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zizygy · 7 months

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Digging Your Own Grave

Astarion/Tav ~4k words inspired by @tagerrkix's heartbreaking Astarion art Summary: Astarion's worst memory ends a little differently. Read it on AO3!

I deserve it.

That was the thought that wouldn’t leave Astarion’s head as he dug his own grave. Cazador had come out to watch, which elevated the punishment to something far beyond the tortures that Astarion was used to. Cazador had no interest in the mundanity of the rack, when he showed up in person, it meant he had something special planned, something Astarion wouldn’t forget for a long time. Astarion’s back prickled from his master’s eyes, but he worked diligently and vampiric strength made quick work of the ground under his shovel. Soon, there was no choice but to get into the hole to continue digging. He hesitated. He understood the symbolism, that was obvious, but what was the punishment?

“You’re welcome to stand there until the sun comes out,” Cazador said behind him. “It’s a waste of my time but is sure to spare me quite a bit of trouble.”

Astarion stepped into the grave and worked at double pace. Sweat slid down his back with the exertion, doing nothing to alleviate the feeling of ever present eyes on him. Finally he finished and he climbed out of the hole. Cazador assessed it with narrowed eyes.

“It will do,” he said, as if even that much acknowledgement disgusted him. Then he walked to a dilapidated shed nearby and dragged out a coffin. Astarion barely got a look before he kicked it in the hole. It wasn’t much more than a few wooden boards slapped together, a peasant’s coffin, hardly a step up from just being thrown in a mass grave.

“Cazador,” Astarion said, starting to sink to his knees. Before he could even begin to grovel, Cazador’s hand shot out, too fast for Astarion to duck, and closed around his throat. He was familiar with this. He did not need to breathe anymore, but he was still of flesh and blood. He still flinched when his throat was threatened. (There was a lot that Cazador did that made him flinch). He fought, instinct taking over as he raked his fingernails across the older vampire’s skin, but they didn’t do anything more than scratch. It wasn’t nearly enough to save him as Cazador held him over the grave he’d just dug and then… let go.

Like he was nothing more than another victim.

He landed hard and was too stunned to protest when Cazador flicked his hand and dropped the lid of the coffin on top of him.

Astarion didn’t start fighting until it was too late, and wasn’t that just the story of his life? He felt each clump of dirt slam into the lid of his coffin but he couldn’t make himself fight, not really. He’d tried to outsmart his master, he had found another vampire lord willing to at least talk to him. But he wasn’t discrete enough, or else Cazador had ways to track him that he hadn’t anticipated. The worst part was that he had no idea what went wrong. No idea how to prevent it the next time.

He deserved to be caught for his lack of cleverness, if not defying his master. He was trying to leave, after all, he should have been smarter. It was the smart and the powerful who survived in this cutthroat world. In his quest for power, Astarion had somehow managed to become neither.

The dirt piled on top of him, suffocating, even though he didn’t need to breathe, pressing down even though the thin coffin protected him from its weight. In truth, it was one of the least painful punishments Astarion had ever earned. He just needed to be patient, wait out Cazador’s anger. If he was smart, he would use this time to come up with a way to make it up to the vampire, choreograph his whimpers and bows and pleas into a satisfying dance. Lay his pride on the ground and kneel on it while he bled.

The idea felt like a vice, tightening with each clump of dirt that thumped onto the coffin.

Then the sound muffled as the dirt fell not onto wood, but onto more dirt. As each shovelful landed closer to the surface. Farther away from him.

That’s when he began to fight in earnest. He clawed at the wood, kicked the edges of the coffin, threw his shoulder against the walls of his prison.

How long do you fight an unwinnable war until you give up?

Astarion fought longer than he should have. He shouldn’t have started it in the first place, he understood that now. But even as he understood, he refused to accept. He railed against his fate, his choices, his master.

Astarion was not sure how long it had been when he finally let his exhausted arms drop. His nails were cracked, the skin split and bloody where it had slammed against the wooden coffin. He was enraptured by the slow descent of a droplet of blood down his arm.

It was not silent down here, but the noises of the graveyard were barely there, whispers that seemed to fade away the moment that he tried to decipher them.

The loss of hope was not a straight line from point A to point B. It would have been easier if it was. Maybe Astarion could have accepted his place. Or Maybe Cazador was reading his thoughts, and every time he started to feel like giving up, like he was ready to stop fighting, his master sent something out of the ordinary.

How many times had Astarion heard a nearer than usual scratching? He’d a dog, or maybe a child, scrabbling at the dirt over his grave and he’d feel a hellish hope rise in his chest. He would claw and kick and scream at the top of his lungs in the hopes that someone would hear him. That someone would investigate.

And then the hunger came.

Astarion had thought that he knew hunger. Cazador kept him starved of mortal blood, allowing him rats and occasionally, if he was good, larger, less diseased animals. His stomach never stopped aching. Hunger was his constant companion, an urge that he had to actively turn away from every night as he prowled the streets for fresh victims.

But this. This felt like a black hole within his stomach, his chest and his head. It consumed every thought. He heard shuffling above his head and instead of thinking *help*, he thought *blood*. Had he been in his right mind, he might have reflected that Cazador had finally done it, he’d broken his errant spawn. Instead, he slammed his hand into the thin piece of wood separating him from the world. From blood.

He slammed his hand against the same spot, again and again and again until he punched through and was met by nothing but dirt.

He screamed, a desperate, animal sound that tore out of his parched throat and took the remainder of his energy with it. He fell back as grave dirt trickled past the broken wood, six feet between him and freedom.

Time passed in fits and starts. Every once in a while he was seized with the need to scream, to fight, to resist this hellish fate he’d been consigned to. Then his energy would fade and he’d fall back, exhausted, with no company but his hunger and the dirt.

Time passed.

Astarion didn’t move.

Until Astarion was roused from his hunger haze by something walking over his grave, but when the sound began, it wasn’t the scrabbling of a dog’s paws. It was… heavier. More deliberate.

A shovel.

The pressure of the earth began to lighten. Astarion wanted to push through the scraps of wood and dirt separating him from his prey, but the part of him that was still a hunter kept him still. It would be easier to take down the creature, whose blood pounded so deliciously above him, with the element of surprise.

Sunlight filtered in through the hole in the coffin, burning his cheek. He held in a hiss as he wriggled away from the light and waited for his opportunity. And then the shovel slammed through the cracked wood and there it was, a drow, sweaty and unsuspecting, backlit by the sun.

Astarion lunged, even as the sun began to burn his skin. He acted on instinct. The drow was blood and blood would heal him. He barreled into the man. He was weak, starved of blood, but Cazador had promised to make him something more than mortal and that was the one promise he’d kept. It was with a vampire’s strength and a spawn’s desperation that he dragged the drow into the shadows.

–

Rhyl didn’t see the difference in graverobbing and breaking into a chest of hidden goods. It was stealing either way, and unless he was very unlucky, the original owner wasn’t going to find out about it. Upworlders were so precious with bodies. Shadowheart and Gale hadn’t stopped him, but they’d refused to come into the cemetery at first.

Shadowheart called it bad luck. Gale at least cited a few hazards, ghosts, graveyard gas, skeletons, as if they hadn’t been killing skeletons for the past two weeks. Either way, he wasn’t concerned. He grabbed his shovel and started digging.

Rhyl had relied heavily on the advice of the local fauna since arriving in Baldur’s Gate. Stray cats and dogs had a significantly better understanding of the city than he did. A few cats had already warned him off the adventurer’s tavern at the edge of town where people tended to disappear. Then he came across a dog that excitedly told him about something that smelled weird in the cemetery. His owner always pulled him back before he could investigate, but after a few walks around (his owner’s sister hadn’t died recently, but times were hard and memories abundant) he’d identified the unmarked grave where the strange smell was coming from. Weird for animals usually meant magic and occasionally poison, and Rhyl was eager to find out which it was. The dog only asked that he leave any bones he finds.

