#i don't really have the events plotted out on paper or anything

[thedawningofthehour]

Now that you've said how long this story is gonna be, can you say how much of it did you have planned before either writing or uploading it? Could you share your process for plotting everything out and all that?

When I first started writing? I had jack shit planned. I literally had an idea in my head of Donnie being captured by Draxum and being a little fucking shit and wrote that out for funsies. I do this a lot-I have a lot of projects in my Google Docs where I wrote 2-5, maybe 10k words at the absolute most and got bored. I just didn't get bored with this one. I kept having ideas and refining them in my head while in the shower/trying to go to bed. I had written most of Donnie's table content and I'd say the first two-ish chapters of Leo's POV? before I really considered posting it.

By the time I started seriously revising with the intent of posting, yeah I had a general series of events solidified in my head and was vicariously imagining the 'big scenes' before bed like a Netflix show. (For writers following along, every writer has a different approach to plotting and it's really more of a matter of finding what suits you best, but do have a general idea of what's going to happen next and where you're going. Don't go "oh, I'll figure it out as I go along"-ya won't. You can always change the destination if you do think of something better, but don't rely on having a brilliant brain blast moment at 3 AM) I have added more as time went on-Bella was seriously supposed to be a super minor side character where it would never even be stated that she was Draxum's niece, (I was actually going to kill her off-screen) and she just took life and beat me over the head with my keyboard. And I did alter arc 2 a bit to give Mikey a bigger role because I do love him, even if I shaft him a lot, and his philosophy is going to play a major role in everyone else's character development. (that's gonna be my excuse, this is all about character development! And Mikey is perfect the way he is)

As far as my process for plotting...you guys seem to be under some impression that I'm the captain of this ship. Buddy. I am a stowaway watching and listening and frantically writing it all down. I do not steer the ship. I do not even guide the ship. At times I whisper to the characters and suggest they move in a certain direction, and a good portion of the time they tell me to fuck off and do what they like. I know I'm literally the author but I have no control over these things. Certain things just Happen. I don't plan it. It just pops into my head and won't leave me alone.

#doth #doth asks #i don't really have the events plotted out on paper or anything #i mean yes i have notes but they are like #so vague and strange that they wouldn't make sense to anyone but me

[setsugekka]

❥business attire (m)

↳ You have no qualms with doing what it takes to get ahead professionally: a white lie here, a bit of cheating there—sleeping with your boss? Simple.

Until a business trip with a rival colleague puts quite a wrench into all of that.

bang chan x fem!reader — colleagues/rivals to lovers, romcom, porn with plot, explicit sexual content. [12k wc] cws: alcohol drinking, themes of sexism in the work place!!, penetrative sex, body cum shot, oral sex (m+f), dirty talking (very mild condescension/humiliation), teasing, chan has a big dick of course because i wrote this.

Everything has led up to this moment.

Years of studying, internships, exams; grueling schedules and lost hours of sleep, not even accounting for the people stepped over and lost along the way. You had made the decision long ago that you were willing to do whatever it would take to make it to the top, to achieve the kind of success that you knew was waiting for you somewhere out and into the future.

You're no stranger to the CEO's office, all shining and glittering gold with accents and glossed, white marble, though you do have to admit, you're not used to being here with a third, as far as company is concerned.

No, typically you find yourself here in the later hours of the evening, partaking in a particular set of extra curricular activities that you know will bargain your way up the professional ladder. Ethical? Questionable. Do you care? Not even a little bit.

Granted, you can't imagine the other guy—Chris—to feel similarly about your leg-up on him, as it were.

Your colleague in question stands beside you with hands behind his back like he's a child waiting to hear his grades called out by the teacher. It's a little charming, you've got to admit, though nothing if not sad given the fact that he's awaiting something that was never really going to be offered to him to begin with.

And you don't know anything about this guy because you don't tend to bother learning much of anything about the people surrounding you in your workplace, outside of the smallest inkling of weaknesses that can be used to your advantage. Susan in accounting, for example, one to have something of an issue with getting to work on time in the mornings; no problem, the time clocks can be easily forged to make up for the discrepancy.

Except, of course, for the fact that it's against company policy to do so, and an offense that can find one terminated in an instant—it certainly was a shame the evening that the CEO had come to find out about that, after a bottle of wine and a particularly enthusiastic blowjob from you.

But Chris keeps to himself, and if not for this meeting here, you'd not even know his name. He works on business contact profiles not unlike yourself, which makes him someone that sits directly in your crosshair. You glance over his features for a brief second—his high nose bridge and his full lips, and acknowledge that he's sort of handsome for someone that you have to destroy the will of today. Well, it's not you destroying it, though you've more than put in the work to ensure it to happen.

The CEO of the company brings his attention up from the paper work laid out in front of him and finally grants it to the both of you. Your eyes meet with his in an instant and you try to bite back the knowing grin of victory that threatens to pull at the corners of your lips. Be mature about this, you think to yourself. Humility not a strong suit of yours, sure, but no need to rub it all into the wound.

"There's a massive account that needs an exquisite set of eyes and ears on it this coming weekend, this kind of business trip is the type that makes or breaks a company, a supervisor of the company." The man pauses, eyes falling back down to the papers as he shuffles them about lightly across the desk. "So, you understand that the utmost sensitivity and attention to detail is necessary when deciding who it is to send out on these sorts of things, but in the event of a net gain, then it's easy to understand that the trickle down effect is one that can be felt by everyone involved."

You smile, this time unable to hold it back.

He continues. "The success of this means the immediate success of the supervisor involved."

Then, he looks up to the both of you.

"Which is why I have decided to send the both of you out, and based on the return, I will make a decision in relation to who will be the benefactor."

Your eyes widen, smile falling, and in the moment you find yourself incapable of holding your feelings of unjust back.

"What? What do you mean you're sending both of us? What benefit could me or the company see in having this guy tag along?"

"Hey?" Chris cuts in, a little wounded. You ignore him for the most part.

"Chris does good work, has proven himself on numerous occasions. I think the two of you will work just fine together, and if that's not the case, then consider it a friendly workplace competition to get the fires really burning for results."

Jaw clenched and teeth gritted tightly, you take a step towards the man happily seated in his position of taking, and dare to point a finger out towards him.

"I've earned this."

But to that, a knowing, shit-eating grin pulls at a single corner of his mouth. An understanding of this, of the anger you're feeling and where it's coming from and how absolutely fruitless it will be.

"Have you?" he questions lightly, a disgusting chime in his tone that makes your stomach turn. His eyes drop back down to the desk, not bothering to even look at you for the following question. "And how is it that you've done that, exactly?"

Freezing in place, even just the question mortifies you. Chris' being there feels far too illuminating now in comparison to the emptiness that he carried before, and you know that this man knows that you are incapable of answering that as diligently as you may like to.

But still, the both of you know.

You close your eyes slowly, exhale steadily and try to center yourself into something more professional once more. "I've worked incredibly hard for this kind of opportunity, sir."

"And so has Chan! Sorry, I mean Chris. I'm afraid we spend so much time together leisurely that I often forget to address you properly in a professional setting nowadays!"

What's worse than the initial blow of this knowledge dawning upon you is the way that the man beside you laughs, like it's the funniest thing in the world that you're being made a fool of in front of these men. Granted, he doesn't know—does he know?—regardless, the humiliation toiling in your gut twists unrelentingly whether your colleague is privy or not.

You don't get a chance to respond before the man who has wronged you continues on with the thought, however.

"You are still getting the opportunity, it's just that you're sharing it with someone else. If your work continues to shine above and beyond your peers, then you have nothing to worry about, now do you?"

It takes everything you have inside of you not to snarl out a reply. "Yes, sir. I'll see to it getting done."

"Excellent news! You and Chan are set to leave tomorrow, a red-eye to Los Angeles for three days. I trust that the two of you can have it settled in that time?"

"Yes, sir," the both of you reply in unison, and even just that twists like a dagger in your back.

The airport terminal is busy, too much, for your liking.

There are perks to being in such places, though, and you choose to revel in those small things. No one is interested in you or what you're doing. No one around you cares about your immaculately pressed garment or the fact that your luggage is slightly scuffed. They pay you no mind as you look up from your phone and towards the screen sitting atop the gate entrance as you await your boarding signal.

"Hey."

You sigh aloud at the simple word, easily recognizing the voice that carries it through the crowds. Glancing to your other side, your colleague stands with phone and luggage in hand; a suit jacket just ill-fitting enough that it perturbs you that much more.

So, you don't reply. Chris sits next to you and settles his belongings in such a haphazard way that it grates on your nerves—much like everything that he seems to do, does—and you silently await for him to make his presence unknown to you for what you hope to be the rest of the near week that the two of you are forced to spend together.

Not so lucky, however.

"I think it's going to be good that we're working on this together," he says cheerfully. Annoyingly. "By the way, you can call me Chan. Chris is so formal and professional."

"Well, Chris, we are workplace colleagues, so it only makes sense that we remain professional," you respond.

He leans in towards you, "Our work place isn't that professional, I'm sure you've noticed."

You don't like the sound of that, though it could very well be more of your hurt feelings and humiliation taking the driver's seat. Thus, you temper the anger that threatens to burst out at what you think could be certain implications and simply meet his eyes with a glare.

"So I have."

Chris, Chan, whatever—leans back in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest before continuing on with the thought that you don't care to hear more of but know you're going to be prisoned with, regardless.

"I think we can learn a lot from one another during this."

"And what is it that I can learn from you that I've not yet gathered from years of study, internships, and work in the field? Do you think it's an accident that I've landed myself so far up the corporate ladder?"

His head cocks to the side, and for a moment, you think it to be daringly condescending.

"No, but it's no accident that I've landed myself here, either."

You roll your eyes and focus down on the phone in hand.

"The truth of the matter is that in a lot of cases, the best way to get ahead is to take everyone else down around you," he carries on, voice dropping down to something more akin to a whisper. "Playing nice only gets you so far."

The snort of a laugh that escapes you is so quick you don't have a chance in fighting it back.

"If you think you're going to be conniving enough to wrestle this out of my hands, then I'm afraid you've been paired up against the wrong adversary," you reply. "Better, stronger, smarter men than you have tried, and failed."

Chan's eyebrows perk at that, like he's amused by the comeback. There's a part of you that appreciates the fact that he doesn't immediately wither in the shadow of your toughness, though you're far from desiring a fight for this trip as it carries on, either. Withering, in some cases, might be best.

"You don't know anything about me, yet you're so willing to assume I'm unworthy of the challenge of taking you on. Unfortunately for you, I love a good, friendly competition."

To that, you huff out yet another mildly amused laugh.

"It will be anything but friendly."

The flight to Los Angeles gives you plenty of time to conjure up a game plan, not that you think you're going to need anything all that involved to conquer your adversary.

Chan enjoys the in-flight entertainment alongside of you as you do—laughs along to the film that he's watching and orders himself a drink to truly settle in. You do neither. Instead, you crack open your laptop and mull over the numerous documents and spreadsheets of information that you'll want to know like the back of your hand by the time that you land.

As well as how best to handle him.

Thankfully, your colleague seems whimsically dim despite your earlier conversation in the airport. He talks a big game as far as a competition and winning is to be concerned, but you rack your brain trying to recall a time in which his name has ever come up at work previously; no accolades, no parties thrown, no cheers for a job well done. In fact, the majority of those moments have been granted to you, and incredibly hard-earned, at that.

But, you have to give it to him: he doesn't appear frightened by you. Chalk that up to naivete, sexism, or stupidity—you couldn't care less which pin it is that he lands on, because either way, the outcome will be the same.

So sure of himself, and yet nothing to show for it besides a bizarrely personal relationship with the CEO. Well, you have that, too.

With the way that things have played out, you want to call things off, however. This man back at the office has humiliated you and taken from you but not held up his end of the bargain. Is it worth it to continue carrying on? Will it harm your career if you don't? Probably best to maintain the status quo as far as sexual endeavors go. Besides, the sex isn't half bad, either.

When you and Chan land in Los Angeles it's far too early for your liking and with how little sleep you are now on, but the thrum of the bustling, awaiting city excites you. This opportunity is going to be everything—is going to grant you everything—and in all likelihood, you wouldn't be able to sleep if you were to try.

Chan attempts to take your bags from you once you're both walking the busy halls of LAX and you fight him off with every try. He smiles and laughs and rolls his eyes at your unwillingness to cooperate, but this is no comical matter to you. Little does he know how close to danger he sits at every passing moment.

One taxi down and making your way to the hotel, Chan rushes his way out of the car and around to the back so that you have no hope in fighting him this time. He is so insufferable, you think to yourself, though you can't deny yourself the joy of having him hauling your luggage about. Good, perhaps you will be useful to me, after all. 

The hotel is a lavish one; all white marble, silver accenting and lush green foliage at every turn. You're thankful for that much, because in so many ways there is nowhere else that you wish to be less than here.

You spot a bar down the corridor just a bit and make a mental note of it, as you may be spending ample time there when not constructing the professional downfall of your idiot colleague. In that moment, Chan forces himself into your line of vision with a wide grin and nods his head over towards the elevator.

"Floor seven," he says, handing you one of the room keys.

You look at it, sitting thoughtfully placed inside of its red paper envelope with a number written on in gold ink. Then, you glance at his, still remaining in his hand.

The same number.

"We don't have separate rooms?" you question, though you're capable enough to already know the answer to such an asinine question. Thus, you move onto the next most obvious one. "Why don't we have separate rooms?"

"There's two beds, it's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal," you all but shout, forcing the tail end of your anger back as to maintain a semblance of professionality. "We need to go back down and get this sorted out. I'll handle it."

Chan laughs under his breath, watching the number on the LED change as the elevator rises.

"You won't be sorting anything out. There's about five major conferences in the area this weekend and this place is heavily booked, as is everywhere else decent in the region. You're just going to have to put your big girl pants on and deal with it."

You don't know Los Angeles well enough to hide a body. Unfortunate.

Though your fingers tingle and your head throbs, you don't bother fighting the fact any further. You are a logical woman, and you're perfectly capable of understanding the concept of there being no further vacancy in a hotel. Thus, you sigh, clench your jaw, and drop it altogether.

When the elevator stops with a ding, you couldn't feel more relieved. You rush out from between the metal doors so quickly that you nearly shoulder it as it continues its momentum. Down the hall and pausing in front of your shared, temporary residence, you press the key to the reader and push inside without even so much as a thought about where Chan is or how he is fairing with the baggage load that he has taken upon himself to deal with.

The door nearly shuts him out, a leg craned in through the crack as he fights it without a word to you for help.

It is spacious. Bright and clean and smells of new linens like no one prior to the two of you has ever actually stayed in here before. The bathroom is large and pristine in the way that it glitters. A wide enough working space with two chairs and not nearly enough coffee offered straight away—though that's a simple enough fix as far as you are concerned.

"Pretty nice!"

Ah. You had nearly forgotten about him, but Chan always has a way of making his presence known. He hands you your bag and you pull it over towards the side of the bed that faces the large window, blinds drawn. Reaching towards them, Chan offers up his expertise once again.

"They said there's a balcony."

"Surely I could have gathered as much for myself."

He rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of his bed, intent on unpacking. You continue on towards the balcony, pulling the fabric away and gazing out through the massive, glass panes. 

It's Los Angeles. Not a whole lot to offer as far as views go in the major city areas, but suppose it will have to do.

"We should get dinner tonight. Look over our plan of action for the next couple of days with these clients and get to know one another a little bit better." Chan isn't looking at you while he says it, but you can hear the hopefulness in the sound of his voice without necessarily seeing it on his face. "Besides, it's on company dime, might as well go all-out!"

While the idea of spending somewhat intimate, one-on-one time with this man is not something that excites you, suppose what does excite you is the possibility of putting your devilish little plan of hostile take-over into action. Unfortunately, what this also means for your future, is something that will be much, much more difficult than simply defeating him.

Being nice.

