, is the constant presence of it.

But when he read your poems, venerating and elucidating your own feelings, he felt as if he had found it. God, it was beautiful. Your words, unlike any other’s he had read in his many years, made him feel as if he was falling in love all over again.

Instantly, he was transported into your shoes, viewing himself in a light that had never been shone on him before.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself now. It felt wrong- wrong to not give absolute reverence to this piece of art.

If he had had access to the Louvre, he would’ve kept it there. But, well, his kitchen wall would have to do for now.

China

Finally, some good fucking talent. He's very excited about his S/O being an artist! He's not much of one himself these days, but it's good to see the youth catching up to the old masters.

As much as he loves you, he's very opinionated. Everything you write he either LOVES or HATES. Though he's always excited to show off his favourites of your works, he's very proud of you.

Though he absolutely is not stand by while you spend all day sitting around and writing. Get off the couch and come with him, you're never gonna write anything real good if you don't have any life experience!

Because of that, he's gonna be a little hesitant to cater to you while you're writing.

Your last work was good, to be sure, but nothing like this. Your newest release blew him off his feet with ease, captivating him with every turn of the page. One of his favourites, he thought to himself, that'll be one he'd have to return to.

The only problem was that it was almost over already. He wasn't that much of a fast reader, was he? Well, I guess it's easy to go quickly if you love it.

And love it he did, to the very last page. Wait, this is the last page, isn't it? Why are there three more?

He flipped through them, his eyes quickly widening as he read the last page.

A love letter? To... him?

“Is this in every edition?” He asked you shakily, looking to you for reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“That's...” He brought a hand to his mouth, covering his blushing cheeks trying to hide the tears welling in his eyes, “That's such a waste of paper...”

Russia

Frankly, Ivan doesn't care much what you do. The most exciting part of you being a writer to him is just that you'd need to spend plenty of time at home.

But he'd always read your work. (Especially rough drafts, he's really good at being blunt but not mean.) And as time goes on, he'll fall in love with your talent more and more. Despite his country's many famous writers, he thinks none of them stack up to you.

He wouldn't mind how much time you dedicate to your craft, but he'd make sure to take good care of you while you're writing. He's truly very worried about you withering away in that desk chair of yours...

“Oh, I absolutely loved the part where-“

Ivan had been ranting for hours, going over every single detail that had caught his eye. Every time he thought of something new, it would lead to another excited train of thought. But there was one thing they all had in common... he really loved one character.

”He's strong!“ He'd gush, ”He's kind, and loving, and I just want him to have a happy ending!“

You let him explain over and over again how much he looked up to this character, wanting to change to be more like him in every way.

But it wasn't until he calmed down a little bit that you felt it was time to reveal the truth.

”Yeah, you know... he's based on someone I know.“

”Really? Who? I must meet him!“ He clasps his hands together in excitement.

”You, you big dummy.“

He pauses for a moment, his smile fading. He looks upset for a moment, trying to figure out how.

”But... but I am none of those things.“

”You are to me. I mean, whenever I thought about you... I'd just write that character.“

He laughs awkwardly, “You are joking, right?”

“No, of course not. You're strong... and you're kind....” he shifts away from you, tears welling in his eyes, “You're loving... and... and I'll give you a happy ending, ok?”

Before you can react, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist, burying his face in your hair.

”Promise?“

”Promise.“

Germany

Ludwig would definitely love a S/O who writes. Mostly for one specific reason, though. Writers, well, they see the world in a different way. Whether that be in a more romantic, more objective, or more sympathetic way, he doesn't care. He wants to talk things through with someone like you.

He wouldn't be a total fanboy, but he'd still love your work. Although, he might not show it the way you want... it's hard for him not to criticize. He wouldn't be too harsh though!

He wouldn't mind how much you get sucked into your writing either. He knows what it's like to be dedicated to your craft, and he won't bother you too much.

Ludwig had never been an emotional person. Never, not once, throughout his many years was he truly moved to tears by fiction. Art depicting real life? Of course, many times. But he simply never found fiction as compelling as reality.

That was, of course, until he read your own works. Now, going through what you had so effortlessly created, he couldn't help tearing up at nearly every turn of events.

The way you were about to put him into the character's shoes without him even realizing, forcing him along the same journey they had gone through. It was... stunning, to say the least.

But when one of the characters began to fall in love, it was like nothing he had experienced before. Not because of any significant jump in quality, but just because... you had written it.

For a moment he sat in silence, pondering the book when he realized.

Was this what it felt like for you to fall in love with him?

It sent a chill down his spine. No, he didn't feel any differently, not at all. But... he had assumed you couldn't possibly love him as much as he loved you. Except... now?

Well, if this was how you had felt. He couldn't possibly let you go anytime soon.

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goodluckclove · 21 days

Text

How I Critique Writing (A Loose Collection of Tips)

Someone asked me for insights into my methodology when it comes to giving feedback on writing and I realized I had way more than I could say in a reasonable amount of private messages. Are you someone who I've spoken to about their writing? Did someone send you their work and you don't know how to respond? Maybe this will help? Based on how people react I feel like it might be controversial but it seems to work.