And so, against the advice of his companions, Rhyl ventured into the graveyard and started digging. Perhaps he took some of their concern to heart though because, while it required a bit more stealth, he did plan the operation for the middle of the day.

Sweat rolled down his back and somehow the blasted dirt was so full of white rocks that it managed to reflect the bright sunlight directly into his eyes, but soon his effort was rewarded. His shovel hit something solid, but that gave far more easily than rock. He took a deep breath and slammed metal against wood. It gave with a crack and, too curious for his own good, Rhyl leaned in to get his first look at the treasure.

All he saw was pale skin and a flash of red before something slammed into him with enough force to throw him out of the quickly dug hole. The impact drove the breath from his body and maybe it was because he was tired and the city so loud, or maybe he’d felt too safe for too long and let himself go soft, but his fingers had barely found the hilt of his dagger when the creature, the *man*, from the grave dragged him into the shadows.

A heavy weight settled over him, pressing his legs, hips and chest to the ground. Rhyl fought, but the hands on his shoulders were strong enough to keep him pinned down. Rhyl’s empty hand flexed in the warmth of the sun, but the rest of him was pinned by shadow. The man’s eyes met his and Rhyl froze.

Blood red.

The same color as his own.

Rhyl might have been able to roll into the sun, to drag the vampire with him to burn, but his muscles had locked. And then the vampire dropped his head and grazed his fangs over Rhyl’s throat.

There are many romantic tales of vampires that slide their fangs into victims’ necks like a caress. A whisper of pain that’s quickly replaced by ecstasy, though whether that’s due to a certain kind of venom or a certain kind of victim depends on the teller. This vampire’s bite was not soft and romantic. It’s more like being bitten by a dog, a desperate latching of teeth into flesh as his vessels tore open.

Quickly, so quickly, the blood and energy drained from his body. But not quickly enough to kill him. The vampire sucked greedily at his lifeblood while his hand finished the well known path to the dagger at his hip. This wasn’t the first time he’d been knocked onto his back by someone trying to kill him, though it was the first time that someone seemed to relish the action quite so much.

Blackness was already gathering at the edge of his vision when he pressed his knife against the vampire’s stomach. “My friends will be here in a moment, they’ll be more merciful if you don’t drain me dry.”

The vampire hesitated, which gave Gale enough time to cast a paralyzing spell. Good timing, he hadn’t been sure anyone was there. He’d never gotten a chance to scream.

"Don't kill him," Rhyl gasped, "I want to talk to him." He rolled out from under the vampire and into the warm embrace of the sun. It strengthened his headache but gave him the room he needed to clap his hand over his bleeding neck, staunching the wound.

He started to get up, to move toward the vampire, as if to protect him with his body, if not words, but Gale put a hand on his shoulder and pushed. “Sit,” the wizard said, and Rhyl’s body obeyed, legs collapsing under him.

He’d hardly dropped to his knees when Shadowheart rounded a gravestone and glared at him.

“What the fuck happened here?” she demanded.

“Rhyl’s decided to go soft on the undead,” Gale said. Rhyl couldn’t see him roll his eyes, but he heard it in the wizard’s tone.

Shadowheart’s face paled when she saw Rhyl’s mangled neck. She reached out with a hand crackling with magic. Rhyl expected the cool wash of healing magic. Instead it burned as it slammed against the wound. “Nine hells, what the fuck?” he hissed.

“Cauterization,” Shadowheart said primly. “That’s what you get for getting mauled without me.”

Rhyl’s eyes narrowed. “The vampire is still there if you’d like to join in the fun.”

“No thank you, I value my life, unlike you seem to.”

Rhyl traced the burned skin on his neck. It wasn’t that he didn’t care to live, but he’d learned to trust his gut out here. It was that nagging feeling that something didn’t add up that saved Karlach. It had nearly got him assassinated once, but only once.

The vampire had looked at him with desperation and fear, not just hunger. More like a slave than an animal. He let out a long breath as Gale knelt down to tie the vampire’s wrists together. He didn’t let go of the spell until they were all back at camp though.

–

As soon as the wizard let go of his spell, Astarion started to fight. He was still hungry but the blinding nothingness had faded. He could hear and smell the pulsing blood of the human wizard, the drow that had freed him, and the half-elf that sparked with divine magic. An hour ago, they would have been nothing but pulses, now he could watch them, though his mind hadn’t caught up quickly enough to form any plans. Especially with the taste of the drow’s blood still in his mouth.

The wizard raised a hand to put him back in his place, but before Astarion could even snarl, the drow’s voice snapped through the air. “Gale! He’s already bound, leave him alone.”

Gale glared at Astarion. Astarion glared right back. After a tense moment, the wizard threw his hands up. “On your own head be it! I won’t come running when he tries to devour you a second time.”

The drow watched Gale go, then turned to Astarion. His dark purple skin had an ashy tint, no doubt from the pain and blood loss Astarion had caused, but his eyes shone like rubies. For drow, that meant he worshiped the spider goddess Lolth and the tattoos that cut across his cheeks and lips like the legs of a spider seemed to confirm it. He was short, shorter than the wizard and probably than Astarion himself, with a lean frame. In other words, he was attractive, in that rugged adventurer’s way. “I’m Rhyl,” he said, his eyes not leaving Astarion’s face as he didn’t sit as much as stumble to his knees. He sat in the sunlight, apparently not entirely a fool, while Astarion stayed under the awning where he’d been deposited.

A part of him realized that this was his moment. The drow - Rhyl, was clearly interested in him, for whatever reason. He could smile, turn on the charm, and probably have the man eating out of the palm of his hand. No well-adjusted person went grave robbing.

But he was tired.

“Astarion,” he finally said. He owed the man his sanity, the least he could give was a name.

Rhyl’s eyes didn’t leave his. It made him uncomfortable. He wanted to fidget, an odd sensation after moving so little for so long. “You should listen to your wizard. I won’t hesitate to tear you apart,” he snarled.

All that got him was a raised eyebrow.

“You look like you want to be in the sun even less than I do. Go crawl back to your people,” he tried.

To Astarion’s surprise, Rhyl did move, but he moved closer, until he was also under the awning. His heart beat in a steady rhythm. “Are you hungry?”

Astarion blinked, taken aback, then his eyes narrowed. Yes. “Why?”

“You’re pricklier than a spiny mole. Hunger is natural, I won’t punish you for it.” He moved closer again. His white hair fell in a wave over one of his eyes. It made him look almost shy.

It was the kind of trick that Astarion used, although he usually brushed his hair away from his face. He’d thought that being small didn’t suit him.

“Besides,” Rhyl said, heartbeat infuriatingly steady, “you can’t blame a spider for biting when you disturb its web.”

“Now I’m confused,” Astarion drawled, leaning forward despite himself. “Am I a spider or a mole?” He was close enough now to flick out his tongue against the wound he left on Rhyl’s neck. The drow didn’t seem bothered, even extended his arm until it was almost in Astarion’s lap. A dagger seemed to appear in his other hand.

“They’re both found underground,” Rhyl was saying, but Astarion wasn’t listening to the words. With the barest move of his fingers, the dagger dipped toward the unmarred skin of his arm. Blood welled up like it was summoned. Rhyl dragged the dagger across his flesh, widening the cut.

