#io just realized I could totally make an original novel out of this

[the-cookie-of-doom]

“Get on your knees,” Fingers ordered. Mitch watched him with a hateful glare and spit in the pirate’s face. The vicious backhand he got in return was worth it. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Mitch said, licking the blood off his split bottom lip. 

With an enraged shout, Fingers grabbed a handful of Mitch’s hair and dragged him onto the deck of the ship. The bright sun reflecting off calm ocean water blinded Mitch. He struggled against the pirate - there were no drugs in him this time, but Fingers was still huge, and it was light trying to fight against a brick wall. 

Fingers threw Mitch into the main mast and kicked his legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees. “Bind his hands!” 

No. 

Ice water flooded Mitch’s veins. Two lanky crew mates dropped down out of nowhere to grab him, locking heavy metal manacles around his wrists before Mitch could pull away. 

No, no, NO!

The manacles pulled tight, a rope connecting them around the mast forcing Mitch against the roughed, weathered wood. Splinters caught against his bare chest and he could barely turn his head to look over his shoulder. He didn’t need to, to know what was coming. These manacles only had one purpose.

Fingers gave and ugly laugh as Mitch fought his restrains, but he could hardly move. “Save your energy, whore. You’ll need it.” He came over and looped the long whip around Mitch’s neck to jerk his head back, stooping down to whisper, “You should’ve taken my offer.” 

“Never,” Mitch hissed. He would sooner die than let Fingers - or any of the others - touch him again. Fingers tsked at him. 

“We’ll have to do something about that mouth of yours. Shame your tongue is too talented for me to cut it out.” 

Fingers stalked off a fair distance away, and unwound his whip. The heavy coil of leather fell to the deck with a resounding thud, garnering quiet murmurs from the growing crowd, come to enjoy the spectacle. Mitch’s hands ached from how tight he clenched them around his chains, trying to brace for the coming pain. 

The captain came before Fingers could land the first blow, abandoning the help to leap onto the deck below when he realized what all the commotion was. he sounded like he stuck the landing with more grace that Mitch had ever seen - or heard, rather - from him before. 

“That’s enough,” Stiles said, catching the pirate by his wrist just as he reared back to give the first lash. He was a thin waif of a thing, but stronger than he looked. 

“The whore needs to be taught some respect,” Fingers spat. Belatedly, he added, “Captain.” His tone dripped with derision. 

If anyone needs a lesson in respect, it’s you, Mitch thought. He was too relieved at having his impending flogging averted to speak his thoughts aloud, lest Fingers go ahead and whip him anyway. 

“That whore is to be delivered untouched and unharmed along with the others. You’ve already failed the first. Are you willing to pay for the second?” There was steel in Stiles voice that might even make Mitch think twice about challenging him. 

Silence followed. Mitch tried to crane his neck to see, but he was held fast, forced instead to strain his ears to listen for any small sound. All he could hear was the quiet lap of waves against the side of the ship and straining lines, and billowing sails. 

Then, finally, a grudging, “Yes, Cap’n,” from Fingers. Mitch sagged in relief. 

I guess I’ll get to live another day. 

“Release him, and have him taken to my quarters,” Stiles ordered. Another of the crew came forward to comply. 

“I thought you said he was to be untouched,” Fingers sneered. 

Stiles caught Mitch’s eye as he was led away. “That ship has sailed.” Stiles grinned. Mitch didn’t. Stiles looked away, realizing too late that he should have kept his mouth shut about that particular wound, and told Fingers, “I’ll deal with you later. If you lay a hand on him or any of the others again, without my express permission, I’ll have you keelhauled.” 

“Whatever you say, Captain.” 

Cold dread wrapped around Mitch’s heart at the tone in Fingers voice. Mitch knew the day was coming when Fingers would stop taking Stiles’ orders, and when it finally did, they were both fucked. 

Watch yourself, Stiles. You’re running out of time.

#cookie writes #i need a name for this #stitch #stiles stilinski #mitch rapp #but also #io just realized I could totally make an original novel out of this #like #it's more about Mitch than Stiles #and the character I want to write with this isn't really *stiles* #i'm making him fit the roll of course #Stiles can be intimidating when he needs to be #but also there is nothing #tying this to either canon #it's completely AU #I may have to examine that

[quilloftheclouds]

WIP Questions Tag Game

Because I have to start this blog off somehow! Say hello to some random facts about One Siren’s Soul.

... what, what do you mean I could post some actual writing? Pfft, no.

I actually got this game from @thelysstener​‘s blog and thought it was pretty cool! I wasn’t tagged or anything but I really like doing tag games. Hope you don’t mind!