"Yeah, that sounds good, actually." You hope the sudden change in your demeanor doesn't raise any red flags in his mind, but you don't think him to be smart enough to consider the fact. "There was a nice looking place downstairs in the lobby, maybe we should go there."

"Perfect!"

He's so happy that it almost makes you feel guilty about the whole thing.

Chan continues on. "It's early and I've got a few things I want to get ahead on. I'll get out of here so that you can sleep, just in case that's what you'd like to do, but feel free to send me a message if you need me for anything. I'll just be downstairs."

He's so kind. How unfortunate.

"I will, thank you."

Chan grabs his work bag and scurries out of the shared room. How disastrous this whole thing is for him, a monumental case of wrong place, wrong time. 

Dinner is good, but your trickery is far more delicious.

There's a stack of envelopes with paperwork inside of them sitting on the edge of the relatively small table, barely enough room for it now that entrees and glasses of wine have been poured, but now that the business portion of the evening has come to a close, the two of you are able to enjoy the perks that going on these sorts of trips often has to offer.

Chan sits ahead of you with a glass full of white wine and a nicer tie than the one he arrived with. He looks handsome–that, you can't deny—though it's something that will have to sit ignored in the back of your mind with far more important matters to consider. 

"Are you seeing anyone?"

You're lost in your thoughts when he asks the question suddenly, and it jars you back into the present moment with what you imagine to be an incredibly evident startle.

"I'm not sure that's any of your business," you reply quickly, but on second thought, you remember that your plan is to reel him in. Thus, you amend the response. "No, I'm not. I'm much too wrapped up with my career for that."

Chan pouts, like he's sad about it for you. "Still, it gets lonely, yeah?"

He looks and sounds sincere in a way that you're not expecting, and suppose a little honesty won't completely hinder your end goal.

"It does, sometimes, but that's what I've chosen. Once I'm comfortable with where I am professionally, then I'll carve out time for dating." You look up at him, pointing your fork straight at him, "this isn't some thinly veiled commentary about how I'm getting too old to find someone, is it?"

And though you're somewhat joking in saying it, horror strikes through each and every one of Chan's facial features upon hearing the words.

"What? Oh, no! God, no! I was just thinking that working long hours like we do can be isolating, so it might be nice to have someone to go home to at the end of it all, you know?"

You do know.

"It's not that I don't get out and meet people, do things," you say, taking a sip from your glass to wash away the humiliation of honesty that lingers in your throat. "They're just not…long term acquaintances, if you will."

Chan grins knowingly, and you don't particularly like that look on him. As if you've not been the one giving up the information freely to get him to this point.

"Ah, I see," he says in an exhale and an accompanying nod, "just enough to keep the bed warm next to you sometimes, huh? I'm no stranger to that arrangement, myself."

This is far more information than you find you ever need to know about any of your colleagues, though the same could be said about anything at all regarding their personal lives. Spouses, kids, pets, what kind of car they drive; it's all more information than you care to know about any of them, though you can't help but feel the sizzle of intrigue inside of your chest at his willingness to offer up such particularly intimate knowledge in regards to his late night activities.

Perhaps playing with this guy will be more fun than originally considered.

And thus, you take something of a gamble in relation.

"To be honest with you, I've been seeing someone casually for a while, though I'm not sure if that arrangement is working out for me any longer."

Both of you take another sip from your glasses, but Chan's gaze lingers on you for an especially lengthy amount of time. He sets his glass down calmly on the table, sighs aloud, and then settles himself casually against the back of the chair.

"I know you've been sleeping with the CEO."

You are thankful to no longer be in the middle of your drink, because you'd certainly be choking on the swallow right about now.

There's an attempt to maintain your composure—something that you're quite adept at—though in situations like this you have far less experience in doing so. You're not quite sure whether or not the shock is obvious across your face, but it certainly feels like it is.

No point in lying, the both of you are already here, after all.

"Is that so." Not a question, a statement.

Chan shrugs, all nonchalant in a way that you don't really appreciate, either.

"Yeah, he let it slip one of the nights we were out late playing darts with the guys from the office. Sounded a bit like he was boasting, like I was supposed to be impressed with him for it, or something."

"I take it you're not the only one who knows then?"

"Nah, I don't think he told everyone. It was a moment where we were alone, I don't really know why he told me. I was just like, that's great, man, and then we started talking about the game."

Slumping into your chair, it's the first time you've felt well and truly defeated, and especially when it comes to any and all matters such as these. While you're not ashamed of the lengths gone through in order to attain what it is that you intend to attain, it is far from ideal for the entire office to be aware of it.

"Amazing, you didn't even have to sleep with him to get put on this assignment," you sigh, arms crossing over your chest. "Suppose I look foolish now."

"I don't really care about that, about you doing whatever you think you need to do to get ahead in life. If you want to sleep with our boss to do that then that's your prerogative," Chan says, tone simplistic and plain. "Where I do care is that you seem to be under the impression that you're the only person in the office who is worthy of anything, and that no one else is working hard in order to achieve anything. I am, we are, just most of us aren't going to the same lengths that you are."

A beat of silence passes between you, and in perfect timing, the waiter comes with the check and disappears just as swiftly. Once he disappears from the table side, Chan leans forward, dropping his volume even more in a way that expresses so wholly that the next words spoken are truly only meant for you.

"I've seen your work, I know you have what it takes to be a top executive in this company, and that's without all of the extra shit like fucking some rich scumbag who's just going to turn around and throw the fact back in your face." He leans back again, signs the receipt, and then begins reaching for the stack of papers. "But you're not the only one who works hard and puts in crazy hours to earn a place here. Let's work this case like the team we're meant to be, get it done like I know that we can, and shove it in that asshole's face once we get back."

It's a plan that seems so pleasant on the surface: working together with a colleague who you now have nothing to hide from, who knows all of your dirty little professional secrets and still appears to respect you in spite of it. 

You watch Chan pack all of the belongings into a briefcase and can't help but wonder, why don't you care? Why would someone in direct competition with you not seem to be bothered by the fact that you're extending yourself well beyond a professional setting in order to no longer have to compete with him on equal footing?

Rather, you can't help but feel as though the tone of the conversation has taken a turn, almost as though Chan respects you and your work ethic more after the discussion of it all. With everything laid out onto the table, this man knows and understands you in a way that no one else really does, and beyond all of it—he still sees you. He sees how important all of this is, how you're capable of doing just about anything to achieve your purpose no matter how looked down upon it often is, and no matter how humiliating it has thus turned out to be.

Chan just sees you.

"We have an early morning tomorrow, I know these guys are going to want us there at least twenty minutes before the time, so we should plan to have our coffee and look over the documents well before we're meant to arrive."

You glance up at him as he stands, baggage in hand and a smile that says all of the very same things you've just come to realize about him. It's back to normal, like nothing has happened, no conversation about any ethically questionable goings on has even taken place.

Back to regularly scheduled programming.

And you kind of like that.

Twenty minutes early becomes thirty minutes, due to your insistence. With a coffee in hand and perfectly manicured nails, you step out from one of the back doors of the taxi and leave the dealing with briefcases and paperwork to the guy who insists on going above and beyond to make himself useful to you. Good.

It's an early morning, but you find some comfort in that. Los Angeles never really turns off, but at least for now the sidewalks and streets are just a bit quieter than they will be at any other hour of the day. The weather is beautiful—perfectly breezy in just the right amount, with the sun coyly peeking through the clouds edges up above—and you can't help but think to yourself, no way that this day could possibly go wrong for me.

The office building that the two of you stand in front of is nothing special, as far as appearances go. Most in the surrounding area look much the same; worn down from the elements and barely seeing any architectural upkeep, but the spinning, glass front doors standing just a few paces ahead tell a different story of the interior. In ways, it brings a sort of feeling of the illuminated beauty of your professional future, standing between you, and there.

You're in your best set of dress. Black and white with a long skirt fitted just right. Chan is much of the same beside you in his immaculately tailored jacket, accentuating the wide slope of his shoulders and sleeves cutting off perfectly at his wrists.

He turns to look at you, and then smiles with a cute cock of his head.

"Ready to smash it?"

And not that you needed the added boost, but hearing the words vocalized from him adds just that much more fuel to your fire.

You nod. "Absolutely."

Hands are shaken and pleasantries exchanged once you and Chan are invited upstairs and into a large, white conference room that feels far too sterline and uninhabited for your liking. The place feels open, yet uninviting in a way that grates on your nerves and incites the kind of anxiety that you've not felt in these situations for many, many years.

One positive, is that the three men that you're meant to be working with today seem relatively uninterested in you, particularly. From one head of the table, you set your coffee down and begin unpacking a briefcase full of paperwork, envelopes, and a laptop crammed full of numbers and offerings and statistics meant to make this a home run. You know that it will be, you believe wholly that it will, but as you glance up and across what feels to be an impossibly long table towards the grouping of men chuckling and laughing amongst themselves, you can't help but feel something else that you've not felt in such a long time.

The all-encompassing suffocation of male cliquiness. 

The Boys Club. They exist in so many spaces, and far from unheard of in your particular line of work. You watch on—particularly at Chan—as he smiles and laughs along with men that take absolutely no interest in you, your work, or what you bring to the table. They all playfully slap each other's arms and nod along to their stupid jokes like they've been best friends since the playground, and you are left out of it entirely.

Once you're settled, you stare at them and their childishness for what feels like an eternity, until finally you decide upon being the bad guy and taking matters into your own hands.

You clear your throat, "mind if we get started?"

The laughter stops dead in its tracks, all joy seemingly sucked out of the room at a lightning quick pace, and the men slowly turn to grant you their obvious looks of abject disapproval.

Though, you can't help but wonder which part they are disapproving of, exactly; be it the fact that it is time to begin the meeting, or the fact that a woman has the audacity to tell them as much.

Still, they follow suit without a disgruntled word. Chan makes his way around the table to meet you where you stand, but as the two of you meet eyes, he nods at you. The quiet insistence for you to take the lead. Not that you had any plans otherwise.

So, you do. With the laptop hooked up and the projection upon the wall, you begin going over statistics for the men to look over, take in, eventually discuss amongst themselves. It's easy work for you, knowing all of this information and all of the inner workings of your profession like the back of your hand.

One man raises a hand slightly into the air, a pen perched between his fingers as he nods towards the projector.

"What was the annual turnover for 2019 and how did that impact the immediate years going forward?"

He is looking at Chan when he asks the question, though your colleague has not said a word the entire time. You want to be better than the urge to present yourself in a way unbecoming of women in your position, because you know that anything you do can be interpreted as such, but the anger and desire for hostility gets the better of you when you reply back to him.

"2.3%, and the impact was minimal, easily dealt with internally with very little felt as a result of it throughout other sectors of the company."

The man asking raises his eyebrows, as if surprised by the fact that you have spoken. You've swallowed down your pride that would come out as far more aggressive than simply answering the question, so if he has an issue with you doing so now, you know precisely what to chalk it up as.

He turns to look at his colleagues first, then his attention falls back to you with a foul curl to the corner of his lips.

"I asked him," he says, pointing his pen at Chan. "Not you."

To this, Chan reels physically. You're not looking at him, not paying him any mind in particular, but you can see as much out of the corner of your eye from where he stands beside you. Now, your eyebrows perk up at the insidiousness of what's so outwardly and openly taking place here, but not so willing to take it on as a defeat just yet.

"With all due respect," you reply, calm and unshaken as you can be. Practiced, throughout the years. "I've been working at this company for six years, been through the lowest of the lows and had a personal hand in ensuring that it reached its highest of highs. While my colleague is knowledgeable and well-respected, this meeting is being led by me, so I would appreciate it if any questions be directed as such."

This feels good. Far from the first time you've had to stick up for yourself in such a way, you exhale the nerves through a semi-shaken breath and settle yourself where you stand. You're still not looking at him, but you do notice the fought back creeping of a smile across his lips.

The joys of victory end quickly, however.

Another man speaks up, this one seated across the way from the first indignant fellow.

"With all due respect," he begins, mocking you. "I believe I speak for all of the men in the room when I say that the only questions we're particularly interested in asking you relate to the snugness of your skirt around your hips and ass, and if there are ever questions relating back to the professional aspect of this engagement, we will be addressing your colleague."

The mixture of emotions that course through you is electric, impossible to parse through and pick just one out to focus on. Anxiety, anger, humiliation, regret, terror, sadness; they all rage through your nerves. Your skin feels hot, a sort of dizziness coming in on you quickly that you don't appreciate, because now is not the time to be experiencing weakness. Your lips part to speak, still unsure of what to even say. Flabbergasted, you attempt to find the words—some words—to fire back at these horrible men, but your mind feels simultaneously full and empty. How can that be. 

A woman who prides herself on being the best and brightest in the room, dwindled down to nothing at the hands of useless, pathetic men who bring nothing to the table besides those already aforementioned.

"Alright, let's not get out of hand," Chan says, cutting in through the awkward silence. This appears to appease the men, which you dislike even more though you understand his reasoning for doing it. "My colleague is very well-respected in her profession and incredibly knowledgeable. Perhaps it would be best if we make quick work of wrapping this up and heading off on our separate ways."

For the rest of the meeting, Chan takes the lead. The men down the way open up splendidly, laugh and have a wonderful time with another man in charge, saying all of the same things you had said, reading off of all of the sheets of information that you compiled, that you slaved away at for weeks, for months at a time. Countless late nights with nothing more than the television for company in the background and a frozen pizza in the oven in order to make sure that you will never, ever be the recipient of the kinds of unreasonable lashings that you have taken on today.

All for nothing.

You don't dare speak another word, and sit in the shadow cast by your colleague. When the meeting concludes, the business men are happy; smiling and laughing along with any and everything Chan says. They love him. They love him not because he is knowledgeable, or good at his job in a way that is particularly extraordinary, but simply because he is not a woman. Simply because he is not you.

This sort of dichotomy has always existed, and in every facet of life, too. When buried into your work and the insular walls of your typical professional environment, suppose that it's easy to forget what it's like out here, in the real world. Where men do not respect you whether you're better than them or not, all in all, the result is the same, anyway.

Suppose the CEO has prepared you for this moment, a smaller humiliation only to set you up for one much larger and harder to swallow down the pain of.

Chan handles these men—the situation as a whole—as well as he can, you suppose. There is a kind of pain that settles in your chest at his unwillingness to turn it into a fight, though logically, you understand how pointless this might be for everyone involved. How short-lived the joy of bombing this meeting might be, only so that the suffering of your ego-death be even shorter-lived.

Just get in, and then get out, as relatively unscathed as you can manage. Chan has picked up the pieces left scattered around to the best of his ability and really, with flying colors. 

It does not change, however, the deeply nestled pain of being on the receiving end of such corrupt wrongdoings.

The taxi ride back to the hotel is silent, and you're thankful for the fact that Chan does not make so much as an attempt to say a word.

On the small table just beside you, there sits a tall, green bottle of wine with no glass to accompany it. You've decided against it, and that drinking straight from the source will suit you just fine as a consolation prize on the balcony tonight.

One of the charms of Los Angeles, you find, is the weather in the evenings. A cool breeze that gently carries over your features and through your hair as you stand against the railing and gaze out at the still-busy streets down below. There's a part of you that wishes to have the will to go out and enjoy the city on the last night here, and with your work responsibilities settled, but the mood of previous encounters still sits heavy on your chest, dampening any hope of enjoying yourself before your flight tomorrow morning.

Though many, long hours have passed since the morning, conversation between you and Chan have been few and far between. You understand it well enough as him, knowing the time and place to engage with a person after being so horrifically wronged, so when the glass door slowly slides open and he brings himself outside to join you, your heavy heart welcomes the intrusion, rather than resents it.

"Hey," he says, barely above a whisper. "Mind if I come out?"

Your smile is thin and straight, hardly able to be called such. "Sure, take a seat."

There's only one wobbly  wooden chair next to the table. A ridiculous design from all angles of consideration, but Chan doesn't bother arguing with you and slowly slinks himself down into what it has to offer him.