Astarion stared. Rhyl’s blood bubbled up from his skin, ruby red and no less alluring because he knew how it tasted. He hadn’t had the presence of mind to note the intricacies of the flavor when he attacked the man, but he could smell them now, a soft earthiness accompanied by a subtle spice he couldn’t name. It made his mouth water and it took active effort for him to tear his eyes away from the wound.

“You’re not concerned that I’ll bite?” he asked, layering as much disdain in his voice as he could manage. It made him feel like himself again.

Rhyl looked at him blankly. “If you did, I would slit your throat. Neither of us wants that, so it’s best that you don’t.”

Before Astarion could start disentangling that, Rhyl shoved his bloody arm forward. Astarion took it in a purposefully delicate grip. His fingernails were broken, jagged and stained with blood and dirt. His pale skin looked ghostly against the deep purple of the drow’s skin. He bent his head, as if in supplication, and drank.

His hunger, so volatile for so long, had quieted within him since he attacked Rhyl. He’d expected it to return full force and prepared to jump away before instinct could once more turn him into a feral animal, but that didn’t happen. Instead of hunger, Rhyl’s blood slaked his thirst. He took it in through his mouth and it found its way to his veins, rushing through his decrepit body and knocking off years of dust. His skin pinked, an organ coming back to life.

He had to shut his mouth against a whine as Rhyl, looking a little bit greyer, pulled his arm back.

“Now will you tell me what you were doing in the graveyard?”

Astarion wiped his mouth. “That was a bribe then?”

“You can think of it as payment, if you want.”

“If I don’t?”

Rhyl’s crimson eyes twinkled. “An offer of friendship. I’d take it, if I were you. You never know when you’ll need a friend.”

There was that boyish charm again. Rhyl was trying to lure him into complacency. Why? Did it matter? Two could play at that game. If the lolth-worshiper wanted to feel like a hero, Astarion would give him someone to save.

It took very little effort to let his hands start to shake. Casting his gaze down was harder, but he did that too. “I haven’t had a friend in a long time.”

Rhyl didn’t move, but his heart rate was picking up. Astarion pressed his advantage. “But I can’t stay. My master is expecting me.”

“He did this to you.” It wasn’t a question. Astarion risked a glance up and he saw… more than he expected in the drow’s eyes. Righteous anger, of course, adventurers were full of that, disgust that could just as easily been directed at spawn as vampire, and the barest hint of fear.

“I deserved it.”

For all Astarion’s performances, that was true. Ungrateful. Disobedient. Weak. What kind of vampire did that make him?

“I doubt that,” Rhyl said, his tone hard to read. “There’s discipline and there’s cruelty.” He said it like it was a fact of life and for a moment Astarion wondered how he would do as a vampire spawn. If he would balk the first time he was ordered to bring prey back to Cazador. If he would kneel readily, or if he’d make a retort just so it felt like his idea.

Astarion shrugged helplessly. “All the same, I have to go back.”

“Alone?”

Adventurers are all the same. They just want someone to tell them they’re a hero.

He looked up, letting his nerves show. “I wouldn’t mind some company,” he said softly.

Cazador wouldn’t forgive him for ending his punishment early but perhaps a gift would at least temper his anger.

The bloody knife reappeared in Rhyl’s hand, but this time instead of cutting into skin, it cut rope. “Then I will come with you,” he said simply.

And you won’t ever leave, Astarion thought.

#bg3 #astarion #astarion/tav #vampire #my ship tag for these two is they're soooooo normal #also my nanowrimo project is about these two #y'all ever meet someone who sees the good in you and feel the immediate need to ruin it?#tagerrkix thank you again for putting that art into the world #i hope you enjoy this!#my writing

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inkskinned · 2 years

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hey it's nanowrimo. i have tips bc i've done it about 34 times.

Don't edit. Ever. Stop it. If you just decide to start a new project half thru this one with all new characters, no problem. pick up and keep writing as if you'd already written the first half of that.

"but i spelled it wrong" whatever. "but the grammar" whatever. make it exist first. no time for sense. think like you're working on a typewriter. no backspace. only forward go.

Don't re-read further than a paragraph or two backwards. "did i mention the gun before?" listen - it doesn't matter. if you need there to be a gun there, the gun is there. put it back in once you finish the book.

"i forgot the specifics of X thing i already wrote" whatever. change it, make a note/comment to figure it out later, and just write what makes sense for the moment. "no raquel it's legit the characters name and origin" idc that character is now reborn as Claudius from Elsewhere. it's fine.

only you see your mistakes. nobody else knows. one of the ways writing and dance overlap - only you know the choreography. nobody else will know if you miss a step, so just keep dancing and pretend you meant to do it like that.

it's an illusion that you need to write linearly - from point A to point B to point C. Nah; that's just timeline propaganda. I've written a LOT of books out of order and just reordered them once i've finished. if you have a scene you'd LOVE to write but can't get there yet because of plot, just fuckin write the scene. I've always found its easier to establish "point F" "point J" and "Point A" and then wiggle my way between those scenes.

write what you WANT to write. 230 pages of smut? of well-researched discussion on bread? whatever. the point is to strengthen muscles however you can.

if you miss a day, a week, whatever. not the end of the world. we all have dry days. also time is a myth so u can do this challenge whenever u want.

as soon as you try to write for a specific audience, you kill your voice. you are writing for yourself. stop thinking about how people will take ur book. it don't matter. what matter is u, enjoying writing. i luv u.

play to your strengths. i have characters talk so much because i don't know how to write a plot if it kills me but i'm really good at dialogue so.

i love a flight of fancy. write a poem in there. shift tactics and write in code. keep it fun for yourself.

see what happens if you shift something major about ur main characters - gender, wealth, superpowers. or if you change point-of-view. or if you kill everyone in a big explosion. do NOT edit anything before this or after it. often these little weird one-off exercises teach me what interests me about what i'm working on. it is never what i thought. plus it is a fun way to add like 1k words.

stretch.

it's for fun and for practice. stop doing that project if it's giving you anxiety. once my nano was literally 50k words of half-started stories. just things i tried and tried and tried and wasn't able to flesh out. oops. but i am now 50k words of a better writer.

add dragons?

read books/listen to books on tape/etc. people often make the mistake of "buckling down" to just write. you need inspiration. you need to like. fill up on words. you need to remember how it feels to lose yourself in a story.

i don't have the time or space to really talk about this in this post but a lot of creative people turn to drugs/alcohol because it can help you be more creative. this is harmful, and walking a blade that only cuts deep. if you notice you and your loved ones are turning more to substances, please know i love you and i hope you are able to get help soon. i feel like this almost never gets mentioned because it's kind of a hazy underbelly to art. you are always more important than the work.

on that note. drink your fukin. water.

don't talk about a story until you've finished it. once you tell the story, it exists already, and isn't about discovery. i usually have a very canned "haha we'll see" response.

grapes :) tasty snack.

i love you be free.

#edit: the command not to talk about it is from personal experience!#i have heard Otherwise in the tags so i will edit to say:#if you've noticed that you tend to like Talk A Lot about ur piece but never WRITE it -#consider voice-to-text #also #u might be like me and ... need to figure it out on the PAGE and not OUT LOUD #i am often an auditory processor so i wont tell people specifics but i'll be like #huh. so i have a character who is in love .... and they don't know it #and my friend will be like ''oh they should kiss' and meanwhile #somehow #saying it out loud im like #yeah thank u ur right the dress SHOULD be purple that's what the problem has been <3 #idk!!! it's up to you!!! my suggestion is to say LESS until you know for a FACT that saying MORE works better for you #-- always better to slowly unspool in ur exploration of that #than to accidentally talk too much and get Bored Of Project #idk idk idk #i have adhd so every book surprises me bc im like #wait where did any of this even COME FROM #and whatever little gremlin in my brain that writes is like :)#''heyyy girlie.......''#WHICH IS A LONG WAY TO SAY:#i didn't know about Not Talking About It as an option until i'd ruined a few projects!!#but there are people who need to do the other thing!!! and i love us both!!!!#wow brains are so funny!!!!