When someone sends me their writing, no matter the size, subject or genre, I:

Take it seriously. It's a generational epic about the Vietnam war and its effects. It's a cute, young adult romance. It's Zim and Dib from Invader Zim realizing they've always been in love with each other. All of these things can be written with earnestness, strength, honesty and skill. It's fucking hard to write and if someone writes a single sentence that wouldn't otherwise exist its worth holding in your hands and examining with the same eye as if you were taking an interesting book off the shelf.

Respond with curiosity. It's common for critiques to follow a theme of ambiguous disdain. This doesn't work. Delete this. Bad. No. Gross. Guess what? That's not helpful. If you got that feedback, even if you followed it, you wouldn't be thrilled about it. Oftentimes you can take a line that makes you want to say Bad and ask something else. What is this supposed to express? What were you trying to do here? Am I supposed to feel happy/sad/uncertain when I read this? Curiosity can reframe something that you don't think works as a reader and turn it into an opportunity for the writer to look inward and solve their own problem. They might explain what they were trying to do, and if you were to say that it didn't pan out for you they're way more likely to tweak things themselves and feel like they still have control over their project.

Give comments. I've started giving more in-depth comments on the writing people give me depending on how anxious they are about it. If you're a pretty confident writer I'll give a summary of what I gained and what I was left wondering, what I thought and what I felt, what associations it made me think of in terms of tone and other forms of media - stuff like that. For newer writers, especially those who are far more doubting of their own abilities, I go buck wild. And in my opinion notes should be less like Good! I like this! Wow! Nice! (What are you, grading my book report? No thanks), and more like what you think when you're reading a book you're truly invested in. Make jokes about the characters (Not mean ones. I will send bugs to you in the mail.), chart exact lines that provoke physical reactions, even a small one. Can you imagine reading someone treat your work like it has its own fandom on Tumblr? You can do that for someone else.

Fucking have some fucking awareness of the fact that it might not be for you and that doesn't mean it's bad. I'm angry about this one considering the novel a friend sent me last night that they've been too terrified to try and post online, despite it being fucking brilliant. I'll try and calm down. Listen - you read what you like. I mainly read literary and experimental fiction, some poetry, horror and some sci-fi. Not a lot of genre fiction. But I will always be down to read someone's high fantasy story, because even though I don't really like fantasy I know what the good ones sound like. I've forced myself to gain a sense of what someone else would like, even if I don't like it. And I can still critique it. If I'm a builder and I see a house that's painted a shade of green I find sinful for a home (i.e. mint), I can look past that and focus on the state of the walls and the stability of the foundation. You aren't a reviewer, man. You are neither Siskel, nor Ebert. They write for readers, you write for writers. So you don't like historical fiction? Cool, man. Congrats. If someone trusts you enough to give you some to read and critique, you should still do so objectively. If you give it an automatic F because you wouldn't buy it, then you are legally a stinky little trash man. That's just the law.

Ask them what they liked to write and what was the hardest. There's apparently a weird trend on online writer communities that say there are specific rules that all writers need to follow. This is not true. It just isn't. If the dialogue in a story you read is weak, and the writer says they hate writing dialogue and really struggle with it, maybe tell them they don't have to use it. You might change their entire life.

RESPOND WITH CURIOSITY. You see the Ask games where people try and get more detail on the WIP of certain authors. If you have a WIP and I ask you a worldbuilding question that doesn't relate to the direct plot of the story as it exists now, I bet you'd like to talk about it. If I ask if you were inspired by a certain tone or movie, you might know the work I was talking about and feel happy. Or you might not know it, look it up, and feel inspired. I don't think people realize that a critique of new/unfinished writing is not a one-and-done exchange. You are taking part in an isolated process in a way few other people on the planet will. It's not homework. It's. Not. Homework. We spend so much of our time alone just fiddling our hands and making our magic, and in instances like these we share something in one of the ultimate forms of artistic trust. They're taking you into a world that hasn't fully formed yet. Is it cool? Can you tell me about it? Can they?

Be nice. Storytime, friends. In the way early 2010s, there was something on the internet called sporking. It was pretty much a line by line roast of someone's writing - typically fanfic. And I hate to say this, but I read a lot of it. I was 13, somehow untreated and overmedicated, and I was miserable constantly. Just cold in my chest. At one point I had the chance to critique a stranger's story - probably another child - and I essentially mocked the whole thing. They ended up deleting the story off the website. I cannot begin to describe to you the shame I feel about doing this, even ten years later. It burns in my heart and makes me sick to my stomach. If you are a serious writer, especially a young writer, and you insult another writer's craft to their face just as they're getting started - you will regret it. I promise you that. You will think about holding something alive and full of potential in your hands and squeezing your fists until it is just flecks of meat and crushed bone. It will haunt you. Maybe only a little, but constantly and for the rest of your life. So don't do it.

Wow what a grim note to leave on! That's essentially my philosophy on writing critique, do with it what you will. Want to send me some writing to receive this kind of excessive treatment? Cool! I have an email in my pinned post and I'll do that! I'm also down to chat if anyone wants to send me asks or DMs on writing/writing struggles/publishing tips.

#writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #on writing #writing community #authors of tumblr #actually writing #queer writers #fanfic writing #writing critique #writing criticism #writing tips #writing help #writing resources #writing inspiration #i went crazy on this one didn't i

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