His hair is damp and freshly toweled off after a shower—loose curls sticking up every which way as if looking for a means to escape from his head. You smile at the sight, appreciate how approachable and kind he appears when he isn't done up in a professional setting like you're used to seeing. There's a realization that has dawned on you at some point during the day, though you have difficulty in pinpointing the precise time, where you come to accept your softening heart towards your colleague. 

Perhaps on account of your forced togetherness, perhaps aided by his willingness to diffuse a situation in what might have been the best way that he knew how in the moment. No, he didn't enact violence upon those men in that office space, and yes, it would have been nice to see, but solve something, it wouldn't have, and suppose all you had really hoped to do was escape further escalation as quietly as the situation would allow for, anyway.

"I'm sorry about what happened earlier." Chan is the first to speak up since seated, the first to bring up the whole thing since its having taken place. "It's so fucked. Simple, pathetic men with a chip on their shoulder who can't handle acknowledging that a woman is capable of doing their job, and more."

"Yeah," you sigh, turning towards him in an effort to grab the wine bottle once more. "Guess it's not anything I'm not used to, though it's been a long time since it's so blatantly been shoved in front of my face."

You take a large sip, and then laugh to yourself before continuing on with a similar thought.

"Actually, I guess that's not true, considering our boss pretty much did the same thing right before sending us out on this mission."

Turned to face him now, you watch Chan's features scrunch like he's fighting back the urge to speak his mind plainly, though evidently, it is a fight meant to be lost.

"Look, it's really none of my business what you do," he says, a seemingly rattled hand rushing to run fingers through his hair, "but do you really think it serves you to keep seeing that guy? God, he's such a fucking asshole, airing out your personal business to other colleagues and then waving it around in the office right before sending us on this trip—I wouldn't be surprised if those guys were friends of his, too. Birds of a feather, and all that, you know?"

Another sip, though now you're looking down at Chan with a kind of surprised gratitude. 

"No, I don't think it does, though it'll be mighty interesting finding out how navigating those professional waters will work out for me. Suppose that's the position I've put myself in, though."

It's then that Chan stands, all white bathrobe and silly hair that warms your heart as he closes much of the small amount of distance that previously would sit before the two of you. With this new, closer proximity, it's easier to take in the charming slope of his nose and the plump, pretty fullness of his lips.

"The only people in this equation who are wrong for what they've done is him, and those pieces of shit from this morning." He pauses—the both of you do—and for a moment you think each of your breaths to be held in suspension as to what it is that's going to happen next. Chan's eyes remain fixed on yours for so long, and as you feel your temperature rise across your skin and the beat of your heart pick up in some unfamiliar sort of anticipation, you're able to see his gaze flicker down to your lips for just a second before once again settling on maintaining eye contact. "Yeah, you've been kind of an asshole to me, to other people in the office, but that doesn't mean you're deserving of this. No woman is deserving of being subjected to this, regardless of who it is that you decide to sleep with, and for what reason."

If not for his soft demeanor standing right before you, you might believe him to be angry with how he sounds. He must be, though he carries himself well enough as to not let it come out in ugly and unpleasant ways; and as a result, the quick and hard beating of your heart within your chest only picks up that much more. Since when does this guy have such an absurd effect on you?

"I've seen the work you put in, so I'm in a pretty good position to make the call," Chan says, inching himself just ever so slightly closer to you. His voice drops lower now, and accompanying it, the less subtle eyeing of your mouth in relation to his. "You're better than this, you're better than probably all of these blokes here."

"Is that so?" you whisper in response, and though the sentiment is appreciated, you must acknowledge within yourself that the topic of conversation has fallen quite a bit to the wayside in favor of something far more intriguing, something far newer, and more enticing. 

"It is." He inches closer yet, only suspected millimeters of distance still held between your mouths. "I'm a pretty good judge of character, you know."

"Says the guy who used to hang out with our boss to get ahead."

Chan grins at your playful combativeness before replying, "Just doing what it takes, I'd have slept with him too if the opportunity were to arise."

Free hand coming up to feather over the softness of his robe, your palm smoothes across his chest and the definition that lies beneath before speaking.

"You know, I'm technically your superior, too."

"Oh?" he chimes, eyebrows perked. "Is that so?"

"Technically," you answer with a small shrug. "I've got you on length of employment, by a couple of years."

Caged in against the railing of the balcony, Chan's lips reside so close to your own that they nearly ghost over the flesh. He smells of mint and rosemary from having been freshly washed—all the more damning for you and your budding curiosity about him.

"Should I give up on trying to sleep with him, then?" Chan asks, a seductive playfulness laced throughout each and every word. "Move on to different, more promising prospects?"

"Only one way to find out."

When Chan finally closes the distance fully and kisses you, it's not as hard, not as rushed as you previously had anticipated it to be. The kiss is careful, a want that resides deeply nestled beneath it but far from the thing that grants unbridled haste and need. His lips are soft, the tug of his teeth at your bottom lip experimental as he tests the waters in regard to what he should or should not be doing, but it's a kind of trepidation that only has you eager for more from him. Your fingers grip tightly into the robe, a light pull in order to have his body more firmly and intentionally against your own, and it must be precisely the sort of green light he had been looking for, because the delicate slide of his tongue to find yours enters into the mix, and now you have no other choice but to accept that your original plan in hostile takeover has ultimately ended up in yet another failure.

Though this one is far more appreciated, and you've got to admit, you're happy to go home tomorrow with this sort of loss sitting on your scorecard.

The day of your return home is long and full of travel, though this does little to stave off all of the thoughts of what could, and might be.

Falling hard and fast has never been you. Through the years you've dedicated to your professional development, you've met people, shared bed and intimacies with people that never were to develop beyond the simple gratification that the two of you granted each other in those moments. You try to think back to the last time you really wanted someone; not physically, not sexually, but as a larger and more intrinsic part of your life.

But you can't, not until now.

Chan offers you a ride back to your home from the airport once the both of you land. The taxi is long and expensive, and while money is of no consequence to you, there is a much firmer inkling within that wishes to have just a little bit more time together that isn't set between the walls of a stuffy office that you now have come to have great disdain for.

Driving on the highway, you roll your window down slightly and enjoy the breeze as it's offered to you. The horizon paints itself with colors of pink, purple, and orange as the sun begins to set; normally something of no interest to you, but now? Now, a newfound beauty in all of it.

You barely know Chan, but what you've learned in a short amount of time has you eager to find out more. You can't help but wonder if he feels the same.

"Hey, uh."

As if reading your mind, Chan pipes up from the driver's side, a nervousness in his voice that you aren't quite familiar with but has you eager to hear more.

"Look, no pressure, yeah? But…think you might be interested in coming back to mine and having a drink, or just to talk?"

Thank all of the powers that be, you think to yourself.

"Yeah, that'd be nice," you say, trying to temper your interest. "Let's do that."

Chan's place is nice. Comfortable, cared for, but cozy. 

As you step inside and remove your shoes, you look around to take in your surroundings. The furniture is nice, but not lavishly so. Pretty vases with flowers and hanging picture frames showing memories of friends and family adorning his walls that come off as inviting, and not showy. In juxtaposition, you find yourself thinking back to so many other places that you've visited in the past—homes that feel far less like them, and more like museums. Do not touch. The empty atmosphere of being unlived in.

A cork pops off from a bottle just a bit inside and around a corner, thus, you follow the invitation of it. Chan stands in his kitchen pouring two glasses of wine, and you take a seat at the small, glass, dining room table in wait.

"Workplace romances are forbidden, you know."

Well, that is certainly one way for you to broach the topic.

And while you've been mulling it over the whole day, you had decided upon this as the best route. It's simplistic enough to get the point across, but also light-hearted in a way that it doesn't need to be taken too seriously in consideration by Chan. The concept of an office romance being so broad that there is difficulty in necessarily pinpointing what does, or does not, fit within the definition.

But the two of you have kissed, and there is clearly some degree of interest. So, it applies well enough to be used as the shoe horn.

However, Chan only smiles as he finishes up the task of pouring the drinks. He glances up at you briefly, then carries on with what it is that he is doing before replying.

"Okay," he says. Not giving you much to work with until he comes around the table and sits beside you, wine glasses set onto the tabletop. "Then I'll quit."

"Wait, what?"

You don't expect this answer, and it certainly doesn't make any sense to you, either. Yes, things have been moving relatively quickly in your own mind, and as far as your own feelings are concerned, but has the same been true for him? To this degree, at that?

He shrugs. "I'll quit. It's not a big deal, I don't even like that place, and I sure as hell don't like our boss, so I'll just find another job if it means we can keep doing this comfortably."

Chan punctuates the thought with a sip of his drink, so nonchalant. Like the most absurd thing hasn't just come out of his mouth with incredible conviction.

"I…but…" you stutter out, trying to gather your thoughts. "You barely even know me, and if I'm being honest, it sounds a little crazy to be willing to give up such a huge position at a company just to date a colleague that wasn't even that nice to you only a couple of days ago."

"Yeah, I suppose when you put it like that, it does sound a little crazy." Chan takes another bored sip of wine. "I did tell you I'm a pretty good judge of character, though."

A beat of silence passes between the two of you, and you take it as an opportunity to bring your own glass up and to your lips before speaking into the rim. "Going to give up your job so you can sleep with me."

"Well, not just sleep with you, though I guess that depends on how good it is."

You choke on the sip.

"I'm a big boy, I can make career decisions for myself, even if that decision is to effectively and temporarily blow mine up." Chan's hand finds your thigh beneath the table then, fingertips gently digging into the flesh of the inside. "The rest is up to you, though. We can call all of this off right here, right now, and go to work tomorrow like nothing ever happened."

With the back of your neck heating up and the light prickling of goosebumps across your skin, you set your glass down, inhale deeply, and then look Chan square in the eyes.

"Maybe it's about time you earn that next promotion."

"You know—"

Chan whispers the words out and against your lips, through fervent kisses so quick and needy that he's barely able to say anything, at all. Hands are busy at work to slip the both of you out of your business attire from the day; button down shirts, belts, slacks, and skirts strewn hastily about the hardwood flooring of his bedroom while stumbling desperately towards the bed.

"I never thought my next promotion would be getting myself fired."

"Life is just full of surprises," you say, pushing him to the edge of the bed and gently down on top of it. "Isn't it?"

He doesn't bother responding, however, instead fixated on the way you drop to your knees between his legs and lightly graze a palm over the tenting at the front of his undergarments.

Fingers hooking into the elastic sides, you drop them down his thighs, freeing what it is that you really wish to see of him. You wrap a hand around the thick base of his length, gently stroking him to a fullness that was already so close to being reached. Chan sighs into the touch first, then a light groan that catches in his throat at the feeling of your tongue traversing up the underside of him, only to curve around the tip and then sink down whole to take him in.

One hand comes up to find the back of your head, though there's no force behind the gesture as you work him with your mouth. The wide stretch is enough to already have you feeling the fatigue of such an offering, but the heavenly sound of Chan quickly unraveling beneath you is enough to have you ignoring the ache that comes along with the wonder of such a large cock.

"Fuck, you feel good," he exhales, hips ever so slightly canting up to meet your mouth as you take him deeper in.

You pull off slowly, looking up the length of his perfect, toned body to meet his heavily lidded eyes. Hand still stroking him as you do. "You know what feels better?"

"I can guess."

With that, Chan leans forward and grasps you by the wrist—pulls you up and onto the bed with the kind of strength you couldn't dare fight against if you wanted to. Swapping your positions, you find yourself splayed out against the mattress and with hands already busy prying your thighs apart to accommodate him before you're even able to gather your senses.

A lone finger slides up your wet crease, stilling at the most sensitive part of you. Your body jolts at the feeling, looking down as Chan grins only inches away from the place where you want him the most.

"Would you hold it against me if I told you I wanted to fuck you the moment we landed in LA?" he admits, and punctuates the thought with a languid stroke of his tongue following where his finger has just traveled. "Never would have said anything in a million years but—God, the way you look dressed for work like that? So professional and serious, couldn't stop thinking about what you'd sound like if I just—"

Chan pauses the thought, digs his tongue and the plush of his lips more firmly against your clit and gently offers the sensation of being filled by two fingers simultaneously. You can't help the whine that falls from your mouth, though you make a half-hearted attempt to catch it before it does. One hand of fingers curling into the bedding below, the other finding Chan's hair to wrap the curls up and between; he wastes no further time showing precisely the kind of want that he has quietly carried for you. Dizzying and electric beneath your skin, hips bucking up ever so slightly and without conscious thought to find more of him as he grants it to you.

"I was so mean to you, though," you manage to say through heavy breaths and moans, "would you hold it against me if I told you I considered fucking you to try to ruin you? Professionally, of course."

The sounds that this information musters up and out of Chan can only be described as the most animalistic, primal groan of hedonistic want that you've ever heard.

"Yeah? You're going to ruin me?" he replies, fingers still pressed inside of you and a thumb firmly sitting at your clit. "Might have to revisit who's going to be ruining who."

Disappearing off and to the side, Chan makes such quick work of dealing with the necessities that you almost don't even notice his having done so. He stands afterwards—all but hauls you further up the length of the bed to accommodate his being there as well, and then positions himself between your legs once more as he drags the thickness of his cock through the wetness that awaits him.

"Maybe I sort of like it when you're mean to me, ever consider that?" Chan asks, coy in tone. One hand gripping into the soft flesh of your thigh as to hold you open for him while the other sits firm at the base of his cock, blunt head only slightly pressing at your opening. "Maybe it was all just a plot by me to get you to talk to me like a piece of shit so that I could then, in turn, fuck you stupid like we both want."

And while you would love to fight the point, the steady drive of Chan's hips forward makes for that to be an impossibility. The stretch of him carving out space inside of you for his cock is dizzying, slow and careful as he does so. You whine and sigh out as he pulls your body onto him until he rests fully inside.

"You talk a big game," Chan says then, gently fucking into you as his hands slide down and settle around your hips for leverage. "But at least you can take a big dick too, can't you?"

It's so much happening all at once, your senses in overdrive at the way that he's speaking to you almost condescendingly, paired with how pulled apart from the seams your body feels in order to accommodate his thickness. Once settled into more of a steady, offering drive into you, the friction is mind-numbing—feeling so full that not one single nerve ending finding reprieve from the hug of your body around his cock.

You reach forward with one hand, grasping at a strong, tensed arm that shows beneath the flesh each and every muscle he has worked so hard for. Your nails dig in, and as a result, he fucks you harder, faster; hips snapping roughly against the undersides of your thighs.

"Fuck, Chan, don't—don't stop."

"Yeah? Like it that much, huh?" His grip on your hips gets harder, and the strength in his upper body now fully used to pull your body down and against his cock with every drive. "You're taking it so good, maybe one of these days we'll see how good your pretty body can take it when I fill you up with my cum, yeah?"

And you want to be better than this, stronger than this. Stronger than the way that the words go straight into your already pained and needing arousal—tightening around him, an orgasm now threatening on the horizon much faster than originally anticipated.

You gasp out his name, repeating expletives in droves like a hopeless chant that you have no control of as a knowing smirk paints across his lips and he continues on with the work he is putting into your body.

"Want that," he says, breath shaky. "Want me to come in you. Now who's the one of us earning something?"

Grip into his skin tightening just that much more, your back arches up and off of the bed; thighs shaking and muscles tightening as you grit your teeth through the way that your orgasm shakes you. Chan never stops, the glide of his cock so smooth and easy between your walls that even through the stiffness of your body as you come, the strength that he holds makes it easy to use your form to fuck himself with as he watches you release around him with enamored appreciation.

It doesn't take much more from him, and you feel the way he fucks into you becoming more erratic, more needy and without plan as he aims to find his release. Though you've just finished, and need and want for him still courses through your veins at a lightning quick pace, and thus, when you beg for him in a whine to come on your body, it's a kind of humiliation that you'll have to deal with only after the fact. 

But not now.