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simonnebethel · 5 months

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Writeblr Introduction

Just learned what a writeblr intro is so I'm gonna make one before I go to bed lol

I've already done something like this a few days ago but that was when I had no clue what I was doing lmao, so might as well make a more in depth one

About me:

19, she/her, bi

American

I write mostly fantasy and urban fantasy, and honestly i dont think i've ever written a story that was non-fantasy lol

Started writing when I was 10, but it was mostly Warrior Cats fanfiction on Wattpad lol. I went through a writing slump for most of highschool but last year I decided to get back into it since I'm not doing anything else lol

I like to read fantasy and classic lit, also anything with vampires. I also have a soft spot for slowburn romances where the main characters dont kiss until, like, the 4th book heehee

In love with anything gothic, vampire, and wlw 👩‍❤‍💋‍👩

I think one of my more niche interests is any early 2000s fantasy/sci-fi movie with a nu-metal/rock/alternative soundtrack like Queen of the Damned and The Crow. They are just...*chefs kiss*

My current stories:

A Chant for Blood (Formerly known as Account of Calamity)

Account of Calamity is a gothic victorian fantasy about a Grand Marshal, Karliah Helisende, and a blood-drinking fiend, Yorick Gwynplaine, who work together to investigate the mysterious portals that spawn dangerous creatures into the city of Isarnan, all the while Karliah is being haunted by the mysterious ancient temple that watches over her every move.

I'm currently working on the second draft, and I may start looking for beta readers once I'm finished, although I know I'm not far from finished with this novel. I also plan to make it a 4 or 5 book series, and slowly add a slowburn romance.

12/30/24 - Second draft has been finished!!

Looking for beta readers! Look here!

Our Demonic Hearts - The Craven Pact Series #1

Our Demonic Hearts is a urban fantasy about a cambion woman, Ana Kravens, haunted by her past. Taking place in a small Mississippi town, a man she went through a traumatic incident with, Beau Motloe, shows up on her doorstep one day with a deal; help him find his missing mother, and he'll give back the memories she lost during the traumatic incident. Her father, a demonic creature of unknown origin, wants nothing more than the Motloes dead, claiming that they were the very reason his daughter was almost killed 6 years ago. Ana goes against her father's wishes and accepts Beau's deal, suspecting that her father isn't telling the whole truth about that fatal night.

It is completed and available on Wattpad and Royal Road!! It was just a small project I had done for Nanowrimo, and has been edited at least once before being published. However, I plan to make it a trilogy and maybe have some spin-offs. This story is fairly new, but most of the characters are at least 5 years old and I love them very much <3

What I plan for 2024:

Finish the second draft of Account of Calamity and look for beta readers(In the beta reader phase!)

Start the second novel of The Craven Pact Series

Write a short story/novella or two taking place within the Account of Calamity universe. My brain is currently exploding with ideas rn(2 are in the drafting process currently!)

Write a short story about Ana Kraven's mom and how she met Marchosias, Ana's father.

Plan something for Nano?? Idk where I'll be in November lol

I'm interested in following other writers and reading everybody's stories! I would also be interested in a beta read/beta swap ^^

Other sites I'm on:

Wattpad: LillithOfBees

Royal Road: SimonneBethel

Nanowrimo: BeeWitch

18+ Writing discord!!!

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thefrogdalorian · 6 months

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Hello and welcome to my contribution to Dincember!

Following NaNoWriMo (which I used to complete a draft of a modern AU!Din x reader fic that I aim to start posting in January) I wanted to attempt another writing project to maintain my sanity during this festive period! I'm aiming to complete all 25 days but life can sometimes be unpredictable, especially at this time of year.

I really hope you enjoy my interpretations of each prompt and best of luck if you're also participating, can't wait to see what everyone creates. Thanks @dindjarindiaries for putting these prompts together, celebrating all things Din is a wonderful way to close out the year!

All my fics are GN!reader and I don't include physical descriptions. Nothing more mature than a bit of smooching either :)

Happy Dincember, tumblr!

Link to read on AO3 | Link to read in Chronological Order

Day 1 - Snow: After a busy few months, Din surprises you and Grogu with a well-earned retreat to a snowy paradise in the run up to Life Day. Snow-filled chaotic fun ensues!

Day 2 - Fire: During a trip to a peaceful cabin with Din and Grogu, you awake one morning and discover that Grogu is poorly. You and Din are extremely worried but after a visit from a healer and the warmth of the fire you light, his condition soon improves.

Day 3 - Gloves: As you sit watching Grogu play by the fire while holding hands with Din, you reflect on how a simple part of his body says so much about the complex man that you are so privileged to love. A simple pleasure that you would have been denied, if he had never removed his gloves.

Day 4 - Lights: You introduce Din to a favourite Life Day tradition of yours: hanging up lights. It's a tradition that he finds slightly bemusing but after a slight hiccup which is soon resolved, thanks to the abilities possessed by Grogu, the two of you set about making a cheesy new Life Day tradition all of your own.

Day 5 - Cold: After your favourite Mandalorian's latest assignment with the New Republic means that his return to your cabin is delayed, you head to bed, thoroughly miserable. But when Din finally arrives home the reunion does not go entirely smoothly, as you find yourself needing to warm him up, with adorable consequences.

Day 6 - Gifts: It's Life Day and time for you and Din exchange gifts. You love sharing in the joy of seeing others surprised with your gifts, but nothing surprises you more than the incredibly thoughtful gift Din gives to you.

Day 7 - Star: As you lie on Din's strong chest, looking at the stars and reflecting how grateful you are that your paths crossed, you discover once again, that the man with the fearsome reputation is incredibly soft underneath his hard Beskar shell.

Day 8 - Flame: A fire pit outside your little cabin on Nevarro has always been a dream of yours. So, when Din finally agrees to build one, you are delighted, especially when he secures your favourite sweet treats too. But it's Din's first time roasting candy on a campfire and things don't exactly go to plan...

Day 9 - Boots: Raising a Force-sensitive child is not an easy task, especially one as mischievous as Grogu. When the little guy decides to play a game of hide and seek without telling you and Din first, you find him in a place that you would never have expected.

Day 10 - Sweater: After his latest job with the New Republic takes him away from your home, you find yourself missing Din terribly. But, despite how sappy and lame as you feel for doing so, you find wearing his sweater brings you a great deal of comfort when you need it most.

Day 11 - Icicle: An innocent icicle causes Din to reminisce on a moment he shared with Grogu on the Razor Crest shortly after rescuing The Child from the Imps on Nevarro.

Day 12 - Warmth: After you find yourself caught up in a rainstorm that drenches you to the bone on the forest planet you call home, an unexpectedly kind Mandalorian helps you to get warm again.

Day 13 - Family: Din Djarin is a complex man, with many walls you have not yet successfully broken down. You have been slowly building a life with the man who has a traumatic past he has alluded to, but never discussed in detail. One night, Din wakes up from a nightmare and finally lets you in. You comfort him, reminding him of your love for him and how much he deserves his unlikely family.

Day 14 - Home: During a moment cuddling with Din underneath the festive lights in your cabin, Din confides in you what home means to him.

Day 15 - Candle: Despite planning a special evening to mark your final night in the cabin that you, Din and Grogu have enjoyed a relaxing vacation in, your plans are soon thwarted by an unexpected power cut. However, the sudden loss of light ends up having very romantic consequences.