1: Describe the plot in one sentence

Magical things get stolen from magical people, forcing a siren, a sea witch, a pirate, and a legend of the Royal Navy to begrudgingly work together to get them back. (Aka: A study in how Quill doesn’t know how to write story pitches yet) 2: Pick one sight, smell, sound, feel, and taste to describe the aesthetic for your WIP. (I definitely did not follow the “one” thing but too bad)

Sight: The soft, welcome blues of the sky peeking through clouds of a dispersing storm, the ocean below calm despite its froth of foam drifting across rippled dark water.

Smell: Salt and drying seaweed and rotting fish. And then a permeating, engulfing scent from the ocean that you can’t place or describe, like the very depths of its soul. Magic.

Sound: The howl of wind through a cave opening, a background of distant waves crashing amidst sea bird’s cries.

Feel: The crackling of static electricity through your fingertips as you smooth down the folds of your clothing on a stormy day.

Taste: The slight tang of something metallic. Is that blood, or sweat, or metal? Or all three? (Or the tears of my future readers?)

3: Which 3+ songs would make a playlist for your novel?

I’m normally better at making playlists for things but in this case I was really picky, so...

Your Bones by Of Monsters And Men (Probably one of the biggest inspirations for the overall aesthetic and just... feeling of my wip.)

Sirens by Fleurie (The name and lyrics of this song fit in both definitions of the word.)

Coastline by Hollow Coves (There’s... a happy song on this list? What?)

4: What’s the time period and location in which your novel takes place? 

Early 18th century on an alternate Earth in the North Atlantic.

5: Are there any former titles you’ve considered but discarded? 

So uh. Funny story about that. One Siren’s Soul was originally going to start with ‘A’ instead of ‘One’. I realized pretty quickly why that wasn’t such a good idea, and also I just like how it sounds more, now? 6: What’s the first line of your novel? 

Mmmmm this is a first draft, mate, I don’t wanna touch that just yet. 7: What’s a line of dialogue you’re particularly proud of?

Oh, jeez. All of the ones I really like are heavily context dependent or ridden with spoilers. In lieu of those, have a somewhat-kinda-funny one:

“Colin! Nice to see yer up. Or, well. Down.” - George, right after Colin falls flat on his face in front of him.

8: Which line from the novel most represents it as a whole? 

~Spoilers are fuunnnn~ 9: Who are your character(s) face claims? 

I’m definitely not the most set on these (especially for Io and Dione), but:

Celestine - Amandla Stenberg

Colin - Booboo Stewart

Phoenix - Enam Heikeens Honya

Dione - Maggie Duran

George - Johnny Harrington

Isabel - Camila Cabello

Io - Kirby Griffin

Rose - Nivetha Pethuraj

I have no idea for Io or Sheila or Alixandre yet, oops.

10: Sort your characters into Hogwarts houses.

For some reason these sorts of things are always tough for me? I myself don’t fit in only one so I think that’s worn off on my characters. Here’s some approximates, though:

Gryffindor: Phoenix, Isabel, Colin

Ravenclaw: Dione, Alixandre

Hufflepuff: George, Sheila

Slytherin: Rose

I can’t decide whether Celestine is in Ravenclaw or Slytherin, and Io’s stuck somewhere between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

11: Which character’s name do you like the most?

Chichima is probably my favourite. Who’s that, you ask? Nyehehee.

Including full names it’d probably be Phoenix Solarin because if that isn’t the most over the top thing to name a pyro I don’t know what is.

12: Describe each character’s daily outfit:

I’m just... gonna do my PoV characters, since I have too many characters in general, and fashion (especially historical) is not my strong suit.

Celestine: Maroon, long-sleeved dress; long, cream woolen scarf; and a pair of dark brown, lace up leather boots.

Colin: Simple white tunic; red and multi-coloured knit sash around his waist; brown trousers; and black cavalier boots (but to be honest he goes barefoot way too often).

Phoenix: Simple white blouse; bright red sash around her waist and as a headband; dark trousers; and buckled black leather boots. She gets a scarlet frock coat with gold trim later on.

Dione: Honestly, I have no idea how to describe Dio’s clothes. Other than black felt boots and a light green dress-like thing, I know she has a billion hidden pockets and a giant, hooded, fur and wool cloak that covers over all of the rest of her clothes so you can’t even see them. I dunno.

13: Do any characters have any distinctive birthmarks/scars?

Phoenix has a tattoo of crossed cannons somewhere (and also her, you know, vitiligo), George probably has a couple sailor’s tattoos as well, Isabel only has one arm, Celestine is missing her whole left eye, and Io has very distinctive scarring that she hides and is totally not going to become plot important at all.