Chan groans, deep and nestled into his chest as he pulls himself from the warmth of you and pulls the condom off—you watch him stroke over his wet, thick cock by hand quickly—taking in the sight of how the definition of his abdomen and chest flex as he reaches closer and closer to his end.

"Anything for you," he says, though the words are barely audible and totally destroyed in the dryness of his throat. "Little cock-drunk, are you? Don't worry baby, I'll give you what you want."

While his tone is just ever so slightly condescending, there's a sort of sexiness in the confidence of it that does, indeed, drive you even crazier with each and every utterance of it. Chan strokes himself to completion shortly after; free hand coming up to find your clit and carefully rubbing you along with him as he comes. The both of you moan in unison, watching the way his cum paints your chest and stomach in such a lewd fashion before the momentum naturally slows, as does his hand.

Chests heaving, Chan is the first to cough out a laugh in the aftermath of it all.

"Did I get carried away?"

"No," you say through a heavy, exhausted exhale. "No, not at all. Fuck."

"Good?"

You give him a tired look in response, not wanting to give him the pleasure of acknowledging it with words.

Chan appears to accept this with a smile, leaning down and capturing your lips with his own. It's not needy, not full of lust as before. Now, laced within it is something completely different, and not unlike the first time that the two of you shared a kiss together.

You opt out of spending the night together, on account of having work early in the morning and wanting to be proper fresh for the occasion. None of your belongings are here, none of your work clothes—only items hours traveled in and then lightly carrying the musk of two people far too hasty in going at one another. 

Still, you can't help but consider what the aftermath of this truly looks like for the both of you in the workplace. Of course, Chan admits a willingness in the moment to quit his job for the opportunity of the two of you exploring this—but how much truth could really be lying within those words? 

A man who barely knows you, who has no real reason to be willing to do such a thing for you. What makes you so special, anyway?

Suppose the next morning in the office will tell.

Stepping into the office, you aren't so sure what you expect to find, only that what you have found is most definitely not it.

People are running all about, through the corridors, in and out of cubicle spaces, phones ringing and ringing for what sounds like forever with the sound of shouting into receivers coming from every single direction.

You walk in further, down the hallway towards your own personal office—but just before you make it there, your boss cranes his head out from his own just a bit further down the way and shouts at you for the world to hear.

"You! Get in here, now! What have you done?"

Eyes wide and eyebrows pressed up towards the ceiling, you can't help but wonder to yourself; what have I done?

Once you make it inside, you don't even bother closing the door behind you. Privacy isn't needed now, in part because a new side of you has been unlocked since this trip—a part of you that doesn't care. A part of you that has long since resigned yourself to simply not giving a shit about any of this. Not like you used to, not in the same way that once allowed for it to take, and take, and take from you without ever truly giving back.

You're free now.

"Did you know that Chris quit?" the man shouts, hair tousled and random papers lying thoughtlessly around his desk. "What did you do on that trip? What did you do to him you little—you little…bitch."

These words, once upon a time that is not even all that long ago, might have hurt you in such an inexplicable way, but now, the concept of such a thing seems so unfathomable, so far away from you. The cutting edge of a knife meant to maim, only now it slides off of you effortlessly—this man can no longer hurt you, and soon, you have decided, he can no longer take from you, either.

"I didn't do anything to him, sir." You smile, accompanying the words. "Though I don't think the same can be said for me. I think he's done a lot to me in a very short time, and for that, I am incredibly thankful."

The man pauses, looks at you with an empty stare before his eyebrows firmly knit together in a grimace. He intends to speak, but you are no longer interested in hearing anything from him.

"I quit, too."

Turning back towards the door, you hear the man stumbling over his words in an attempt to get something of use out. For once, it would seem, he is left speechless. The ideal version of him, you can't help but think.

"You can pay out my severance as intended under typical circumstances, and if you don't, I'll send everything to HR and contact a lawyer to take you for everything that you're worth," you add in, glancing back over your shoulder. "And I will win."

"Oh, and thanks for fucking me over so exquisitely on this work trip, I actually think it worked out in everyone's best interest."

Halfway out of the door, you hum, then turn back towards him for the last time with a smug, gratified smirk.

"Well, except maybe for you."

Your hectic surroundings as you leave the office for the very last time feel like nothing but static noise. Inconsequential and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. You don't know what the future holds for you, or for Chan, or for whatever it is that the two of you might have budding and blossoming together. It sort of doesn't matter, which you find to be the beauty of a new beginning.

When the elevator sounds off upon reaching the bottom floor, the metal doors part, and standing in the marble lobby is a familiar face that you're certainly not expecting to see.

Chan stands there before you; all fitted jeans and comfortable black hoodie. A casual side of him that you've not seen before, but are so delighted to be able to that it ignites a fluttering in your chest that perhaps you've not felt since grade school.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.

He tries to fight back the smile, but to no avail. "I knew you were going to quit, so I figured I'd be here to get you when you did."

"I didn't come here this morning with the intention of doing that."

"I'm sure you didn't." Chan swings the loop of his keys around on a finger nonchalantly. "But I still knew you would. Breakfast?"

Three days isn't long enough to say I love you, but there's a previously locked away, fairytale side of you that's certainly thinking it right about now.

"We're both unemployed, should we be going out and getting breakfast?"

Chan tsks at that, "we're top executives in our field, we'll both be head-hunted before we even start looking. Besides—"

Reaching down, Chan takes the hand not holding a briefcase into his own, pointedly fitting fingers in between your own and looking straight into your eyes.

"Can't a guy take his girlfriend out for a waffle?"

Yes, yes he most certainly can.

♡ hope you enjoyed.

—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.

#bang chan smut #bang chan x reader #bang chan x y/n #bang chan x you #bang chan scenarios #bang chan imagines #stray kids smut #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader #stray kids x y/n #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #skz smut #skz x reader #skz x you #skz x y/n #skz imagines #skz scenarios

[makethosenarratorsfight]

UNRELIABLE NARRATORS; SIDE C

*NOTE; propaganda is out of order due to poll length!

Eugenides Propaganda:

the entire plot hinges on a detail he lets the reader (and every other character) assume is true. I don't want to spoil it because it's a really fun reveal but he is lying from the first second he appears on the page and you can't trust him to tell the full truth about ANYTHING related to himself and his goals. he mostly does it to keep his advantage and not have other characters be suspicious of him but it's just so fun when you realise he's been lying the whole time

Harrowhark Propaganda:

She gave herself a lobotomy and gives completely incorrect flashbacks to the previous book. Things that straight up did not happen. Gaslight gatekeep girlboss.

She’s schizophrenic (confirmed by the author) and also lives in a world with necromancy and ghostly revenants. She’s not just an unreliable narrator for readers, she’s an unreliable narrator of her own internal experience. She knows this and has to work with people around her to compensate for it. Descent into spoilerville below. Seriously Do Not Read if you want to read these books. There’s also the little matter about how she is *not actually the narrator* of a huge chunk of the story that we are initially led to believe is being told from her perspective.

(Spoilers) Holy shit she is THE most unreliable narrator. This gremlin gave herself a lobotomy so that she could forget about Gideon Nav, the most important person in her life (for magic soul-preserving reasons) so half of the second book in the series is spent gaslighting the reader about a book they just read. She comes up with an entire alternate version of the events of the first book in the series to carefully exclude any mentions of Gideon, and any time someone says ‘Gideon’ in front of her she LITERALLY has a stroke and/or an intercranial hemorrhage as her brain overwrites the word with someone else’s name. God occasionally intentionally triggers her memory revision to get out of difficult conversations. She also hallucinates ALL the time (unrelated to the lobotomy). She shows up at her frenemy’s room in the middle of the night (think little kid stumbling to their parents’ room and saying “I frew up”) to ask her to come check underneath her bed for the corpse that’s been wandering the space station. When frenemy checks underneath the bed, frenemy claims not to see anything, and Harrow is such an unbelievably unreliable narrator that it’s an open question in the fandom as to whether frenemy genuinely didn’t see the corpse or if frenemy was just yanking Harrow’s chain. Harrow is also haunted by a literal ghost that fucks up her already fucked up alternate history. Girlie will pick up a piece of paper and read from it the most violent and haunting piece of prose ever composed, when in reality all that’s written on the paper is the elementary school Superman S*. I am NOT joking that is a real goddamn scene. Harrow was created to win this poll. TLDR; she has brain damage and memory loss, she hallucinates, and is also haunted. * https://twitter.com/vestenet/status/1301012651145859072

Girl is so unreliable, she unreliably tells me events I was there for!!! She's retelling the previous book and I'm like "girlie, this is absolutely not how it happened". Also, she gave herself a DIY lobotomy, it has to impact your memory center I guess

She literally had a lobotomy, how can she be reliable

More Propaganda under cut!

Harrowhark is simply the unreliable narrator of all time. Can’t remember shit because of a lifetime of trauma? Check. Maybe lying to yourself and those around you a bit? Most definitely. Being gaslit by the survivors you depend on to orient you to reality? For sure. How about a little bit of canon schizophrenia? She’s got it all. Ghosts? Or something? Spirits that are attached in some way to your body and are not perceivable by others? Sure, sure! But how about spirits that are attached in some way to your body and are gonna use you to hijack others’ bodies and maybe kill God, too? Absolutely. Wee bit of DIY brain surgery? If it would make you an unreliable narrator, friends, then Harrowhark Nonagesimus has been there, been subjected to that!

Okay I don't know that much about this series since I haven't convinced myself to read all of the first book, but this is my blorbo in law so I'd feel bad not spreading propaganda (all of what I'm saying is something I've read, as to prevent myself from straight up submitting misinformation). So all of Harrow's unreliable narration takes place in the second book, Harrow the Ninth. Basically, without her even seemingto acknowledge it, Harrow's brain is very fucked up during this book, to the point where even she's not sure how reliable her narrative is. There's many questions left unclear as a result of her fucked up little brain, like what's real, what's fake, whether we can trust her judgement, whether even she can trust her own judgement, whether her original cavalier is dead or not (Harrow is convinced she is), etc. Let me tell you, I adore unreliable narrators who aren't even that sure if they're reliable. I have yet to eat that trope up here in this circumstance, but this poll might not run again by the time I do, so for now, here's my messed up blorbo in law.

OKAY SO REMEMBER MY GIDEON SUBMISSION? HARROW DOESN’T! SPOILERS AHEAD BECAUSE SHE LOBOTOMIZED HERSELF TO FORGET GIDEON BECAUSE THAT’S A HEALTHY WAY TO GRIEVE AND THEN IN THE ONLY PARTS OF HER BOOK THAT SHE NARRATES (THE REVISED CANAAN HOUSE PARTS) IT’S LITERALLY A ROOM FULL OF GHOSTS HER BRAIN SUMMONED TO DEAL WITH THE FACT THAT SHE CUT HER BRAIN IN HALF TO FORGET GIDEON. she also is a) haunted and b) psychotic, experiencing hallucinations her entire life of both the ghosts haunting her and less supernatural hallucinations- bells tolling, bones rattling, her parents (some of the only dead people NOT haunting her), etc! in the revised history of canaan house that her brainghosts invent, she brings along someone who knows about her psychosis to help reality check her when she tells him go! her caregiver as a child and support when she got older, crux, is a horrible man- but at one point, when someone other than harrow is in harrow’s body and tells him “i am not harrowhark, i am sorry,” his response is simply “aye, you’ve said that before too. who are you then, if not my lady harrowhark?” showing his familiarity with her psychosis and his love for the child he wouldn’t dare see as a daughter. but enough about that lets talk about her unreliable narration! she lies about her feelings of course but she also simply hides the truth from everyone, all the time, compulsively. also literally the entire section of her book that she narrates is a lie she’s telling US about a lie she’s telling HERSELF and no one understands even a little bit of the truth until like the last act of the book. queen.

#eugenides #the queens thief #queens thief #harrowhark #harrowhark nonagesimus #harrow the ninth #unreliable narrator battle #unreliable narrators #polls #side c

[midnightanxietytm]

He takes his whiskey neat

A/N: Look, I think i was possessed while writing this one /j. It was like 1 am and I was procrastination on college work, I dunno what happened but this is the ungodly spawn of my imagination mixed with sleep deprivation, caffeine and stress. Enjoy and don't question it too much

Contents: Ford Pines x reader, pinning (lots of pining), I pictured reader in their late 40s to early 50s so there is an age gap but nothing extreme. There's some plot in those holes. uhhh lots of tension and no payoff because im pretty sure I passed out before I got to that part.

Word count: 996

There’s this look on his eyes now that you can’t quite figure out.

Ever since Stanford Pines came back from the portal, ever since weirdmageddon and the end of that fateful summer, something about him fundamentally changed. There’s contempt, relief, sure, but there's more to it, something that he keeps deep in that rattling metal-protected brain of his.

And god forbid sometimes you just want to pick him apart entirely, figure out every detail, note it down, absorb it, maybe then his mere presence won’t entice you, mess you, so goddamn much.

It culminates, as all events are bound to do, right before that year’s summer vacation, you blame the heat. 

Soos and Melody took a vacation for themselves, entrusting the shack back to Stan’s less than trustworthy hands, just like old times. Ford slips back into the basement so easily you almost follow him; your mind briefly longing for that nostalgia of being freshly out of college, when you and Ford were easily impressed by the oddness of the world.

You were a prodigy; a good ten years younger than him yet still doing your masters while he did his doctorate, and in the same area with similar themes! Back then, you two were just bright-eyed yet very tired academics… Then Gravity Falls presented itself on a silver platter, and Bill followed through.

You were there, on the day of the portal, or at least, almost there, going back for the thousandth time, expecting no answer to your knocks at the door as usual, only to be met with the fallout of something far worse than refusal.

And then he was back, less jittery, less paranoid and less sleep deprived than he was before at least. But there was that thing in his eyes, that inherent distrust, detachment…? You struggled to find the words and if there’s one thing that you as a scientist can’t deal with is a question that goes unresearched.

So it began; your “research” depended on experiment and to experiment, you firstly decided to get close to your unwilling subject. And you go down the rabbit hole.

You find him in the basement, of course. He’s drawing on loose sheets of paper, some of the discarded pieces lay on the floor, and the cd player by his side is playing just loud enough to muffle your footsteps as you approach him by his right side. “Updating the journal?” You ask, nonchalantly, as if you hadn't obsessively turned each page of his journals before, as if your own handwriting wasn’t squeezed in the first ones before his old muse took all the space left.

Ford just hums, raising his chin slightly, but not his eyes, just to acknowledge the question. “Not really, just trying to get some proportion practice. Looking back, some of my work on the first journal was… Not the best.” 

A chuckle leaves your mouth; “If you say so…” You hum, picking up one of the filled out pages that were pushed aside in the table and pretending to look it over as he places his pen down and looks up at you.

“Any advice?” He asks, and once again you pretend to be paying attention to anything but him and his every movement.

“Not really… I think you’re good.” You place the paper back at the table, leaning against it. “Thought you’d be going through your abstract phase by now, honestly.” And you smirk down at him.

He leans back, crossing his arms; “I fear I’m too logical to have an abstract phase, even my craziest dreams have math and science behind them.” And you both laugh, and your curiosity itches more and more every millisecond.

The next words that leave your mouth were planned and inwardly rehearsed, but they come out natural as a summer breeze. “Every tortured artist has an abstract phase, get on with the times, sixer!” It comes out as a joke, it's a test. And suddenly you’re too nervous to stay there, staring at him and waiting for a rebuttal. You push yourself off the table and zipline to one of the bookshelves, reaching towards the back of it, you pull the ‘eureka whiskey’ and the two cups.

He just watches you for a second, then accepts the cup as you pour him one, then one for yourself. 

And it’s truly the eureka whiskey, because goddamn you just found something in those eyes. 

He takes a sip; “Yeah I guess those portal days would do for some good surrealist pieces at least.”

“I can’t even imagine.” You say.

He smirks, lips inches from his cup. “You can’t…” He takes a sip. “That’s the point of surrealist.” You want his brain under a microscope, you want his breath mixing with yours, you want to never see him again, you want to wake up near him every day.

