#this has been a journey i remembered that davy jones au exists and i have. idea for dark souls au????

[daisychainsandbowties]

Hi Cas 🐸❤️ 1, 19, 40 pwease 👀

1. which of your fics would you keep the basic plot of but rewrite completely?

see part of me wants to say star wars au because that’s the only fic that actually has a basic plot. 99% of what i write i maybe on a good day have some idea of how a particular scene will flow, but even that’s liable to get attacked by flashback ghosts at any moment and ripped to non-chronological shreds.

i don’t plan my fics out at all because that makes the act of writing… less interesting to me. usually what i have are some concept designs in my head or a few lines of dialogue or a little scene-hinge (these are the topics i end up researching for a given scene or a mote of information i want to slip inside, and the scene hinges thematically on that. all my poems are hinged like this and it has translated over into my prose, apparently).

still, i want to say star wars au because it was certainly supposed to be more direct and “paced”than it is now. i know that i could write a story like that but also that i don’t really want to. so, probably in truth i wouldn’t rewrite any of my fics, just as i would never scrap a poem and try to write the same poem again; it’s already a different poem. something something the small deaths that cannot be divorced from art change all future versions of that art. sentences are haunted by excised words. you can’t write anything except for the first time.

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

Lilith rests her arms on the railing, heedless of splintery wood or the cold spray that ghosts up the hull to touch the inside of each palm. It’s hard not to think of her as beautiful, even with lichen growing down out of her hairline and that sand-tangled mass of dark hair falling down around her face, hiding one of her eyes.

She’s blinking at the sunset with the other and fiddling with one of her braids.

Bright fabric threaded through them, like a mockery of what she is; a leaky creature of moonlight always tucked up in the crow’s nest where nothing can touch her but the wind. Lilith’s odd like that – dressed in her usual off-white shirt all flea-bitten where the collar’s rucked up around her neck. She thinks it makes her look boyish, derring.

It does, and it’s wasted on her because she will not put one foot onto land.

Mostly the braids are done in orange and yellow, with here and there a twist of sea-green, unearthly blue. No black or grey or anything drab. Lilith likes to shine.

She’s put random objects in her braids again. Beatrice thinks she spends half her time up in the masts with her face angled toward the sky and her own hands in her own hair. Its decoration changes from week to week, port to port if she can beg seashells and pottery bits from the other sailors, but it's always some variation on noisy.

This week, she’s got a wick of terracotta hanging down near her collarbone, neatly tied up in split-ends. Her damp black hair is elsewhere tangled around the bleached-white of rat bones stolen from the sailors who supplement their diet with spitted rats. Beatrice pretends not to see their little fires in the lowers decks at night, so long as they're careful.

The tiny bones look almost fake to Beatrice, picked much too clean. She knows that real bones – the ones she’s seen from compound fractures and old skeletons hanging from the seaward gallows – don’t look like that.

Maybe she just never waits long enough, always tasting the whiplash of blood in her mouth when she climbs up the cliffs near the fort to reach the bodies strung up. Statement pieces still dressed in their dying clothes and the flesh dropping off them to spray apart on stones before scattering into the water far below. Ropes creaking, Beatrice underneath with her knife stuck between her teeth once or twice forgetting to make the blade face outward and almost cutting a fresh smile into her face.

Mostly she just nicks her lip as she grabs the handle, fingers slippery with saltwater and sweat, rainwater turning the blade to ice against her teeth. Sometimes there are soldiers watching, but it’s easy to snuff them with a spell for sleep, shrugging at the thought of one of them falling on the spears they carry to poke intruders off the rocks.

The climb isn’t easy. Not ever, no matter the kind of cliffs she scrambles up. Beatrice is not made for it or anything but the bad feeling of magic in her mouth, but she was born half-martyred, according to Mary.

“I think you like it.”

“What?”

“The opportunity to fucking fall.”

Her arms always ache during the climb, fingers stinging from small slices worked into the palms, scrimshawed across the knuckles from stuffing them into holds, ignoring the skitter of spiders running in confusion out onto her wrist when she disturbs their webs.

Muttering “sorry” into the wind so it’s carried up and over the creaking bodies with their flesh dripping down, sometimes a ribbon of rotten blood falling on her scalp as she climbs. Still, she is always half-tempted to lay a kiss on their rotten foreheads, smoothing aside the blistered flesh, the hair flattened against their skulls. Sometimes the hair lasts the longest out of everything.

40. Write a 9-word fic

thank you Daniel. but i would rather die actually :)

#ask meme #this has been a journey i remembered that davy jones au exists and i have. idea for dark souls au???? #ily daniel but i will NOT write nine words by themselves. how will they fuck each other #davy jones au