14: Which character most fits a character trope?

Maybe Sheila? She’s the sweet and kind old lady shopkeeper who has all the best juicy gossip for our main cast to conveniently learn of.

15: Which character is the best writer? Worst?

Dione. Just. No competition. She writes poetry in her free time. She keeps a diar—I-I mean journal. Also she has actual training in writing but you’re not supposed to know that so shhh. Worst is probably Colin. He can barely read due to his dyslexia and as a regular deckhand he never really had the need to learn anyways.

16: Which character is the best liar? Worst?

You’d think it’d be actual thief and criminal Celestine but no, it’s Phoenix. Also another character I can’t mention because spoilers. Worst would be Colin. That comes up a lot. Sorry, Colin.

17: Which character swears the most? Least?

Rose. Swears. A LOT. Celestine does in Spanish. Least would probably be Alixandre because he’s just... too sweet. Too innocent of a boi.

18: Which character has the best writing? Worst?

Dione also has the best handwriting, since spoiler reasons but also she’s just like that. Colin’s handwriting isn’t the best, but it’s actually Io’s absolute chicken scratch that takes the cake for the worst. You wonder how people can even read her ship logs.

19: Which character is the most like you? Least like you?

Fun fact: Colin was originally based on another character of mine that was originally based on a sona form of me. So. His clumsiness is a new development, I don’t have that, and I’m apparently really good at lying, so there’re some differences. (Also I’m a writer and he can barely read. Oops.) But that obliviousness? That absolute clueless, distractibility? That inability to sit still? Those terrible puns and attempts at being socially adept? That’s me.

20: Which character would you most like to be?

I think Phoenix? You’ll find out why that is in the book, ‘cause her true personality isn’t quite the one people think of her as having, but... yeah. Phoenix is fun.

I’m gonna ignore the rules like a rebel and not tag anyone, so I’ll just tag everyone who wants to do this, instead!

Want to learn more about One Siren’s Soul? You can find the page here. I’m going to be starting a taglist soon, too, so let me know if you’d like to be added!

#oss #one siren's soul #wip #wip tag game #tag game #wip intro #wip introduction #writing #writeblr #writeblr community #ocs #my ocs #i enjoy doing tag games way too much #please tag me if you ever do them #plz

[silver-stargazing]

One Terrible Night

Fandom: Doctor Who

Summary: A brief snippet from the Ninth Doctor's first night (Inspired by the new novelization of The Day of the Doctor)

Word Count: 1248

In the new novelization of The Day of the Doctor, it’s revealed that the first thing the Ninth Doctor did after regenerating was smash all the mirrors in the TARDIS and think about all the children he would have to save in order to ever possibly make up for the lives he believed he’d ended when destroying Gallifrey.

So, after having a good cry about that (seriously: for me, this is now a very strong contender for saddest moment in the show), I wrote a short excerpt from that night.

AO3 link

“Gallifrey. You’re going to burn it. And all those Daleks with it but all those children too. How many children on Gallifrey right now?”

“Don’t know.”

“Nine-hundred and ninety-seven.”

*CRASH*

“Nine-hundred and ninety-eight.”

*CRASH*

“Nine-hundred and ninety-nine.”

*CRASH*

“And that makes a grand total of 300 mil!” the Doctor announced, his booming voice echoing into silence down the TARDIS’ hallways.

He made a grand flourish with his cricket bat and once more brought it down on the broken mirror, sending more reflective shards plummeting to the floor.

“And that’s just the children of Arcadia! Who knows how long it’ll take to count all the kids in the Citadel, eh? The ones still at the Academy? The little ones still living with Mum and Dad out in the drylands? But you know me, I can keep this up all night!”

To emphasize his point, The Doctor gritted his teeth and unleashed a rapid-fire barrage of swings at the mirror until it finally gave way to the damage. The wrecked frame collapsed loudly onto the floor below.

He gave the battered decoration a glance over and tried to remember its origins. Something he picked up at an alien thrift stop? A gift from the House of Hapsburg perhaps? He couldn’t recall.

Despite the exuberance in his attack, the Doctor was breathing quite heavily. He was still within the first 12 hours of his regeneration and with all the built-up regenerative energy blazing inside him, it felt as if a miniature sun was burning him alive.

Slouching downwards against a nearby wall for a short break, he shrugged out of his predecessor’s coat and eased up the tight grip he’d held on the bat. He looked down the hallway at his progress so far.

Fragments from once ornate mirrors littered the otherwise spotless white floor, the hallway sparkling with reflected light.

He’d been wandering for hours since the regeneration occurred, stumbling in a daze out of the console room before grabbing a bat from the cricket pitch and moving relentlessly through the different sections of the TARDIS, destroying anything that perfectly shared his image.