The curse of science is that in the endeavor to figure out the world, the scientist often loses sight of themselves. 

The witty remarks, the planned lines, the psychological strategies, all fly out of you head and you lean back against his desk. He’s leaned further back now and his chair is turned diagonally towards you and he watches with a smile and those eyes. “What did you see?” It’s almost a whisper, because you think he might actually tell you, and that scares you more than anything.

“Too much…” He swallows, sighs, takes a swing of whiskey and rests the empty cup on the desk. “It was very chaotic, honestly that’s all I want to say…” You sigh, pushing yourself up to sit at his desk, and his head tilts as he watches you. 

“I’m glad you’re back.” You settle, even though it doesn’t even come near to all the things you want to express. He smiles, and his eyes travel down, landing on your hands, holding your barely touched whiskey glass. You follow his gaze, and chuckle. “I’m more of a whine person.”

“I know…”

#midnight writes #taking requests #ford pines #ford x reader #ford pines x reader #grunkle ford #swooning over stans #fanfic writing #gravity falls #mutual pining #title inspired hozier's song #you know which one #too sweet #the author regrets nothing #hozier reference #asks open

[charmac]

They’re not allowed to read fanfic? Darn, I kind of assumed Rob found your Twitter handle from reading your fic since he didn’t seem to do anything else on twitter when he followed you

So it comes down to the basic idea of copyright. It’s not illegal or technically even banned, but since RCG are creators, writers, producers, etc. on Sunny and not just actors, it’s really a dicey area for them.

The copyright laws/legality of fanfiction is actually really interesting, there’s a long, messy modern history of fighting for the right to publish and protect fanfiction from studios and/or creators claiming copyright infringement. This use to be a huge issue where authors would send cease and desists to websites like Fanfiction.net to take down all fanfiction of their work. OTW (Ao3) kind of spearheaded the right for fanfiction to exist apart from what it's derived from. The T standing for Transformative argues that because fanworks ‘transform’ the content they are based off, they are exempt from copyright law, as long as there’s no profit. So we cannot find ourselves in legal trouble for publishing fanfiction. As long as it's transformative (aka you're not just republishing source material), it's new/original content.

So that means fanfiction kinda has its own protections in return. As long as you're not profiting off of your work, you have a right to claim that your fanfiction and the ideas that are new/original belong to you. Which means if there is ever any proof that a creator read your work and then a later episode (or sequel, book, etc.) reflected anything you wrote that was not already in the source material prior to that, it can get very messy, in that there may be grounds for you to claim they profited off of your work. So most creators (writers especially) avoid reading fan works.

You can see why for a show like Sunny they might be especially careful reading anything, since there’s so much you can do in that show. If RCG have an idea for something as simple as The Gang Goes Camping, for example, but they’ve previously seen or read a fan work that hit that plot they’d be pretty inclined to never make the episode.

The basic idea being that you don’t want to hinder what you can in good conscience, with no legal issues, write, so you avoid fanworks all together.

I'll give you an example based on what happened with Charlie: he was in public and surrounded by fans and one fan hands him his spec script, or plot idea for an episode. If he had read it, all of a sudden whatever was on that paper becomes a legally grey issue in the writers room. If they liked the plot idea or dialogue (or whatever was on that paper) and end up using something in an actual episode, what claim does the fan now have? Everyone at the event could potentially tell you that this fan contributed to the show, so it's best not to read it. Don't risk ruling out a plot line you may have wanted, don't risk accidentally stealing from a fan, don't risk the show ending up in a legal battle.

Also, first anon: I still don't know why or have any solid proof as to how Rob found my account, but at the time he followed me I did have a 5hr old Tweet with ~15k likes reposting one of his TikToks and calling him the cringiest person alive. I didn't tag him or name him, he didn't like it, or interact with it or any of the replies or literally any other Tweet that day, but I have to imagine he saw it and that's why he followed me. Degradation kink overrules everything else.

#ask #fanfiction #what about aus? :) #could my plot ever happen? not until they invent time machines.. #nah its still an issue i think they'd avoid bc dialogue and other potential plots #dennis is circumcised bc the first ever fanfic was about him being uncut and they couldnt risk the infringement #i made that up tbc... there were no fanfic claims back then #that fic was and is real tho #imagine the first thing anyone writes about your show is about your dick anatomy #well thats on brand for them im sure rob had a blast finding that

[robyn-i-guess]

gerrymichael enjoyers and writers i want your opinion 🎤

ok so i have this au fic for gerrymichael where it's college au, and it's a like the whole bad boy/good girl (minus the fact they're both boys, and even that's questionable)

basically, gerry is stereotyped due to his more alternative looks and everyone assumes he's probably doing illegal things or just sleeps around a lot

meanwhile michael is the head of student council "goody two shoes" type, who most are sort of aware of but don't know anything about

gerry thinks about michael. a lot. he sees them in the halls for only a few seconds a day but thinks about him for a lot longer. hallway crush vibes. and when they get put into a painting class together, suddenly they have an opportunity to meet, and gerry is freaking out a usual amount. (there's more to the whole plot but that's just the beginning bit)

putting a short lil concept thing under the cut

Gerard Keay does not know Michael Shelley.

The only reason he knows their name is because they're in the student council, meaning it's not uncommon for their name to be said during school events.

He has only seen them in hallways, passing by in a rush while holding papers or books that always seem like they're going to fall out of their hands. Even in those moments, most of what Gerard is able to catch is a blur of golden curls and eyes that are ridden with exhaustion.

So, it is safe to say that he does not know Michael.

That fact only caused confusion to him whenever Gerard realized his strange excitement once learning that Michael would be in one of his classes for the semester.

It was an art class, one that he had picked due to him already being practiced is painting and drawing. He assumed it would be a fun class, or at least one that wouldn't be too stressful. However, when he had first walked into that classroom and saw Michael Shelley sitting at an area in the back, Gerard had assumed the emotion he was feeling was stress. He couldn't pinpoint why, it wasn't like he was intimidated by their status, but he couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness he felt when he accidentally locked eyes with them. He turned his head quickly in that moment, deciding to sit in the front of the room despite that not being where he'd usually prefer to be. Something about Michael sitting there made Gerard think twice about sitting in the back as he normally would.

The lecture went smoothly, it mostly being an introduction to the professor and what would be happening throughout the classes. So did the next, and then the next one after that. That didn't get rid of the feeling he felt, however, every time that Gerard walked into that room and attempted to avoid looking at the one with golden curls in the back. He knew he'd have to talk to them at some point, it was inevitable, but there was something about them that meant he was more nervous to talk to them than he usually would be. And he very much denied the idea that it could be caused by any... feelings he may have. Gerard ruled it as impossible, as he had never spoken to them, and he wasn't that much of an idiot to fall for someone he'd only mostly seen in hallways.

Michael wasn't one to speak up in class, and instead they'd work silently on any research on the history of art they may have been doing, only giving simple responses or nods when the professor would come around and ask how their work was coming along. When Gerard thought about it, he didn't really know what their voice sounded like because it was always quiet or unintelligible from their distance. That only made him more interested in talking to them.

That day never came, though, much to Gerard's disappointment.

They both went through that class without talking to each other once, and when Gerard left that room for the last time he couldn't help but feel like he had failed at some kind of goal. A failure that had meant he would be left with only seeing the elusive Michael Shelley in hallway rushes again, which annoyed him in a way he didn't understand.

He did talk to them one day, though.

(note this is old as heck lmao i've gotten better at writing since i wrote this)

anyways yeah. should i continue it or is it too basic idk, i want to write it for me but it would also be multiple chapters long and my "1k-words-is-rare-for-me" self probably won't bother to write it unless someone else is interested

#just want a consensus idk #if anyone has suggestions i will also take those #or if anyone wants to write it with me maybe.... :3c #(please i want to write a fic with someone it's fun) #anyways #yeah #very stereotypical. very american highschool vibes #realistically would be better as hs au but i don't feel right writing romantic interactions between minors for Clear Reasons #gerrymichael #gerry keay #gerard keay #michael shelley #doorkeay #robyn-i-guess

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Hi! I’m interested in writing a realistic teen fiction novel set in high school, focusing on multiple students and their everyday lives both within and outside of school. I want the story to feel like you're reading someone's diary, similar to shows like Freaks and Geeks, Skam, and My Mad Fat Diary. Sooo, any prompts or ideas to help me get started? Or advice? Anything will do! Thank you so much!

The challenge or writing realistic teen fiction when you're not a teenager is quite high. You always run the risk of outdated references, incorrect slang, and overall awkward writing.

DO go for universal experiences. Teenagers throughout the ages deal with the challenges of dating, parental conflict, pressures to get the highest scores or hang out with the right crowd. Kids are going to go through the same experiences no matter how much the world changes. Tap into those emotions and think about what you went through as a teen. How do you project those experiences and emotions onto your character? Could you give them similar challenges? Put them through situations you managed to avoid? Lean on what you know.

DO treat your characters with respect. Yes, even the guy who smokes too much weed has a much richer inner life than you may put to paper. You don't have to give every character a ten-page backstory and a showcasing scene, but do be sure to give depth to both your main characters and antagonists. Don't brush off their concerns or values - even if you think fighting over a prom date is silly in hindsight - as unimportant.

DO focus on setting and specifics. Where your story is based and what's going on in the environment is going to vastly impact what issues your teen characters will face. Some teens may face issues with drugs and environmental violence. Others will have more experience with dealing with online bullying. A lot of teens are far more used to LGBTQ peers and more accepting environments, but that doesn't mean issues of racism, transphobia, and homophobia have gone away. Where you set your story and what's going on in the environment around it are going to be really important when it comes to coming off as genuine.

And a few don'ts...

DON'T chase the latest trends. There are a lot of things that will date your work within the year, if not months. Twitter is nearly as dead as MySpace, no one says 'on fleek' anymore, and the latest iPhone is not going to sound impressive if someone reads your story two years from now. That isn't to say you should social media or cell phones entirely - that would be silly - or that you should try to disguise them by using some made-up name. Neither would really work. If TikTok is going to be in your characters' lives, talking about it even with a casual line is a better option than pretending it doesn't exist. But if you hinge your plot entirely on TikTok drama, and by the time your book or story comes out no one uses TikTok anymore, you'll be shooting yourself in the foot. Play it safe and lean into generics if your story heavily involves online behavior ('some stranger is sending me DMs' versus 'I'm being bullied via my Discord server's soundboard').

DON'T appropriate experiences that aren't yours. It's really tempting to project what you feel about current events into teen characters, and it's not wrong to write really passionately about something that affects both you and your teenage characters, but think it through. Does your white character single-handedly resolve racism in their school? That's just not going to happen. Is your character's heroic moment tackling the school shooter before he kills someone? Take a long step back and think about what these moments mean for the teens that go through them. You run the real risk of making their lives seem trite and meaningless by presenting an easy solution to a complex problem. A teenage hero with a sword may save a kingdom in a fantasy novel, but in the modern world, dealing with bigotry and violence are complicated issues that require solidarity, collective action, and allyship, not savorism.

DON'T cut corners by making your characters 'really into 80s music' or similar anachronistic interests. Listen, I know this is painful, but as popular as Stranger Things is, your teens characters are probably not listening the Best of the 80s on a regular basis when not in the car with their parents (or, uh, grandparents). They're likely not really into TLC, I doubt they can name all the Spice Girls. You may think you're giving them a funny quirk by having them be really into something you know a lot about, but you risk alienating your audience. I've put down more than one YA book because the author couldn't explain why her teen character loved U2, but couldn't name Taylor Swift if she tried. This... doesn't work. You may not listen to Doja Cat or Charli XCX, but you're doing yourself and your characters a disfavor in not considering who the artist or actor they care about is, and why. Figuring out what your characters are into can be really worth the insight it brings. You can, of course, skip pop culture for the most part if your plot doesn't touch it - but don't believe for a second your characters don't know who Ariana Grande is, c'mon.

Angie Thomas's THE HATE THAT U GIVE is a classic for a lot of reasons, but a big part of it is that she's able to juggle all of the above without coming off as insincere or contrite. Her main character knows that dealing with police violence is complicated. Tupac Shakur's music plays an important part of the book because it's relevant to the character and her experiences, not just because it's something the author knew well. And Starr Carter didn't save the world from the problems plaguing her, but she did take a stand against them. Angie Thomas's work is a masterclass in understanding how teenagers think even if you aren't one, and I'd recommend reading them to get a feel for how to handle a teenage voice.

#characters

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Leave it to the land - Chapter 3.

The world has ended, it's over—except some people can't seem to accept that. Those same people think the cure lies in people like you and your little sister. And they're willing to do anything to find it.

The road to safety is a long one, and you're about to learn that it isn't one you can walk alone.

Read it on ao3.

Tag list: @elentiyaiswriting

You manage to stay awake for most of the night, although you're sure you start to doze at some stage.

You spend most of the time going over what happened on the fire escape and cursing yourself. You'd always been afraid of heights but this time, you'd gone completely to pieces. And in front of Ghost, of all people. You were trying to make these men your allies, while making it clear that you wouldn't take anyone messing with you or Dot.

Hard to take someone seriously when they can't even climb a ladder, you think to yourself bitterly.

All in all, you've had better mornings and you're grumpy as you try to scrounge together some breakfast for yourself and Dot. Soap and Ghost each have those ready meals you've seen soldiers eat. You have one protein bar left and give her the bigger half. It's actually a few months out of date but you can't really afford to stick your nose up so you decide to chance it.

After you've all eaten, you stand around kind of awkwardly, not sure what to say or do.

Eventually Soap glances at Ghost and clears his throat.

“So, we've decided to take ye’ up on yer deal.” Your heart leaps. He holds up a finger.

“On the condition that you give us the general location we're going.” He sees you open your mouth and continues before you can start. “It's the only way we can plot the best route.”

You shut your mouth and scowl.

“How do you know I don't already know the best route?”

Soap scoffs.

“If you did, you wouldn't still be here.”

Your scowl deepens.

“I know how to get out—it's just doing it that's hard. We're a little low on weapons, in case you haven't noticed.”

Of course they've noticed, you think, and once again you've pointed out how vulnerable you are, as if it weren't obvious.

You don’t even know why you’re arguing. You should be delighted at this turn of events. You've got two obviously skilled soldiers willing to accompany you to meet Kyle. And they're friends of his. This is exactly what you'd been hoping for. And yet, now that the offer is on the table, you're having doubts.

There's nothing to say they're telling the truth about being friends with Kyle. They recognised his patch, sure, but they could have picked up that information from somewhere else. You could be leading a trap right to him.

Another thing: you can't stay awake around them every night—you're already feeling the effects of not sleeping the night before. Doing this would mean trusting them enough to let your guard down, at least a little, and you’re not sure you can do that.

But then you look at Dot and remember the last few months of trying to find enough to eat, close encounters with tier fives, and government sentries and bounty hunters who wouldn't hesitate for a second to hand you back to the research centre.

Your little sister has an almost permanent pinched look on her face like she's spent every moment of the last few months afraid. You know you can't go on like this for much longer, either of you.

Which means you don't have a choice.

Soap produces a paper map and you use it to point out the direction you'll need to go.

“So we're leaving now then?” You're feeling antsy and want to move. The dead have wandered off during the night, but you know they won't have gone far.

“Soon,” Soap assures you. “We just need to make a stop first.”

“A stop?” you ask suspiciously. “A stop where?”

“Safehouse. Like the one Kyle told you about.” You must look confused because he goes on.

“We each know about a few of the safehouses, not all of ‘em. We’re not sure where the one Kyle showed you is but the one I’m on aboot isn’t far from here”

“How many-”

“That's enough.” You startle and look at Ghost but he's glaring at Soap, who shrugs.

“Why do we need to go there?” You ask.

“We'll need more ammo and they might be able to get us transport to the edge of the city.”