Day 16 - Sweet: After a tiring day of yard work, you decide to introduce Din and Grogu to one of your favourite festive drinks: hot chocolate. Although the sweetness proves a little too much for one of your Clan.

Day 17 - Joy: Despite you and Din having plans to go to a special festive market with Grogu, you wake up feeling awful, as though all festive cheer has been sucked out of you. Fortunately, you have a loving and caring Mandalorian who helps you regain your joy.

Day 18 - Snowflake: As Din stands by the window, watching the snow fall outside your cabin in the mountain paradise he brought you to for a vacation, he reveals a hilarious memory of his first encounter with snow to you. One that you are keen not to let him forget in a hurry.

Day 19 - Coat: You and Din arrive for a vacation in a picturesque snowy mountain town. There's just one problem: you brought the wrong coat. You head into town in search of the perfect coat but after a long day of fruitless searching, fortunately you have an incredibly patient and attentive Mandalorian to help you through the shopping stress.

Day 20 - Celebration: To show Din how much he means to you, you decide to make a special gesture in celebration of him by cooking him a traditional Mandalorian feast. Despite having your heart set on a perfect evening, a certain green child has other ideas...

Day 21 - Love: Despite how much time you have been spending with Din and getting to know him, you are still none the wiser as to whether your feelings for him are reciprocated. But an impromptu night of stargazing leads to a confession that may just change everything for the two of you...

Day 22 - Cozy: When Grogu wakes up upset in the middle of the night, both you and Din are concerned for him. But getting cozy and cuddling with his Clan soon brightens the little boy's mood.

Day 23 - Frost: You and Din wake up one morning to discover the volcanic planet you call home has been plunged into a deep frost. You are awestruck by the gleaming ground and the icy crystals that cling to every surface. You and Din decide to head out for a walk with Grogu, who is fascinated by the way his favourite pond has frozen over.

Day 24 - Ice: The unseasonably weather on Nevarro causes a pond to freeze and thanks to a stroke of good luck, a passing vendor is able to offer the opportunity to skate on it. You expect that Din will be a natural, but things do not go entirely to plan.

Day 25 - Holiday Waking up before Din on Life Day gives you the opportunity to admire all the little details and features of the man you love so much.

#do you like my moodboard i feel like i'm 12 again (in the best way)#life is full circle but you gotta get through The Horrors somehow #dincember #dincember 2023 #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #my fics #masterlist #pedro pascal characters

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writingquestionsanswered · 7 months

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Can you explain nanowrimo? This is the first year I've heard of it.

NaNoWriMo in a Nutshell

NaNoWriMo stands for "National Novel Writing Month," which is a 30-day novel-writing challenge that takes place every November. It is a free event hosted by a non-profit organization (NaNoWriMo, formerly "The Office of Letters and Light") that promotes creative writing around the world. The November novel-writing challenge encourages people to write a 50,000 word novel from scratch in 30 days. The official web site provides writing tips, resources, and tools, including a word count tracker. There is no cost to using the web site, no membership fee, and no entry fee. It is simply a free challenge, and if you achieve a 50k word count or more by midnight on November 30th, you'll have access to some nice discounts on writing-related tools, apps, and programs, as well as a winner's certificate. The organization also hosts two other challenges each year, in April and July, called Camp NaNoWriMo, which is open to any type of writing project, not just novels-length fiction.

Here are some of my previous posts about NaNoWriMo:

NaNoWriMo: Picking an Idea Staying Pumped Until NaNoWriMo NaNoWriMo: Necessities for Planners Can I Write Fan-Fiction for NaNoWriMo? Pacing Yourself During NaNoWriMo NaNoWriMo Story Overhaul

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

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

LEARN MORE about WQA

SEE MY ask policies

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#writing tips #writing help #writing advice #wqaadvice

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unrequitedloveletter · 7 months

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THE HALLOWEEK OF HURT: DAY ONE

Persevere- K.B x gn! reader

All right! Day one of the second year of this event, and a little bit has changed! First off, the title for the event--I recognize that while I am good for a bit of angst from time to time, a lot of what I aim for to be angst turns into hurt/comfort somewhere along the way.

Requests are open, but their closing deadline is changing--if you look at my bio, you'll see that requests are slated to close on the 10th of next month. To accommodate for myself and allow myself a bit more time to work on requests for my other account as well as write as much as I need to for my NaNoWriMo project, they're going to close on the 3rd of November instead. As such, fall event requests are open until the second. Requests not pertaining to the fall event will be open on the 3rd and close midnight AST on the fourth.

Fic type- angst and hurt/comfort

Warnings- none

On the first day of October, you woke to the sound of thundering Ketterdam rain as it pelted furiously against your window. It was the first of the autumn season and certainly not the last of it.

The downpour was the kind of rain that drove most indoors, ruined plans, made nights out ones punctuated by rain and wet feet as people ran from one club to the next.

Ketterdam was different to most other cities in Kerch, though. The rain never drove the locals back indoors because the rain was something that they were used to and for most, the only combative measures they felt the need to take were the act of putting on a suitable raincoat and grabbing the largest umbrella in their collection, as well as being sure to avoid the puddles when they stepped out of their homes and went about their nights.

You had a particular fondness for days just like that one. That day, particularly, was setting out to be the kind of day that set the scene for the rest of the month.

When it rained, it poured, and if the first day was to be of an indication as to how the rest of the month would go, the citizens of Ketterdam were in for a rainy October indeed.

That also meant that the Barrel was in for a treat, for the pigeons came aplenty in the autumn months and the rain would keep them inside the gambling dens longer than they would've stayed had there been sun.

October in and of itself had never meant much to you--sure, you loved the way that Ketterdam got during the fall and the way that it would stay until the city found itself within the throes of winter, but the month in and of itself had never really held any significance other than the fact that autumn meant rain and you had always held a particular fondness for rainy days.

That day was to be different, though, and it was to be different because you'd gotten home from a heist only the day before. You'd woken at nine that morning after getting home twelve hours before and resting two weeks worth of exhaustion and stress away after so many sleepless nights.

You lit a candle to combat the darkness of the room, the darkness that would've been long gone by that point had the day been sunny.

You debated going downstairs, where most residents of the Slat would be if they hadn't gone to Fifth Harbor to eat and watch the ever-so invisible Council of Tides control the flooding from the sea into the streets.

It would practically be a ghost town between those who'd crossed the street looking to gamble at the Crow Club due to its place so close to the Slat, those who'd dared to don a raincoat and grab an umbrella to go to Fifth Harbor, and those in the Slat who'd taken the day for what it was--a day to exist all comfy and cozy in their rooms, with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book.

You chose to stay in your room in the end, making sure you had a box of matches for when the power inevitably went out and you needed to have more than just one candle lit.

You grabbed a book from one of the set of five shelves that lined the wall across from your bed and set to reading, sighing a bit when you heard the all-too-familiar sound of a knock against your door.

"I'm not going to say no to you, Brekker," you said. "You and I both know that now. The door is unlocked if you find it within yourself to dare enter this room."

Kaz did dare and he entered with a smirk on his face, leaning heavily against his cane as he moved. For a moment, you wondered just how terribly his leg was handling the storm, but you forced your gaze to the book you were reading and tried not to think anything of the way he was gripping the head of his cane or the tilt of his body in the direction of his bad leg.

"How bad is it?" The words befell your lips before you could stop them, but you just laughed a bit at yourself and moved on. "The leg. How are you handling the storm?"

"It could be better," Kaz said. "A medik on the team brought pain medications to me last week. Vowed never to take them."

"You'll find that you need to," you said. "You're not immune from having weaknesses, Brekker. Everyone has to have at least one or they're not human."