It didn’t matter to the Doctor that due to the unique dimensional properties of the TARDIS, he was facing a potential infinite number of mirrors.

He’d keep breaking them until there were no more left to break or when he had counted every single child he’d left to burn on Gallifrey. Whichever came first.

His memory was still foggy from the regeneration but he shut his eyes tight and tried to remember. Tried to remember what exactly happened and what went wrong. Why was he still alive? He knew he had parked the TARDIS far away. He shouldn’t have been able to use the Moment and still survive yet here he was.

His mind ached with the stress of recollection and he started rubbing his temples to ease some of the pain. Remembering the instant he’d set fire to Gallifrey was like trying to look through frosted glass that was becoming more opaque by the second. He could only make out the vaguest of shapes and images.

Sounds and colors, however, he remembered with brutal clarity.

The high-pitched wails of recently orphaned children.

Soldiers crying out for orders, desperate for survival when faced with imminent death.

Family and friends hopelessly calling out for loved ones as a brilliant crimson and orange blaze covered the planet.

Innocent and corrupt, all annihilated in a vivid flash of light.

The Doctor ran a restless hand through his hair, briefly being surprised at how short it was in comparison to his previous incarnation. He’d never had hair this cropped before. His head was so...exposed. This would certainly take some time getting used to.

“But I don’t want to get used to it,” he said quietly. “I want to be dead. I should be dead.”

Sighing deeply, he glanced around at where his path of destruction had taken him.

The Doctor was in a section of the TARDIS he had not ventured into for centuries. Every inch of the hallway was pure white. His new eyes stung at the bright lighting, watering slightly against the oppressive glare. On the walls were neatly arranged glass roundels. He remembered that others who had traveled with him before had made active use of them for storage but he frequently forgot they were even there. They were just another decorative feature that all TARDIS’ had. Nothing too special.

A wave of fury raced through him as he saw the blurred reflection of an unknown man in the misted glass of a roundel.

“No!” he yelled, shooting straight up.

He drew back the bat and with a mighty swing, it collided with the roundel, leaving a small yet satisfying crack in the thick glass.

“You do not get to see this face!”

He pulled back and swung again.

“Left me here to rot in your hell when you should’ve just had the guts to die!”

*CRACK*

“You coward!”

*CRACK*

“Monster!”

*CRACK*

“Murderer!”

The final swing shattered the glass completely and the contents of the roundel spilled onto the floor.

Crouching on the floor and sifting through the glass, the Doctor found a small first aid kit, a bag of crisps long gone stale, and a small journal titled Rainy Day Ideas belonging to a Ms. Susan Foreman.

He carefully removed the journal from the wreckage. An aged photograph slipped through the yellowed pages of the journal into his hands.

It was a black and white polaroid of himself, his granddaughter, and Barbara in front of a massive stone pyramid. The Doctor allowed a small, sad smile to cross his features. Despite his current state of memory, he remembered the day the photograph had been taken as if it were yesterday. The discovery of a missing Egyptian pyramid on the moon of Io had been a true delight for the whole crew. Susan had insisted that they capture the moment and Ian was gracious enough to take the photo.

“Always a good man, that Chesterton,” he thought aloud, wistfully thinking back on those early adventures of his.

A terrible thought struck the Doctor as he looked at all the roundels on the wall: What other hidden souvenirs of the past were lurking inside them?

His hearts broke when he realized that reminders of his family, of his friends, of the innocents he had failed to save, all those happy moments of days-long past could be inside any one of them.

One day, he would be ready to face those memories. He would remember that once upon a time, he was truly a good man and had the capacity to be one again.

But that was not tonight. This dismal night belonged to the memory of the victims of his unspeakable and devastating actions and the Doctor refused to be distracted by pleasant memories of better times.

The mirrors, those gleaming, perfect reflections of himself. They had to go. They needed to go.

The roundels...they could stay for now. As long as they remained as far away from him.

The Doctor rose from the floor and dusted off. Completely ignoring the debris that littered the area, he grabbed his coat, tightened his grip on the bat and started walking in a new direction.

Preferably one that had worse lighting.

“I wonder how many mirrors are in the library?”

“Did you ever count?”

“Count what?”

“How many children there were on Gallifrey that day?”

“2.47 billion.”

#doctor who #doctor who fanfiction #ninth doctor #angst #just...so much angst. i'm sorry you all #on the plus side: added another genfic to the doctor who community #yay... #stargazer writes #suicidal thoughts #nothing too intense but the War Doctor did originally plan on not surviving the use of the Moment #and that is briefly touched upon