You have to admit that's tempting. You consider asking who “they” are but one look at Ghost’s tense stature tells you it won’t do any good. So with the increasingly familiar feeling of not having any choice in the matter, you agree.

Your trip through the city is quiet in the early morning. You naturally take up your positions from before, with Soap leading the way, you and Dot walking behind him, and Ghost bringing up the rear.

You find yourself missing Dot’s voice. She usually kept up a quiet but constant chatter while you walked, but she's barely said a word the last few days. You get it—you find Ghost and Soap scary enough, you can't imagine how much worse that is for a little kid. You see her glancing at Ghost’s mask sometimes, then quickly away.

You silently take her hand in yours as you walk. She still doesn't say anything but you feel her squeeze your hand hard.

After some time, Soap holds up clenched fist, and you hear Ghost come to a stop. A second later you feel something touch your elbow and flinch away.

Ghost holds up a placating hand, then points to a building up ahead.

“This is us. When we go in, let us do the talking.”

You nod. Your patience for meeting new people is at breaking point anyway.

You pull Dot closer to you as the four of you move into an alleyway.

Soap knocks on a door, which opens almost immediately. You hear him talking quietly to someone, jerking his head back at you and Dot. You start to feel uncomfortable and you're about to say something when the door opens fully and Soap gestures you inside.

The room is small and dim. The person inside is wearing a mask, much like Ghost’s, but plain. Soap and Ghost stand close to them and talk some more, while you hang awkwardly behind them, Dot tucked behind you.

Eventually Soap turns to you.

“We'll be back in a few minutes. You stay here.”

Now, you are going to argue—splitting up and leaving you with an, almost definitely armed stranger, was not part of the plan, but Soap and Ghost are already gone.

You consider pulling out your knife but resist the urge, instead just keeping a wary eye on the person in the mask, who has stayed behind and is now watching you without speaking.

You take a seat and settle in for what turns out to be a long wait. Your leg shakes nervously and you make an effort to sit still.

A sudden noise from a walkie on the table makes you startle. The person in the mask picks it up and talks into it for a few seconds.

Then they leave, giving you a long look before they go.

You wait for another while, until almost half an hour has passed, getting more and more antsy by the minute.

After you've chewed through most of your fingernails, you make a decision. You kneel down to look at Dot.

“I just want to have a quick look around, okay?” When she starts to shake her head, you put a hand to her hair and shush her.

“Just to see if everything is okay, in case something’s holding them up. 10 minutes top, okay?”

When she nods reluctantly, you press a quick kiss to her forehead.

You keep her behind you, letting her hold the back of your shirt so you can keep your hands free.

The corridor outside is surprisingly bright compared to the dim room you just left. There are a few doors along it but you don’t open them, scared to attract attention. At the end of the hall, there are a few doors with glass panes—you make a beeline for these instead.

Peering into the first, you jerk your head back when you realise there are people inside. You look again, more carefully. A woman wearing gloves is drawing blood from a man’s arm. You duck underneath the door and make your way to the next room.

What you see there is familiar, even if the set up is a little different. There are different sized items of glassware sitting on a bench. Some of them are filled with liquid. Petri dishes are laid out under some microscopes and a computer monitor is set up, though the tiny text is too far away for you to read from outside. It doesn’t matter. You know what this is.

It’s a lab.

Your breath starts coming a little faster. Idiot, you think to yourself. You’d spent so long trying to get out of the facility and now you've walked right back into one. Soap and Ghost have clearly led you right into a trap. They were probably negotiating their price for the pair of you right now.

Well, whatever experiments they're running here, you want nothing to do with it, for you or Dot.

“Come on, Dot,” you whisper, and hurry back along the hall, still half bent so you can't be spotted through the glass topped doors.

You get back to the room and immediately go to the door leading to the alley, only to find it locked. You whirl around and start looking for a key but the room is almost completely empty, apart from the chairs you'd just vacated.

You go back to the door into the hallway, and yank it open, determined to find either a key or something to batter the door down, only to walk straight into something solid.

You bounce back like you've hit a brick wall and look up. You've just walked straight into Ghost. He makes no move to steady you and just stares.

“Going somewhere?” he asks you, folding his arms over his chest.

You swallow, mouth dry and back up, sweeping Dot behind you with one arm. As if it'll do you any good.

You barely notice Soap enter the room. He looks at you, frozen, half crouched in front of Dot, arms spread protectively, then at Ghost, raising his eyebrows.

“Alrigh’?" he asks, glancing between you both. Neither of you answer and he shakes his head.

“Grand, so. You guys ready?”

You blink at him.

“Ready?”

“Uh … yeah? We're all stocked up and we were able to get a car with half a tank—should be enough to get us to the edge of the city. We can find our own way from there.”

“And what did that cost?” There's a hard edge to your voice that makes Soap cock his head at you. He must think you're a fucking idiot. A fair appraisal considering your behaviour so far, but you're done trusting them now, Kyle or no Kyle. If these guys are involved with the research centre, you need to put as much space between you and them as possible. But if they’ve sold you out, why is Soap still keeping up the act?

You remember what Ghost said about the other safehouses. Maybe they've been hired to take you to another lab for testing, with you following them, docile as lambs to slaughter.

“It's paid for, doll, no worries.”

Well, if they think you're dumb enough to go along with whatever they have planned, maybe it's best you go along with it. After all, you still need a way out of the city and you're not getting out of this building without them.

“Right, let's go then.”

Soap nods, and you realise the person from before is back. They let you out onto the street again. They still don’t speak and the sound of the door closing and locking behind you is loud in the quiet.

The car is in an underground garage, which is locked until Soap says something into another intercom and the roller door trundles open.

The engine stutters for a few seconds when Soap turns the keys but eventually roars to life. Ghost gets shotgun so you take the backseat with Dot, who peers out the window, wide-eyed. She won't remember the last time she'd been in a car, you realise. So many things you'd taken for granted in your old life are still novel to her.

The drive is quiet and you spend the time making your own plan.

As long as Soap and Ghost think you trust them, you have leverage. You'll get as far as you can with them, then make a break with Dot. How you'll do that remains to be seen but you'll have to figure that out later. Having some idea of what you’re going to do doesn’t help you relax much but the toil of the day and the lack of sleep from the night before finally catch up to you and you find yourself dozing.

You wake to Dot shaking your arm. The car has stopped and the landscape has changed. You're close to the edge of the city now and in front of you, a forest stretches further than you can see.

“Just about out of petrol,” Soap tells the car at large. “We’ll hide the car for the guys to come collect, but we're on foot from here. Let's try and get going while we've still got a few hours of sunlight left.”

#fanfic #read on ao3 #alternate universe #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #zombie #zombie apocalypse #kyle gaz garrick #original character #cod #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #leave it to the land

[elkkiel]

Sorry friends, this is gonna be a long one. I feel like speaking in a space where someone may see and perceive what I'm saying is helpful to personal accountability. Please feel free to skip, it's more of a thought dump than anything (I am midway through writing now and I think I lost the plot a while ago lol)

Topics covered: grind culture, mental health, self-care, and learning when to manually sound the alarm for yourself as an audhd-er in the deep end of life.

Here's some tags that I left on the the grind culture reblog before this. I just wanted to share some thoughts and didn't want them to get lost; I feel like making a proper post really solidifies the situation (sorta like getting those abstract thoughts from your head onto paper, and realizing just how bad it is when it's all laid out before you.) And I want to make a change when I can finally get my head above water.

I think it can be especially difficult for us AuDHDers, since we don't necessarily have alarm bells installed that neurotypicals in similar situations may have but "choose" (consciously or not) to ignore. Things can really spiral into a bad place quickly if you don't have the cues or signs to alert you. We need to be diligent in doing those manual checks ourselves, KNOWING that we have struggles that make life just that much more difficult.

Take inventory of your life. Do you allocate time to self-care activities, and/or are those the right activities for you? Turns out for me that building a complex skin care routine (as suggested by mainstream self-care culture) only stresses me out more. Especially when I never have the energy to do it, making me feel bad when I only manage to do the basics *sometimes* (and the stress acne persists smh my head). My therapist recommended productive activities that involve both current hyperfixes and that ADHD Motor™. I want to learn basic carpentry over the summer, since I love working with my hands! For now, drawing masked men as cats will suffice (though I will not complain about the kittenification of my faves)

Choose a moment to consciously feel how your body is feeling. Check in with yourself! This is important for my alexithymia bitches. Are you more fatigued than usual? Are your muscles tense for some reason? Have you been hungry with no appetite? If you notice anything, let's make some connections—really dig into it. The instance I mentioned in the tags above was a really clear one for me. I took like 12 hours on the IV in the Ivy art instead of coursework, and that weekend I slept almost 22 hours. A few days later, I'm still in a cycle of horrible fatigue and excessive sleep. Connecting the trigger event (taking the time to create "unnecessary" art) to current sensations (extreme fatigue) is giving me insight into how stressed I actually am that I wouldn't have really seen otherwise.

I'm also feeling more and more aware of how activities and things become a bit of a crutch to avoid expending energy on social activities. Idk how many other people deal with this particular problem, but I have almost zero social drive. Like I legitimately don't feel the need to meet people and see friends. Almost 100% of my social needs are covered by talking to my parents, chatting with the girls at work (while at work) and passively absorbing interactions from complete strangers within earshot. It's one of the big things I'm continually documenting for when I can finally afford to get evaluated for autism (babygirl I don't even have enough for the ADHD assessment yet and that's more crucial for disability stuff lol) and it makes life real tough.

Not having the time nor the drive to invest in relationships really stunts you as a person in my experience. I don't know how to actually quantify what makes a friend (e.g. are we friends because we are Tumblr mutuals who haven't had an actual conversation but hype each other up in notes?) and I don't have any time to learn. I can't participate in leisure activities that may take some of the pressure off since I haven't been able to practice initiating interactions. It baffles me how some of the girls at work just casually meet up outside of work, or make plans out of the blue in a conversation (how tf do you gauge when/if to propose something????)

Like, it's bad. I haven't seen my best friend in a year and a half, and even the term "best friend" almost definitely isn't accurate in this scenario anymore. It's just another stressor that could potentially be avoided by lifting one's nose from the grindstone, but it's so intimidating to even try at this point. I don't feel the drive to be friends, but something tells me it's healthier than being alone with my work and thoughts.

Idk I think that's all I have for now. I definitely went on a tangent or two that don't connect back to the original idea so apologies for the letter-based vomit.

ty if you read any of this, if you have any thoughts or input I'm always open for replies or asks. The world is big and fast and horrible and confusing a lot of the time, but I think sharing experiences helps to keep things in perspective.

maybe I'll ask more targeted questions for community input some other time because I'm genuinely curious how to navigate around social deficits (the "who is a Friend and why?" thing especially because I genuinely have zero clue)

anyways have a good day, drink some water, take ur meds, and be kind to yourself

#my head is so foggy from fatigue i would be surprised if this is cobefent #its rant time babey im gonna go order some groceries now ✌️ #elkk.txt

[throwaway-yandere]

Dear my Penpal,

Happy Irodori Festival!

This is the first time for me to write a letter to someone, so I'm quite intrigued to see who I'll get, haha. If you receive this, then that's great— it means that it's working and the postal office hadn't decided to leave my letter unsent.

Enough about that, I'm hoping you're having a great day so far. Please remember to take care of yourself, and to take breaks if you deem it necessary. Maybe in the future, you and I can meet up somewhere in Inazuma. I'm planning to head there for the festival, so I hope to see you during the festivities!

— Vermiculis Creatio

cw: body horror, yokais, yandere behavior, completely strange plot in general lol

a/n: iM SORRY HE'S MEAN I HAVE NO GRUDGE AGAINST YOU I THINK YOUR PEN NAME IS SUPER DOPE BUT HE IS JUST MEAN TTT___TTT

From this yandere genshin secret pen pal event

✥ YOU GOT A LETTER FROM YOUR SECRET PEN PAL!!!

"Hana ni arashi," the wanderer muttered with his hand slightly reaching for the sky, awaiting the inevitable raindrops.

His foretold half-jokes about rain materialized as he prophesied in the letter. Many had fled to find protection from the joy-ending rain, but he remained motionless beneath Ritou's tanabata tree. Earlier today, he was discreetly observing the festival's vendors and books as he wandered around with lordly nonchalance, making remarks about humanity's consistently obnoxious literature despite his irminsul shenanigans.

"So the protagonist still wanders as an object-apparition in the end?" Wanderer muttered as he clapped the book shut. "How dull."

Seems like no matter how much he tampered with the white tree, the dead will never come back to life.

He had little to examine now that all the stalls were protected by larger stores and private residences. The fact that the branches and his hat had failed to keep the drifter from getting wet didn't bother him. Instead, he observed the droplets smear the paper wishes that were hung on the tree.

'This year, I'm going to be a doctor.'

'Let's all solve world hunger!!! - Kav.'

'Here's to hoping I retire this year haha!'

'I'm going to graduate and live with my husband in Inazuma City.'

'I want to be loved.' 

'I WANT TO BE LOVED.'

The wanderer scoffed.

Such a simple yet difficult wish. 

"Loved in what way? Loved in reverence? Loved out of fear? Loved as a friend? Loved like how a mother would do so with her child?" He snatched the wish off the tree and squinted his eyes. 

"Loved as though you're someone's missing half?"

He scoffed and crumpled the soggy paper.

"Mortals. They can't be trusted to hold even an iota of freedom and independence. Always with the need to be shackled by shallow relations."

The wanderer may muse that out loud, but his entire being defied his proclamations.

What a hypocrite he is, spouting nonsense about relationships when he's here to rekindle something forgotten...

"H-Hey, you there! What on earth are you standing in the middle of the rain for? This is no time for sightseeing."

The wanderer flinched and his face lit up.

Wanderer was glad to hear that voice again.

He turned around, and he found you. You firmly held a red umbrella above your head as you stood beside him. Confused by his awfully timed contemplations, you gently grabbed his arm.

Huh... Why didn't he feel anything when you touched him?

"We need to get you under a roof, pronto," you implored. "That hat of yours isn't doing you any favors."

The wanderer made an effort not to look at the parasol. You didn't seem to be aware that the object you were holding contained some peculiar energy. He didn't say a word about how the eye in your red umbrella moved, hoping to amuse himself later once you worked it out.

He might use it to frighten you later. Irodori festivals feature a ton of yokai events, so it wouldn't harm to have you scream.

"Oh wow, really? I didn't notice," he snarled. "'Preciate your concern, but I don't care."

"Please?"

"Please, what?" He closed his eyes, restraining himself from making eye contact with your cursed parasol.

That yokai you're holding does feel special...

"Come with me?" You frowned. "The others are worried about you."

"Why do locals always love to prattle on such meaningless concerns."

"Haha," you sheepishly scratched your neck. "You know, you kind of remind me of my pen pal."

Finally. 

"If I remind you of a pen pal of yours, then you must have the mind of a worm."

"Hey—"

You stopped.

"... Oh... OH!!!"

He smirked.

"So it was y—"

"Believe what you want, worm."

"Oh, come on. The meaning behind that pen name was pretty neat, and I was—" 

"Not the brightest student in the Haravatat," the wanderer sighed. "At least you don't have an execrable lack of imagination, I'll acknowledge that much. If I handed that letter to Madam Faruzan, I imagine she would be distraught."

"You don't know that."

No, he does. But he also knows that Madam Faruzan praised the worm for their literacy on forgotten languages.

Vermiculus, meaning little larva or worm, and creatio, which doesn't take a genius to figure out it pertains to "creation."

"Do you even know who Madam Faruzan is?"

"Only whispers. As much as I want to write to her, I admit, I've never exchanged letters before you, so..."

So you don't know who she is after the revision?

Good. 

One less person to get in his way.

"A-Anyways, we ought to take shelter from the rain! Come on, already." 

With enough strength, you successfully sprint him out of the tanabata tree's shade. You were more focused on getting him out that the thought of checking for his pulse never occurred to you. 

You used to be sharper than that.