Kaz sighed. "I know," he said.

It had felt like forever since you'd last had a genuine, full conversation with him.

In reality, the last full conversation you'd had had been in July and it was the first of October.

You were sitting in your bedroom, a book in your lap, a candle lit atop your dresser with the rain pelting against your window and acting in the place of music.

Kaz was standing across from you and looking at you like you were the love of his life but he would never acknowledge that.

"The rain has started," Kaz said.

"And according to reports, it is to continue for the next six days with only a couple of hours to give the city a break," you said. "And it is autumn, Kaz. You have spoken a grand total of thirty words to me since our last conversation three months ago--I've counted. Why talk to me now if you seemed perfectly content in never talking to me again, outside of the obligations of our jobs?"

Kaz paused, looking from you to the ground. You caught a glimpse of hopelessness, a there-and-then-not flash of the emotion within the watery depths of his blue-eyed gaze.

"We've talked," he said.

"No," you shook your head. "We haven't, and I know you think that love is weakness but I cannot do this any longer. I cannot keep waiting and hoping that someday you will see that people care about you and they are allowed to care about you, because I have known you since we were fifteen and in the four years that have passed since we met, I have realized that such a day will never come. You, Kaz Brekker, will never view love as anything but weakness when it is in fact the opposite."

Kaz swallowed. "So you're still in love with me, then?"

"I fell in love with you January of the year we took on the Ice Court and I have found it completely and utterly impossible to do anything but love you in the years that've passed since then."

"And the storm--the pain it brings, has not changed that?" You could sense that the words had a double meaning, a turn of phrase of which Kaz was not so fond.

The storm that came with loving him. The pain that was constantly brought on by the fact that the love you felt was something that Kaz never reciprocated. The complete and utter shock he felt when he acknowledged that through all of it, you still loved him--that you would love him through anything, you would love him until the sun set in his life for the last time and you would love him when his soul moved from one world to the next.

"I will love you until I have taken my last breath, Kaz. I have tried to understand why I am so deeply in love with you since I first realized, but I have not understood it yet. I will love you no matter how long the storm continues, I will love you through the pain and just to spite it," you said. "Even though you do not love me back--and if you do, you are too afraid of others turning that into leverage--I will love you far longer then it is worth. "

"And if this love persists?" Kaz asked. You wanted to punch him in the face for daring to ask it. He was treating how you felt about him like something that could be handled in a hospital room, like something that could be removed with a simple surgery that you would've been out of within the hour, but it was different. Love was always different.

"I really, genuinely, should hate you," you said. "I really should, but I don't. I can't. I do hate you to an extent, I suppose, but only on the nearly irrelevant basis of the fact that hating you is impossible for me after knowing you so long."

Kaz turned his gaze to the ground again. You wished that you could've slapped yourself in the face because of course you had fallen for the one person who could never, ever love you in turn.

"Will you leave?" Kaz asked, his voice breaking for what must've been barely half a second. "If the way that you feel about me persists, will you leave Ketterdam behind?"

"Do you want me to?" You asked. "Because sometimes, I look at you and I find that, if someone were to try to convince me that you loved me in return, I would believe them just based on what you think nobody sees in your gaze. Sometimes you--you look at me like I am to be the love of your life and you cannot stand the thought of having a love so great because you cannot stand the thought of weakness."

"Will you go?" Kaz asked.

"If you ask me to leave, I will be gone by nightfall," you said. "Ask me to go, and I'll do it. I'll just go, leave not a trace that I ever existed, for your convenience. Tell me to leave, Kaz."

Kaz bit his lip, looked up to the window and watched raindrops collide with the glass before sliding down it. He would not tell you to go because he wanted you to stay. He just wouldn't tell you that he wanted you to stay unless you asked him because there was a weight in his chest, weighing his entire body down along with it and he was sure that someday, unless something happened and Kaz moved on or you did, it would kill him.

"Tell me to leave," you repeated. "Tell me to go and I am gone without a trace, but I will not leave unless you would like me to, because frankly I have traveled quite a lot since I lost my family, and in all of that, I have found that Ketterdam is the place that suits me best. I am only willing to go if you tell me you'd like to see me gone."

"I can't," Kaz whispered. "I can't do that."

"Is that because you would like me to stay?"

"The very thought of you leaving kills me," Kaz said. "I don't--"

"Loving others is a weakness," you said. "Or--at least the admittance of it is a weakness to you. That's fine. I don't need you to say it, Kaz."

Kaz met your gaze.

Finally, he met your gaze.

Moments of silence passed. You got up and lit another candle as the sound of the rain grew more intense. Kaz moved to your bookshelves, busying himself with the act of scanning the titles on the spines.

You sat down again, debated going downstairs to get some tea. Silence enveloped the two of you, but it was comfortable, just as the silences between the two of you had always been.

"So you still love me, then?" Kaz whispered, his words barely audible in the light of the din.

"Yes," you said.

"And the storm--the pain it brings, will not change that?"

"No."

"That is a dreadful existence."

"It is a dreadful existence indeed but it is one through which I will persevere. It is one through which I have always persevered. I might go if I please, but--"

"Stay," Kaz whispered. "Please, Y/N. Don't go."

You watched Kaz turn around and head for the door. When one of his hands was on the handle, he paused.

"I do care about you," he said. "I've been in love with you since before the Ice Court. I just cannot handle the idea of the way I feel having you turned into leverage."

"I will persevere if such is to happen," you said. "Perseverance is what I'm good at. I promise, Kaz. Love does not always have to end in loss, and with us I know that it won't."

"Am I meant just to take your word for that?"

"You are," you said with a nod. "For what it is worth--I love you too. I will love you until you finally start to see love for what it is."

"Strength?"

"Strength indeed," you said. "Go rest your leg, Kaz. You can barely stand as it is. Another minute and I'll get Pim to get you a healer."

Kaz left, and you went back to reading, trying to force your heart to stop racing as you refocused your attention to the book in your lap.

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows #shadow and bone #shadow and bone netflix

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sincerely-sofie · 2 months

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Hey! Just wanted to say thanks for making a story so well written I feel like I get second-hand depression every time I read the last two chapters. :)

I think I had more of a thing I was trying to do when I thought I should make an ask, so uh... any advice for a very average artist/writer who struggles with finding motivation for writing?

As payment, I offer you this picture of a dog.

Thanks so much for your kind words! I'm real insecure about my writing and it's clarity, so to hear that it's emotionally powerful means a lot to me, hehe :>

Ooooh man. Do I EVER have advice for artist/writer combo creators who struggle to find motivation for writing. C’mere buddy. Lean in reeeaaal close. Your fellow average artist/writer is gonna tell you a secret. Come on. Even closer. You ready? Okay.

The world has conned you into thinking motivation is necessary to write, or even do anything in general. It's a scam. Motivation is nice, but it's just the icing on the cake. You need a cake in the first place to even enjoy it.

(If you're interested, I’ve written about making your own motivation in the past. Intrinsically created motivation is a lot healthier of a sort of motivation to seek out than extrinsically located motivation, which is the motivation I’m mostly referring to in this post. I figure I’d link to it in case you’re having trouble getting enough oomph to want to even consider writing in the first place, as the rest of this post assumes you’re fairly comfortable with the writing process, but have trouble getting it done.)

Before I wrote The Present is a Gift, I had never truly finished a writing project— I had co-written the script for a video game that never got made and wrote the first short story in an anthology I started and never concluded. Other than that, I had nothing but a massive field of stories that I'd endlessly flit back and forth between, adding to each project I landed on for a time, but never lingering long enough to actually see anything to completion. I loved all of my projects and wanted to do them justice by finishing them, but I never was able to do anything close to that. There were multiple reasons for my struggle to do substantial work on my projects— but the greatest reason was by far my refusal to use anything but motivation as a reason to work on projects. I’d wait for myself to feel motivated to write anything. And I would only be motivated so frequently.

I attribute my newfound ability to break from my pattern of abandoning and rescuing projects over and over to one thing— I set up a writing routine.

I chose a time that worked best for me every weekday to pour myself a massive mug of my favorite edible battery acid (tropical punch Tampico, for anyone curious) sit down at my computer, put on my headphones, turn on one of those multi-hour-long pomodoro timer youtube videos that have pretty music in the background, and write. This was also in combination with an attempt to win at NaNoWriMo, a writing challenge where you try to write 50k words in November, which gave me a daily word count target to try and reach or exceed. NaNoWriMo’s deadline was also helpful— and so was a promise I made to myself to not work on projects other than TPiaG before it was completed— but the real reason I actually managed to write TPiaG was because every weekday I’d do my writing routine.

I was not motivated whatsoever at the start. I was anxious, intimidated, and very reluctant to write. But I committed to writing TPiaG to completion, no matter how I felt about it, because a lot of people wanted to read the story, and I didn’t want to let them down. Not the healthiest driving thought process, I will readily say, but it got me to sit in my chair at first. As time went on and I shook off the rust and reluctance, I wouldn’t feel as anxious about writing. I didn’t feel intimidated. I would wake up and think to myself “OH BOY, IT’S WRITING TIME!” and leap out of bed to start my routine. Motivation only came after I had already been writing every weekday for about three weeks. And the motivation stayed for as long as I kept up with my writing routine.

Don’t get me wrong— motivation is important. But waiting until you’re motivated to do something is a very unsteady way to go about life, and in my experience when that thought process is applied to writing, it means you’ll never finish anything and never be satisfied with your work. There’s a quote that I love that says “the motivation comes after you show up.” And it’s absolutely true.

Motivation loves momentum. You can set bait for it by writing consistently for a while, whereupon it will make its way into your brain and make itself at home for as long as you keep up the momentum you’ve gotten. If you just wait for motivation to stumble into you, you might get lucky, but only that— lucky. You won’t have gained any skills in cultivating your own motivation, and when that lucky motivation fizzles out, you’ll be left waiting for the possibility of another brief flash of motivation to take its place before you’re ready to write again.

#creativity tips with sofie #creativity tips #writing tips #writing advice #writing tip #writing hacks #writing motivation #motivation #sofie answers asks

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pb-dot · 1 year

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Writeblr Introduction

Suppose I should introduce myself per the writeblr Very Friendly Suggestions. I'm PB, or peebs if you prefer. I publish my books under the pen name Victor S. Dale. I'm in my 30's, bisexual, dyspraxic, and as behooves a man of my standing I'm also grappling with considerable depression.

I like to write, like it a lot and I always have. My main WIPs are: a clockpunk love story titled The Clockwork Boy, a Lovecraftian Horror Romance titled His Impossible Brushstrokes and a 30s-punk portal fantasy serial titled Thereafter. I also dabble with smaller projects I won't get into here. Mostly coherent and concise synopses of The Clockwork Boy, His Impossible Brushstrokes, and Thereafter follow below.

The Clockwork Boy

My NaNoWriMo 2022 novel was initially conceived because I couldn't find much fun MLM genre fiction to read, so I decided to get myself good and wedged into that niche. The story follows Jake, who's stuck in a dead-end job of machining gears and sundry parts as well as lifting heavy things until a small, yet deceptively strong young man crashes into his life, and also his arms. The young man is called 13, his entire body from the neck down is made out of impossibly complex clockwork parts, and he's on the run from multiple powerful people and factions.

13 is stronger and faster than anyone has the right to be, but several broken parts hold him back. Jake is immediately smitten by the complex mechanics of 13's clockwork body, not to mention his sad, blue eyes, and so vows to help repair 13. The complexity of the task at hand is only increased by the two being pursued by local goon squads as well as other clockwork-bodied people with numbers for names.

The world of The Clockwork Boy and the Hearts In Clockwork series, provided I get around to writing more of these things, is languishing in a peculiar type of anarchy. The Age of Steam has come and gone and after a series of destructive colonial wars known as The Coal Wars, the power of government and nation has all but eroded. In their place, an alliance of powerful merchants and holders of capital keeps an iron grip on what passes for law from their seat in the massive tower known only as The Spire. Their power is exerted through monopoly and other economic maneuvers, but also by their rowdy Enforcers, who rule through intimidation and sheer brutishness.

13, as it turns out, is part of The Clockmen, a hitherto hidden faction within The Spire, whose acerbic leader is working to create an elite force of clockwork-powered individuals to overthrow The Spire and their enforcers, but even within the clockmen, agendas differ. 13 was originally made to fight and kill rogue clockmen, but so objected to this that he fled, searching for his memories and what freedom could be found.

Jake and 13 eventually find themselves under the auspices of The Northwest, an underground worker-owned coop parts workshop that takes them in and offers them succor in their time of need. In the relative safety of The Northwest's hidden workshop, Jake and 13 get the time they need to perform the sizable number of repairs needed, and perhaps ask the question of what they are becoming to each other and what comes next.

The current status of the project at the moment is going through the old rewrite and editing wringers. I'm currently having the thing beta read and I'll make whatever changes I need after that before attempting to hook an agent to help me get the thing published. In the meantime, I post about it a lot. If you want to be up-to-date on the most recent rambles in the setting, check out the tag list post here

My final goal with this project is to somehow get it published and, provided I am not met with immediate scorn and ridicule, get started on writing one or more sequels. I don't have the entire series planned out or anything, but I have several stories in this universe planned, and I know where and how I want it to end.

His Impossible Brushstrokes

My 2023 NaNoWriMo entry and current Lagrange point of my life. Continuing the trend from last year of writing novels that I wish someone else had written already so I could read it, Brushstrokes is a male-led queer horror with a mspec protagonist, exploring the shared points between love and fear, admiration and obsession, and art and madness.

The story follows Oscar Skerry, an obsessive San Fran art critic who goes to progressively more extreme measures to understand the works of his favorite artist, a pan-European enfant terrible by the name Tomasz Gildebrant. Gildebrant is an obscure artist, whose paintings nevertheless go for exorbitant prices on account of his cult appeal.

Following the thread of an art patron going berserk and attempting to destroy a Gildebrant painting by eating it, Tomasz unravels the urban legend of Gildebrant Psychosis. This sickness allegedly drives some who see a Gildebrant painting into acts of brutality, depravity, or the profoundly absurd, and Oscar starts to suspect there is something deeper and darker going on than repeated failures of the mental health system.

Seemingly out of the blue, Oscar gets an invitation to join Gildebrant in his home in the southern Carpathian Mountains. Eager to get to the bottom of things, and share his theories with Gildebrant, Oscar accepts.

Once there, two things become readily apparent. One, Gildebrant is incredibly charming, so much so that Oscar finds himself doubting that Gildebrant could be the man behind the dark, disturbing paintings he obsesses over. Two, there are way too many things not adding up, like how the doors to his guestroom in the Gildebrant household lock automatically at midnight, and how many pairs of shoes fill Gildebrant's hallway.

Per April 2024, the first draft for His Impossible Brushstrokes is complete. The plan remains to seek tradpub or indie publishing once I've edited the thing.