"Does a little rain make you upset? And here I thought worms like the rain for their moisture."

"S-Seriously?" You heaved, breathless. "Y-You're making jokes? And h-how are you not out of breath?"

Wanderer stayed quiet after that remark, emulating human breathing. 

You used to be acquainted with traveling, what happened to your stamina?

Wanderer's revision does not change the past entirely. It only erases this world's memory of him.

It does not make the dead come back to life.

"Stop."

"Hah?"

He seized the opportunity to check your pulse.

...

...

...

The wanderer tried not to look at y̶o̶u̶r̶ the parasol.

"(Y/n)."

"... Wait, how do you know my name?"

"I'm not talking to you," he gritted his teeth. "I'm talking to the kasa-obake."

He took the umbrella away from y̶o̶u̶r̶ the person's hand, his grip softening when he secured it.

"(Y/n)..."

The moving eye looked frightened.

------------------------------------------

"Have you heard about this story, Scara? In Inazuma, there was a woman who bought an umbrella from a shrine. One rainy day, she thought about using her umbrella, but then suddenly, she received a message informing her that her husband died in battle. She got sick and died in a few days to supposedly look for her lover in the afterlife. After that, people said the umbrella was cursed and the shrine maidens sealed it away."

"... Is that supposed to be an attempt at being scary?"

"Not really? I don't know. On nights like this, traveling with you can be deadly silent. I only wished to make it a bit more lively" you shrugged. "But you know, I think I get why I remembered that tale out of the blue."

"Sure, worm. Tell me about it when I'm not falling asleep."

"You don't need sleep, you're a puppet. Anyways, I think I shared that story 'cause I subconsciously realized I'm getting attached to you."

"What does that have to do with some umbrella yokai story?"

"I'm just saying that if you went through Dottore's plans and came out as a different person, I think I'd fall ill too."

"And die? And have your beloved worms claim your body?"

"Hmm, I suppose so, yes," you affirmed his disbelief casually. "Vermiculis Creatio. If I die, let them feast and claim my vessel as their own. My soul doesn't need my old body. Maybe you should make me a puppet like you, see what happens."

"Is that a promise?"

"If it'll make you less lonely and feel loved as a new Archon? Then yes,

it's a promise."

------------------------------------------

The wanderer grabbed the body's arm again.

"What are you doing? That hurt."

He dug his thumb deep within y̶o̶u̶r̶ the body's wrist.

Small insects.

Larva.

Worms.

The entire time, he was not speaking to (Y/n) (L/n).

He was speaking to their animated corpse.

Scaramouche grinned.

Perfect.

"W-Worms...?!"

"I'll be stealing this umbrella from you."

"Hold on- what?! Hold on, how did you tear through my skin like that, why are there worms inside my—"

"I'm not giving it back, so run away now."

"But—"

"This umbrella means a lot more to me than you. This umbrella has more life than you do." 

He pushed them aside.

"So why don't you bury yourself and claim their rotting body like the good little worm that you are?"

Scaramouche caressed the cursed parasol. His eyes were wide, unhinged, but there was no breathing heard amidst the strong rain. As the corpse ran afraid, he tenderly hugged the umbrella and whispered as though it had ears to listen to his madness.

He laughed manically, softly kissing its closed eye.

His true missing half is finally here, encircled by his arms.

"Don't worry, my (Y/n). I'll make you a worthy vessel that will never be defiled by worldly filth."

#ansy-writes #yandere scaramouche #yandere genshin x reader #yandere scaramouche x reader #yandere wanderer #yandere wanderer x reader #tag: pen pal or yokai

[lgcmaylin]

hellooo! it's been a while since i've posted anything remotely ooc for maylin and i figured with new events coming out, i would give a refresher and reintroduce my little Ghostbuster here. if you are interested in plotting with her, please give this a like and i will slide into your messages soon~ thank you again for reading through everything and i hope to write with everyone soon <3

  bio. profile. pinterest.

she was adopted at 17, shortly after she was signed into the company. maylin’s parents passed at a very young age, causing her to live with her grandmother for a few years. she has been in and out of foster homes before meeting her permanent parents closer to high school.

maylin grew up with two twin sisters who liked dressing her in the girliest clothes you can imagine. while her relationship with her family is somewhat close, she hasn't returned to visit them for fear that she will disappoint them. she struggles to truly feel part of their family due to not being related by blood.

maylin is dance and rap focused within her career path. dancing is what brought her to the company along with teaching at her local dance studio back in China, but after taking her workshop and truly understanding the importance of having other skills in her pocket, she began to take rapping seriously.

she also dabbles in music composition, creating beats that she could make her choreography with. some beats/melodies are created through her electric guitar. she's no expert, but she has been practicing to get better when she can.

with that being said, she's still trying to juggle being a trainee and a student in college. she is entering her last year as an illustration student and a tattoo apprentice. there are questions about where her priorities lie as she continues to pick up her hobbies (tattooing, piercings, playing guitar, etc). of course, she wants to be an idol but she is setting up a future for herself if it doesn't work out.

she's still into doodling ghosts whenever she is bored or has any spare sheet of paper. maylin has also found a love for the character Kuromi, she believes their aesthetics are the same. if she could be any animated character, it would be her.

maylin is very rough around the edges. she enjoys listening to rock music, all black everything with a hint of white, wearing chunky rings, collecting vintage Vivienne Westwood jewelry, and always painting her nails a darker shade. she doesn’t consider herself a tomboy, but she is not into dressing cute or following the beauty standards of Korea. her closest consists of black, blood red, and maybe some browns.

maylin is known for having a potty mouth and has a harsh approach toward others. her silence can be deceiving, but she is always watching others and making observations on their behaviors. most of the time, people assume she is mean and has an attitude 24/7, but it's just that she is brutally honest and will say the things most people are too scared to tell.

she realized that most people aren't as open as she is, yet she won't hold back simply because of that.

she is not afraid to admit how confident she is in herself, never stepping back on expressing how she feels, and will speak her mind 100% of the time. sometimes she will talk without thinking, causing her to get into a load of trouble.

if you got this far, thank you for reading ;-; i really appreciate the interest and hope that we can plot! i do have a plot page that could be used for reference if you don't want to start from scratch.

#pls plot with this little demon ;-; #𝕺𝕺𝕮 * . ⊹ 𝐵𝑅𝐴𝑉𝐸𝑅 𝑇𝐻𝐴𝑁 𝑌𝑂𝑈 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐾

[noonmutter]

Blow

DWC Feb 2024

Day 3: Bargain/Myth

As the conversation got less animated and Terry became more antsy to be on his way, Rumpole brought out one final set of papers. The lazy farmboy in him groaned, but outwardly, all Terry said was, "Seriously, I don't know any other plots. Th' closer y' get t' th' cities, th' less I even visited, let alone--"

"No, no, we're quite done with that, don't worry! I just had one other thing to bring to your attention before you got on your way. The Queen is refreshingly forward-thinking, as you've no doubt noticed by now, and as our beloved country is a touch low on…well, almost every resource…"

"Rumpole. I'm very tired, and I've already missed my deadline. Please."

"Oh, all right, but you're really spoiling the fun." With a small huff, the lawyer handed Terry another of those fancy papers bearing the royal seal, and he cracked it open to read. This one was a full-length scroll that hung down somewhere near his ankles, and it was absolutely covered in writing. Disgustingly dense fine print, on first glance, but once he found a few strange images, resembling nothing so much as a series of blank templates, he went back to the beginning to actually absorb what he was reading.

It wasn't that Terry couldn't follow legalese; he was in many respects a brilliant man, even if he'd never admit it or acknowledge it. He just really, really hated double-talk and wordplay this dry. It was at least fun to do that in poems and stuff. Doing it when you were talking about border disputes or who owned a cow was just infuriating. But as he read, he started to recognize certain phrases and terms from Rumpole's speech, which he'd also only partially listened to earlier in this meeting.

Much of it was what they'd already discussed about the dearth of citizenry remaining to lay claim to the various lands that lay barren and abandoned throughout the kingdom. What followed that was the rules for staking such claims, which were surprisingly thorough for all that they boiled down to 'If you're alive and have satisfactory proof of your identity, here you go.' There was follow-up regarding the payment of taxes, but that thankfully didn't appear to be retroactive. Their new queen had figured out right away that that would've been a civil war right out the gate, at least. In fact, it looked like there was a small stipend involved for the first year or so to help reestablish homesteads properly. Tess didn't seem to want people to grab the land and wander off. That, Terry approved of.

Once he got out of the homesteading stuff, things began to take a turn toward the matter of population, castes, and territories. The collapse of several houses due to the Northgate Rebellion and the fallout from the Shattering had been well-known in general, but this document appeared to be making it official. Even if it hadn't been from those events directly, it'd been over a decade since then; lots of the blue-bloods had scattered, died of old age, or just started over elsewhere. Those houses were gone, no scions remained to claim them, and with a heavy heart the Crown blah blah sure whatever dead nobles can't own anything so now the Crown's taking it back...makes sense. Still likely to be fighting about that, but less than there would've with a bunch of cousins and shit vying for scraps. Tess was already doing better than her great lump of a father at this, by his reckoning.

His reading slowed down significantly once he got to the next segment, where all those pictures sat in the middle of the paragraph. After a few seconds, his heart briefly stopped.

"Rumpole."

"Eh?"

"This is a proclamation o' th' establishment o' new houses."

"Ah, you've hit the nail squarely on the head!"

"I am not a noble, Rumpole!"

"That, my boy, is where you'd be wrong!" Reaching across the desk, the barrister plucked the scroll from Terry's stunned hands and rolled it back up. He didn't need to read it to talk about this part; he'd been warned well in advance that Terry Lias-Ambroce was going to be a bit touchy about it, and he'd come prepared.

"Like I said before, we've got a bit of a drought on almost every resource at present--and that includes nobility, wot? And as the Queen is a forward-thinking queen, she seems inclined to set things up before there's bunch of nasty squabbles while various up-and-comers try to do it themselves. Gilneas has had quite enough warring and destruction and we could all quite use a few years where we don't have more Gilnean deaths than births, eh?"

Terry made vague grasping motions at nothing with both hands, eyes wide. "I am not a noble!"

"Well, you're still technically correct, of course. No signatures, no change, eh?" Rumpole grinned, even while Terry barely reacted at all. "But you have gone and established yourself as a good candidate by the Crown's reckoning."

The lawyer began counting off on his fingers. "You have a strong military background with a nearly mythical reputation, good sir Lighthound. Did you really think that wouldn't reach the eyes of what remained of the court? Gilneas has precious few heroes, let alone living ones. Minor though you might think you are, you went and became one, eh?"

A second finger raised. "And, of course, you've the ability and the intent to lay claim to a not insignificant portion of land, here. And, if I'm not mistaken, you intend to take care of it properly, as a son of Gilneas ought."

The third finger went up as Rumpole fetched a specific sheet from the file he'd brought with him. "And then, of course, there's all these fascinating connections you've established. Both the Crusader-Lord and the Knight-Commander of the Argent Crusade; a retired Ironforge senator and patriarch of Clan Truthhammer and his wife, the High Priestess and Ambassador; Captain Sirenspawn and General Rutherford of the Grand Army of the Alliance... and those are just the direct ones. I've got records of you hobnobbing with Turalyon and Alleria, and attending the wedding of the First Arcanist Thalyssra and Regent Lord Lor'Themar..."

I told Dwyn I shouldn't have been there! Damn it!

"...and that's before I even touch on the indirect ones you have through your brother, and, of course, your wife."

"My w--"

"Well of course your wife, man!" Rumpole practically giggled at Terry's expression, situated somewhere right in the middle of furious and horrified. "You may not be a noble here, but through her, you're a noble there." He picked up another sheet from the file and gave it a little swat. "She went through all the picky nonsense to legitimize herself through the Doppelganger Decree of 28! Clever woman, that; lucky you, eh? And all clean and clear-cut on paper, that makes you the Baron of the Brightwood to your Baroness, eh?"

Of course Terry knew Shedwyn had been busy with all that. He'd been under the impression it was largely to spite all the jackass nobles who sneered down their noses at her, more than any real interest in the legitimacy of it all. Neither of them particularly wanted to be nobles, when nobles acted like that. He still wasn't sure what had been the tipping point: the third time somebody offered a tenth of the land's value to "take the burden off her pretty shoulders," or the one particularly offensive jackoff who'd commented that if she didn't have so much land, she might be able to deal with the "infestation" on it. He hadn't meant feral worgen.

Somehow, once Shedwyn had been formally and properly declared the Baroness of Brightwood Grove, Terry had still never truly connected himself to the thought that by marriage, he was therefore Baron.

Until now.

And he was pretty sure she'd done it to spite him, too.

It'd been three years.

She was never going to shut up about this one.

"The existing title isn't even a requirement for eligibility as far as the Queen is concerned, mind; it simply helps! A bit of borrowed legitimacy to add to your own impressive pile, eh? So. What do you say?"

"Come again?"

"Well, it's not something you have no say in, establishing your own house. Perhaps back in the day, when kings and queens tossed out titles like roses at a tournament, sure, but this is a very particular situation. Queen Greymane wants nobles who are Gilnean to their core; who are ready, willing, and able to do the work to bring our kingdom back to its former gloomy glory. And you, Sergeant, fit that bill, by my eyes and by the requirements she provided. But at the end of it all, it's your choice. If you are not willing, then the Crown is not interested in enslavement of any kind, even if it does come with prestige at the end of it. It's a choice, not an obligation, eh?"

A choice. One hell of a fucking choice. But this time, it actually felt like a choice; not a devil's bargain, where the alternative was objectively screwing him or someone he cared about. This had been a trap, to be certain, but not a literal one. It was the kind of trap where someone, somewhere, was laughing their ass off.

Terry Ambroce had always been a patriot. Even in his teens, when he was spitting acid about everything Genn Greymane said, did or would do, he did so for love of his country, not for himself. He'd intended to be part of the rebellion at Northgate, even, but everything had gone so wrong, so fast...

He'd learned since then that the fighting wasn't the hardest part. It was putting everything back together afterward. Fighting was easy. Battles had a beginning and an end; swords up, enough people died, swords down. Done. Reclamation, restoration, reconstruction... those went on for lifetimes. They required dedication, not eagerness. Building a nation was already hard enough; rebuilding one was a monumental effort. Holding it together, even harder still.

He'd spent half his life, now, insisting that Gilneas still lived. Even if he could never go home again, he knew he would've sworn on his deathbed that Gilneas still lived. And here, now, he had in front of him the opportunity to do what he'd wanted to do when he was a boy, and resuscitate it. He was already doing the math. Paper was the easy part, proclamations would be welcomed by many and growled about by few. Some of the growlers would inevitably start trying to cause trouble, test the viability of these new houses over and over. He could deal with skirmishers and bandits, but... politics?

---

Shu-fen was irritated. She'd gotten word from the Baron that morning that he'd been discharged, and that he would be picking up his children that afternoon. And yet, here she was, taking over that duty, since their normal escort had already been informed they could have the rest of the day off, and the Baron had failed to appear. It wasn't that escorting the Ambroce children was particularly difficult, as they behaved well for everyone except their parents; it was that she'd planned her day as well as the Baroness's around the exception, and now everything was out of order.

It came as no surprise to anyone, therefore, least of all Terry, when she punched him in the face as soon as he arrived. Part of that was because he'd surprised her, and it was really, really hard to do that, but still.

Once he'd gotten a moment to explain himself, she was willing to accept that perhaps he hadn't deserved to be punched in the face. And once he'd followed up with a suggestion, she actually apologized to him.

---

Shedwyn was worried. Shu-fen had dismissed some of the standard help, which wasn't anything to fret over, but then the Pandaren had received a notice, cursed, and excused herself. None of these things were particularly out of the ordinary--sometimes, shit just happened, after all; that was why she'd hired Shu-fen as an assistant in the first place. But, even after several years running of actual, honest-to-gods peace, she couldn't help but suspect more sinister things, given too much time to herself.

She was just about to go out looking for her when Shu-fen returned home. Her expression was a touch more wooden than usual, even with the tight little smile she was wearing, and that put Dwyn even more on edge.

"The Viscount of Keel to see you, madame."

Dwyn paused. "...The what of where? Hold on, that's not even on the schedule for today, is it?" In a brief, nearly panicked frenzy, she scrabbled through her papers to double-check.

Terry stepped into the doorway behind Shu-fen, who bowed respectfully and ducked outside to go have a good, loud cackle.

After a minute, Shedwyn finally thought to look up, and after another still, she parsed that this was indeed her husband, not some shadowy figure from her past (or his) back to haunt her yet again.

There was a pregnant pause.

"FUCKIN' WHAT?!"

( @daily-writing-challenge @shedwyn @sirdolraan @darbiebot @red-alynore )

#and so arrives terry #my writing #dwc #waxing crescent #I sam vimes'd him and I'm NOT sorry #eeheeheehee #good news that's the end of this one

[phoenix-before-the-flame]

Scar anon again I'm so sorry for sending consecutive asks but mashima really made the coolest dude + team ever (laxus n the raijinshuu in case it wasn't obvious) and then refused to elaborate like???good sir I would have paid for a full series of Them?? The raijinshuu are so criminally underutilised like I want to know their backstories!! I want to know how they came to join fairy tail!!! I start frothing at the mouth everytime I think about how mashima did the raijinshuu so dirty esp during the Tartarus arc ;- ; anyways sorry for the rant it's like 4 am and I'm having many Thoughts ok that's all from me for real this time 👍🏼 peace!

Everything after Tartarus is my villain origin story lol, not even joking. It's so messy.

Im not singing praises for everything before it ofc there was some jank from beginning to gmg but after tartarus' end the story and characterization really seemed to start coming apart at the seams and it really tanked everything even though at that stage mashima's art was 10/10. Which is a shame bcus tartarus really was a step in the right direction tonally but it just stopped right there. Copped a massive W then tossed it out for consecutive L's.

But yea man! Laxus and his squad! Laxus will forever be a sorta sore spot for me because of the dropped Dreyar family plot thread. The whole dealio with Ivan, Makarov sending Gajeel to spy on him, Laxus' lone adventures. It really could've culminated in either a small side arc or a B-plot of an already existing arc

(I personally would add it into Tenrou. Take Gajeel off tenrou to have him doin his spy gig, accidentally meet up with Laxus during that, plot details regarding the dreyar family happen all while the events of tenrou go down. The duo gets wind of Grimoire Heart heading to tenrou from Raven Tail due to all dark guilds sharing info. The duo head over to tenrou post haste and allowing gajeel to carry out the iconic gajevy moment where he saves her and justifying why Laxus ended up on Tenrou instead of just randomly showing up at the nick of time. But alas, details lol)

Thunder Legion's always been interesting to me though. I'll admit i dont think about them often but they are a pretty unique squad with varying personalities across the board that, on paper, you probs wouldn't expect em to be friends, let alone friends that close and loyal to one another.

Their magics are also a main point of interest because it really is so out there. Freed in essence has an upgraded solid script (plus those unused transformations the beast lookin one from fantasia and the more streamlined one from tenrou), Evergreen has the petrification magic (alongside her main magic with the energy attacks) and Bickslow? Soul manipulation? That can't be legal man. The magic system in FT is really underexplained and has a anything goes sorta deal (hello summoning gods) but man, i would've loved something there for these 3- power limits or drawbacks, how it works, whether its magic they naturally manifested or learned or both. Something along those lines.

And while i don't think a backstory would've been necessary for them per se, because at the end of the day they still are side characters so relevancy of the information learned throughout the story dictates how much is really needed to be known and this extends to learning about how they joined the guild as well (i personally think they all joined as adults tbh. I know a lotta peeps like to think of em as a teen friendship squad but i really prefer it they were an adult friend group. Having a friendship that strong forming in their 20s feels right to me), but i think even a one line or 2 regarding their pasts could come up in conversation for that information to come up naturally.

Like for eg. Freed gives off rich kid energy, so perhaps he's a runaway rich kid like herself but not from Fiore, that could be revealed in a convo with Lucy at some point to strike common ground between the two. Evergreen feels like an orphaned soul turned away (i personally think she gives off Jessie from pokemon vibes) by others a lot so why not a kinship with her and Juvia or even Mirajane? Bickslow the wild card could spout jokes about his acrobatic skills he learned from being a street performer, just something. They're not perfect concepts no, but they're little ways the characters could've been given even a scrap of info to help learn more about em.

Also uhhhh, it always threw me off that they weren't all S-class wizards so i think it would've been cooler if they were a whole squad of s class wizards who attempted a guild coup instead of just 1 s class and his homies. Aight byeeeeee.

#fairy tail #fairy tail headcanon #thunder legion #raijinshuu #listen man side characters are side characters for a reason ofc but something couldve been done to liven em up yknow? #not leave so much up in the air #or unanswered #but like #ft as a series has so much good elements #good art simple enough premise to garner interest fantastic art cool characters and interesting plot threads #everything just needed proper development and thought with how things were supposed to be pieced together n carried out #and how characters would be handled with some decency #but im ramblim lol

[knife-moth-mc]

Listen idk what y’all out in this mcrp to make it so blorbo (actually I do, its genuine care for the story you’re creating and sincere commitment to creating cool characters with arcs that are both interesting and have a satisfying payoff) but I have not had a special interest this intense in literal years. I am incredibly attached to EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER do you know how rare that is. In almost ANY other media there’s at least one i dislike or at the very least see as wasted potential but there’s literally NOT A SINGLE ONE I don’t absolutely love with haven. You guys are creating something great

It's the raw passion i think. We're not really bogged down by outside interests, so we can just do what we want. The nature of improv is such that we often end up with genuine reactions to turns of events, but we also plan ahead enough to make sure arcs are cohesive and no one gets left behind.

This is the redacted version of the timeline i made for the events leading up to the convergence. I asked everyone what they wanted to get done before then, wrote each thing on a piece of paper (or rather had someone scribe for me bc my wrists are fucky lmao), and moved them around until they clicked. Some of the plot points did end up getting dropped or moved to later in the timeline (such as the shearing, as sleep noted in his last stream! That was originally intended to be part of the ramping up of the wall conflict leading to the convergence!) but almost everything did get done and i think for the most part people were happy with how it all turned out.

Part of what makes Haven work so well is our willingness to hear someone say "i want to do x" and respond with "okay, how do we make that happen?" Mouse does an incredible job translating our ideas into actual usable mechanics, but it's also interpersonal stuff. Like, in the time leading up to the ironing, i went to navn and said "i need moth to have tnt. If you try to give it tnt it will not accept the tnt. Please solve this problem" and they managed it so smoothly. Or, i gave navn and sleep justification for sending k to ohio, and sleep masterfully wove it into the metaplot. Or, during the lux stream not too long ago, i was frantically texting mischief and jackdaw asking if we could do lux spying on moth showing jackdaw its scars, and this did end up happening and it was such a good moment for all three characters. I know all these examples involve me but, you know, most of the examples i was involved in enough to know all the details involved me.

We make each other better. I could never, ever, not in a million years have written moth and anathema's story on my own. I suspect a number of other havenites feel similarly about their plots. I am so so so glad and grateful to get to be a part of something this raw and powerful, with people this open and talented, and I'm beyond delighted that we get to share this with others it resonates with. I'm looking forward to everything we have planned, and keeping an eager eye out for anything we don't.

Sorry if any of this is incoherent i'm having a flare and it makes words hard. Idk how to put emojis in posts so imagine i put a peace sign emoji here

#haven smp #asked and answered

[ru5t]

knowing your partner can potentially make writing together a lot easier !

– BASICS.

♡ NAME: Hannah

♡ PRONOUNS: she/her

♡  AGE: 25+

♡  TIME ZONE: CST (GMT -5)

–THREE FACTS.

♡ I moderate a(n overw.atch) twitch channel/community! It's good fun and very dear to me but also sooooo so frustrating, sometimes.

♡ When I was little I was convinced I was going to grow up to become a veterinarian. I do not think the level of schooling or the uhhhhh amount of strong stomach it takes is actually for me.

♡ I strongly suspect I have an anxiety disorder and ADHD(? or a similar symptom set) but have no official diagnoses. At any rate, executive dysfunction you bitch.

–EXPERIENCE.

♡   HOW LONG (MONTHS / YEARS?): I have been on tumblr since 2011 but I've been storytelling/rping basically since like. ... You know how most kids act out their imaginative play? I did a looooooooottttt of "explaining" (/narrating, whatever you want to call it) and very little physical playing-things-out. Yes, I know what that is a common early indicator of. I'm unpacking that one shhhhh.

♡   PLATFORMS YOU’VE USED: uhhhh paper (as in i'd pass a notebook back and forth with school friends), IMVU, dA, various dms, twitter, forums, tumblr, a chatroom i forgot the name of we'd use for tumblr 'events', discord, wire

♡   BEST EXPERIENCE: Actually just the experience of rp in general. I have learned a lot through writing and the people who gave me grace in the process of it.

–MUSE PREFERENCES.

♡   MASCULINE OR FEMININE: I don't think I have a preference, per se? But I do seem to gravitate toward guy canons, whereas my OC roster tends to be waaaay more fluid and diverse, but I don't think there's any particular reason for this? Just the pattern of characters who appeal to me tend to be dudes in popular media, I guess? I did almost write Liz from Hellb.oy and Nomi from Sens.e8, in addition to the other canon ladies I have on the multi+Kiri's blog.

♡  FLUFF, ANGST OR SMUT: I actually kind of like. what I will call exploring? You put two characters in a box. Sometimes you shake it, or put a blanket in there, but mostly you just.... see what happens. Also tho I'm the fluff queen ♥ Good angst/whump has to come from somewhere and go somewhere else, I don't like to force it or just throw it around without reason or consequence, if that makes sense? And I like smut in theory but I don't have a lot of practice and my comfort level is a verrry narrow ledge I'm working on building up better, because genuinely it seems fun and interesting.

♡   PLOTS OR MEMES: I enjoy a little bit of bg plotting but also sometimes just really want to completely wing it and feel out the chemistry before committing to anything. Once we have a ground floor I like to build (and spiral)!!! I struggle with doing a bunch of memes when there's no floor to stand on, it starts to get really challenging in an un-fun way, and I feel like it's repetitive and uninteresting to write and to read. If a dynamic never has footing it can never evolve, y'know? Gotta give me something, something has to stick at some point.

♡   LONG OR SHORT REPLIES: No preference! Even when I start out 'short' I find I often end up unspooling into longer stuff but it doesn't have to I'm just wordy. I don't care if I consistently get shorter stuff back, as long as it suits the like. Yes, and. of it all. As long as there's something to work forward from I'm chillin!

♡   BEST TIME TO WRITE: I don't have a conscious preference but I do seem to have more success in early morning hours. No idea what that's about.

♡ ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE(S): Sometimes. A lot of them get teeny tiny bits and pieces of my views or opinions. I have never felt more Seen by a show than when Luke Pat.terson ghost-apparitioned into my life, even if his One Thing is not my One Thing, but we don't have to unpack that. Me 'n Henry have some childhood traumas in common (except he lives in a fairytale where he gets a thing I don't get) but I don't know that he's particularly like me. Maddy did super duper on a technicality start out as a form of self insert, but it's complicated because also super duper on a technicality so did her mom (who actually existed first! which is rare. Normally I build center-out but this time it was a generation back and Tech just sort of happened, which was crazy and fun), and they both really migrated away from that sooo quickly that it's weird to me to think that was ever even technically true. In the long run Maddy got more of 'me' than Mayhem ever did but it has always been in a hyperbolic and/or metaphorical way. She's definitely grown with me, which has been an Experience and a half. All of them, by virtue of being written by me, are subject to my sense of humor in the narrative parts of the writing, whether they would think it's funny or not.

#c:\\work>dir h:\ ooc* //.hnh .lve:bite/

[ripeteeth]

Omgg you repliedd!!! Indeed the creative process is messy and i thought it's really a herculean task to ask anyone about their process but thank you so much for such a comprehensive detailed answer. I wil surely read up on the authors and books you have recommended and try to dissect them. Would love to also read the minotaur and Theseus story.

I'll mull about your answer for a couple times until I figure out what it means for me and how to apply it.

If you don't mind, here are some problems that i face in writing and i would love your advice :

it's plot and dialogue. When i sit down to write dialogue it's almost as if i forget how do people even talk .

2. I don't know how to plot, i have a kernel of an idea, characters and their journey but i drive into a blank wall when i think about how to actually extend the idea to a story, how to write incidents,scenes and events . I have no answer to the question 'What next? '

3. Another problem, what are you supposed to do to when you have a list of different ideas but don't know where to start from? which one to pick?

4. Also there can be a host of different possiblities for each story or ending, how are you supposed to pick?

5. My main problem is my inabiity to extend an idea to a story, to actually realise what is in my head into words on a paper. It's driving me crazy for years and i would be so so greateful for some relief.

I hope I am not being persistant and an inconvenience for pestering you with these messages and my troubles.

Also you are an excellent writer, please never doubt yourself.

You have indeed made my month too.

Hmm, honestly most of these aren't something I can answer. I can't direct you to which idea to pick or which ending to write, that's something you have to determine for yourself. And I feel you, it can be very hard! Sometimes you just have to throw all the ideas in a hat and pick one at random and commit to it.

That's the real key. Don't give up. Your draft is gonna be shitty. You're gonna miss scenes and it's gonna be terrible. That's a first draft. And usually a second. It gets better as you keep going, but if you bounce around - or never start - then you don't have anything to edit and expand on. Just pick something at random and start putting the words on the page.

Plotting is difficult and I always struggle with it. I frequently like using the Snowflake Method, which begins with your broad ideas for the story and helps drill down and determine the smaller ideas and scenes to further and support it. But nothing will tell you which scenes are required to further your story, only you will know that. I frequently like to work backward. For example, I'm writing a story where Victor Frankenstein and the Creature fall in love. So, I ask myself, okay how does Victor get over his animosity for the Creature? What forces them to interact? I saw one of my final scenes as a reversal of the ending of Frankenstein, in that I wanted to find Victor bent over the Creature's dying body and mourning him, desperate to keep him. So then I work backward. Why is the Creature dying? What happened to get him to this point? What brought Victor to be present? Why does Victor now care?

There are lots of different plot structures out there and everyone will tell you that they've got it all figured out, but the fun thing is that there really isn't one way to plot a book. You can be creative. The trouble is the paradox of choice. We have so many options that it makes it hard to figure out the right option for us. You might get midway through your story and decide you don't like the plot structure. That's happened to me. Sometimes you have to go back and rewrite, sometimes you can reorganize scenes. It's all a part of the process.

Working backward works well for me, but it's absolutely not the only method. There are a lot of great books on writing and fiction that have addressed this far more intensively and eloquently than I ever could! I really recommend Craft In The Real World by Matthew Salesses; Steering The Craft by Ursula K. LeGuin; Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott; Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative by Jane Alison; and The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. There are some great online resources like The Center for Fiction, classes like Gotham Writers Workshop, and a lot of libraries offer free workshops and lectures for aspiring writers or can direct you to a wealth of other resources that I haven't even thought of.

When it comes to dialogue, the best thing a writing instructor ever told me was to steal from real life. Pay attention to conversations you have and hear around you. Write them down. Be a magpie of everything. I have a constant note running in my phone of things I hear. When I notice dialogue I really love in books or shows, I mark the passages and try to learn to write in that way. To mimic it. Like right now I'm going over the Succession script book to study the dialogue as it's just absolutely incredible. There's really no better way. Look at the stuff you admire, try to pick it apart and make it your own.

I hope this helps in any way! I know it's difficult and hard to navigate, but I really really do rec those writing books as resources, they've helped me immensely and I think you'll find gold in there.

#writing stuff