Thereafter

My first self-released project. The first chapters of Thereafter is slated to be released via buttondown starting May 1st 2024. This story follows Michael, a man in his 30s who traveled to, and saved, a magical cave-world populated by kindly molefolk at the tender age of twelve (and a half.) Now, 20 years later, Michael struggles in life and finds himself wishing for those simpler days of adventure again. Life is not without a sense of cruel irony, as the phenomenon that spirited him away all those years ago reoccur. Michael doesn't find himself in the serene caves of the molefolk, however, but in a desperately ramshackle city built from the flotsam and jetsam of thousands upon thousands of worlds.

This strange town goes by the name of Thereafter, and it was the surviving population of the cave world, as well as many other worlds, built with what they could salvage after The Calamity. Few who saw the world-destroying catastrophe lived to tell the tale, and the few who have, tell conflicting and surely nonsensical tales of it. Either way, the few that survived being flung into the void between worlds found their way to this nexus of the dispossessed, where the despair of dispossession percolated under the pressure of resource insecurity and a general sense of the world quite literally coming to an end.

To assuage some of these fears, The Council of Thereafter, a hastily assembled collection of wizards, wise men and the occasional cryptic hermit, decided to summon heroes of the old to their side. Due to the way time flows differently in the realms of magic, centuries and even millennia have passed since Michael saved the Molefolk, and the tales of his exploits have only grown in his absence.

Fortunately, Michael will not be alone in his task of portraying a heroic figure far beyond what he is able to actually be. Unfortunately, his colleagues in this endeavor are all messed up to an equal degree to him. Lex, the Polish enby scientist, is cynical on a level that borders on the parodic and worryingly horny. Felipe, the Mexican pro athlete archer, is arrogant, flighty and seems physically unable to take anything seriously. Finally, Alicia, the New York-based fitness influencer, seems restless in a way that either speaks to undiagnosed ADHD or truly world-shaking rage contained under the athletic facade.

Together, this rag-tag band of 30-somethings must unite in their quest to portray the heroes that history have made them, all the while grappling with what it means to be a hero in a desperately imperfect world. The city of Thereafter is full of crime born of desperation, hatred born of fear, and runaway magic, but that is not all. After all, the only thing anyone can agree on about the Calamity is that it is still out there and may one day turn its destruction upon Thereafter.

With Thereafter, I plan to work more with character and group dynamics than I have in my earlier works. The dysfunctional found family of the Heroes is supposed to be a big draw of the story, alongside the mystery of The Calamity and more pressing concerns about survival. As usual for a Peebs story, there will also be rumination, politics and philosophy involved, tigers don't usually change their stripes after all, but we're also getting a fantasy post-apocalyptic tale of love, bravery, and the many obscure pains of growing up.

Thereafter will, as mentioned above, be released on a chapter by chapter basis via Buttondown, with an archive also being kept on Cohost. To subscribe to the release of Thereafter chapters, please see the introductory post

#writeblr #writing #hearts in clockwork #writeblr intro #writing community #his impossible brushstrokes

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yujo-nishimura · 7 months

Text

The Escape - Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

Warning: A little bit of angst and sadness, female reader, One Piece based storyline mixed with my own weird creativity. This will be my personal Nanowrimo project I want to share with all of you. Hope you can enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing.

Content notes: Small buggy turning into big Buggy later during the story, love, romance, female reader who will experience a strong character development, SFW for now, might add NSFW later.

As the sun begins its descent, casting a warm golden glow across the landscape, you find yourself seated atop a hillside, accompanied by your two newfound companions. The peculiar creatures of the island surround you, their presence adding an air of enchantment to the scene.

The delicious scent of grilled meat and vegetables wafts through the air, mingling with the gentle breeze that carries the essence of this tropical paradise. The combination of aromatic flavors and the soothing warmth of the surroundings washes over you, evoking a sense of peace and liberation that you haven't experienced in a long while.

In this moment, all worries and burdens seem to dissipate, replaced by a profound feeling of relaxation and freedom.

Buggy and Gaimon extended their warmest efforts to make you feel at home in their intimate gathering. Both of them reflected a genuine admiration for your resilience in surviving such a treacherous storm, accompanied by the fact that you were a female pirate and a former member of the infamous Snowland crew. You spend the evening sharing your adventures with them and Buggy and Gaimon do the same - you quickly feel that you have a lot in common.

In a gesture of camaraderie and celebration, Gaimon generously shared his homemade wine, a sweet and delicious beverage. As you savored each sip, you couldn't help but notice Buggy indulging in the wine with an eagerness that quickly led to his inebriation.

In this harmonious atmosphere, the three of you decided on a lively rendition of sea shanties, your voices entwining in a chorus that resonated across the island and probably scared the animals.

Surrounded by the friendly creatures and lulled by the comforting effects of the wine, you gradually drift into a profound slumber, nestled closely to the crackling warmth of the fire. The world around you fades away as dreams take hold, filling your mind with a sense of tranquility and contentment. As you surrender to the depths of sleep, a gentle touch envelops you, likely the act of Buggy, who carefully drapes his long coat over your body. In this tender gesture, you feel a surge of emotion, touched by the thoughtfulness and concern that the clown pirate exhibits. He didn't seem to be the type to care much about others other than himself. You grab onto the coat a bit closer, carefully and silently so he wouldn't realize.

For the first time in a while you find complete solace in your deep sleep.

As you awake the next morning you can see Buggy and Gaimon laying almost on top of each other, entangled in a comical embrace, lying sprawled near the fire, their snores harmonizing with the gentle morning breeze. Gaimon's hand still clings to the empty wine glass, he probably also had one too many. Silently you get up, deciding to try to wash yourself while the two are still in deep slumber.

One of the weird looking animals, half lion, half bird is already awake and you decide to ask it if there is a lake nearby. The animal seems to understand every human word and you are not questioning why, but just follow it as it seems to guide you through a thick forest. Just after a five minute walk, a serene lake unfolds before you, its surface shimmering under the gentle caress of the early morning sun. You smile at the animal, showing him that you appreciate his guidance. Without hesitation you quickly get rid of all your clothes and take a dip into the water. It is cold but not too cold to shock you, it is exactly what you needed after a night next to the fire. You start swimming some rounds and start to dive deep, enjoying every moment of your morning bath and your freedom in the water.

As you swim to the surface you suddenly hear a familiar voice, calling out your name. Startled, you turn your attention towards the lake shore, where Buggy stands, his cupped hands amplifying his words.

"Y/n, are you in trouble? Are you drowning?" Buggy's concerned voice echoes across the water, displaying genuine worry for your well-being.

Chuckling at the misunderstanding, you respond with a hint of amusement, ensuring your voice carries to the distant shore. "No need to worry, Buggy! I'm perfectly fine, just enjoying a refreshing bath!"

Buggy's curiosity piqued, he leans forward, his curiosity evident in his voice as he shouts back, "Are you... naked?"

Upon hearing his question, you can't help but roll your eyes, realizing the potential awkwardness of the situation. Maintaining a safe distance, you reply with a touch of playful sarcasm, wanting to spare both of you from any embarrassment. "Of course, Buggy. It's kind of hard to get clean with clothes on, don't you think?"

Buggy's response is a mixture of surprise and a mischievous grin, his interest clearly piqued by your unabashed honesty. Relief shows on his face and he shouts back “That's good. I was worried for a moment that you were drowning. Anyway, I will go back and sleep a bit more. Make sure to say goodbye later before I leave the island!”

"Thank you for your concern, Buggy," you reply with genuine appreciation. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to bid you farewell before you depart from the island."

You wave with a splash, luckily Buggy turns around and goes back to the fireplace, giving you the chance to get out of the water and collect your clothes.

#one piece #buggytheclown #one piece buggy #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x reader #buggy x you #nanowrimo #long fanfic #creative writing

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