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tlcwrites · 3 years

Text

Consequence

A birthday gift for @paper-n-ashes

Summary: When you steal the Supreme Leader's sweater, there are... repercussions.

Word Count: 3483

Tags/Warnings: Kylo Ren x Fem Reader. NSFW, 18+. MINORS DNI; PIV sex, unprotected sex (no glove no love), oral sex (m receiving), fingering, heavy dom/sub dynamic, praise kink, breath play, I'm probably forgetting other kinks but I finished this at 3AM last night and I'm not even sure that I used real words let alone remember what I wrote so if I missed any let me know and I'll update the tags, smuuuuuuut for daaaays, canon what's canon The Rise of Skywalker can go fuck itself mostly except for that beautiful white set of rooms on the Steadfast.

Author’s Note: It's my hetero lifemate @paper-n-ashes' birthday today (at least in my timezone for a few more hours so IT COUNTS sorry Sarah at least you got to read it yesterday) and she has been waiting SO patiently for me to finish this damn fic. I started writing it back in like November? Maybe even October? and have struggled so fucking hard with finding the mojo to finish it. Then out of the blue this week, said mojo came back and I figured Sarah's birthday was the perfect deadline. So, voila. And don't forget to go tell her how awesome she is.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY SISTER IN THIRST AND SHAMELESS HOEING. I couldn't actually get you Kylo so I got you this instead. #throne room hair is the best hair forever the end

You’re perched on the sofa, open book on your lap, when the comm chimes. You can’t help your soft smile; it’s finally that time of the day cycle.

You don’t bother answering the comm, since it’s an alert, not a call. Closing your book, you rise and return it to the bookcase set into the wall of the lounge. With a gentle press, the hatch closes, and the bookcase disappears into the stark white expanse of the rest of the room, precious cargo hidden. Books are an expensive indulgence, even for the Supreme Leader.

Or whomever he choses to share them with.

You cross to the base of the stairs that lead to the chamber’s entrance and open a small compartment, also a part of the structure of the room. You toe off your slippers, setting them carefully inside the cubby. Your soft leggings pants are next, folded carefully. You start to remove your sweater as well, but hesitate. It is chilly. For all of the technology the First Order has amassed, you’d think they’d have figured out how to keep their Destroyers at a comfortable temperature.

You leave the sweater. He’ll definitely have an… opinion about it.

Now bare but for the sweater and your bra, so scant it hardly deserves the term, you take your place at the base of the stairs. The hem of the sweater brushes your thighs. Standing tall, feet together, hands clasped loosely behind you, you wait. You keep your eyes on the blast doors.

When the doors finally open, you smile softly. “Good evening, Supreme Leader.”

His cape billows behind him as he descends the stairs (he’s clearly inherited his family's flair for dramatics). As he reaches the bottom, you respectfully drop your gaze. His boots stop in front of you, your bare feet looking so small compared to his. But then again, everything looks small compared to him.

He raises a gloved hand and strokes the back of a finger down the collar of your sweater. “What’s this?” His voice is throaty and deep. As usual, it sends a thrill through you.

You keep your eyes downcast. “A sweater, Supreme Leader.”

“Clearly.” His finger continues down from the collar of the garment, caressing the soft rise of your breasts. “Perhaps I should rephrase my question.” His finger catches your nipple, and you can’t help but gasp. “What is my sweater doing on your body, when your body doesn’t have permission to be wearing anything?”

You finally risk a glance up. His face is impassive, but there’s a glint in his eyes. He’s amused.

You raise your chin. He loves when you’re confident. “It was cold.”

“Cold.” The finger continues to tease your nipple through the fibers. “In space.” The tease turns into a flick, and you barely smother your gasp. His lips twitch. “Imagine that.”

He’s in a good mood. You decide to toy with him. “Perhaps I simply need something substantial to keep me warm, Supreme Leader.”

One eyebrow raises, ever so slightly. He’s going to play along. “Do you find my care unsatisfactory?”

“Of course not, Supreme Leader.” His finger has shifted to your other nipple. You take a shuddering breath. “I would never dare to question your wisdom.”

He shifts almost imperceptibly closer to you. “And yet-” He brings that accursed finger back up your sternum, tracing up your neck and ghosting over your jaw. “-is that not exactly what you’ve done by ignoring my directive?”

Kriff.

He passes the leather-wrapped digit over your lips, stroking the soft skin. “Nothing to say, pet?”

You drop your eyes again. “My most sincere apologies, Supreme Leader.”

His hum of approval reverberates in your chest. “I imagine they will be.” He applies the barest hint of pressure to your lips. “Open.”

You comply immediately, opening your mouth enough to allow his finger entrance. The leather tastes so different from his skin. He presses the thick digit inside, and doesn’t have to say a word as you begin to suck obediently. He adds a second finger and you can’t stifle your moan.

“Good girl.”

Two words. Just two words, hummed in that honeyed voice, and you can practically feel your arousal dripping down your thighs. You glance up once more.

He’s watching you, his pupils blown wide with arousal. Maker, you love his eyes. You can always read him through his eyes. He tries so hard to bury his emotions, but nothing can be hidden in their cinnamon depths. And right now, his eyes say that he’s about half a standard second away from losing what’s left of his famously little control.

Hmm. Time to have a little more fun.

You deliberately graze his fingers with your teeth, the leather of his glove supple under your bite.

His cheek twitches and you know instinctively he’s chewing on it. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart,” he warns you.

Pulling your mouth off his fingers with a ‘pop’, you smile serenely up at him. “Whatever do you mean, Supreme Leader?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” he purrs, dragging his spit-soaked fingers along the edge of your jaw, his own clenched as he tries to keep himself in check. “Careful you don’t get burned.”

Your smile becomes less teasing, and more sincere. It’s okay, you think, knowing he’ll be able to feel your emotions. You never guard yourself around him. I trust you, Master.

There’s a split second when his eyes search yours; for permission, for acceptance, for confirmation of that trust that you hold in him and that he holds in you. It’s a breath of a moment, but he leaves his raw self exposed.

He’s affection starved, your Supreme Leader, even if he’ll never admit it. Deep inside, where even his former masters couldn’t reach, is that little boy he once was; still desperate to please and be praised by those too focused elsewhere to pay attention, and terrified of disappointing those who do. It breaks your heart that he’s spent his whole life feeling so alone.

Your dynamic fills that void in a way he feels safe with. It’s on his terms. He needs your adoration; needs your worship. He craves the affirmation. No more abandonment and fear from those he should be able to trust most; no more abuse and gaslighting at the hands of those who are supposed to guide him.

Just trust, and love. Pure, unconditional love.

He presses his lips to yours.

You whimper into his kiss, pressing a hand against his massive chest to steady yourself.

In the next moment, he scoops you up, pressing you against the window and hooking your legs around his waist. You yelp at the coolness of the transparisteel against your back, even through the sweater, but he swallows your cry as he plunders your mouth.

“Kylo,” you whimper when he lets you up for air, but he ignores you, sucking a line down your neck to your collarbone.

“Get this off,” he growls, tugging at the neckline of the sweater. “Or I’ll take it off for you, and it won’t survive the removal.”

You let go of his shoulders, grasping the hem of the top and practically ripping it over your head.

His mouth is on you in an instant, those plush lips teasing one nipple at a time through your lacy scrap of a bra.

“Maker!” you gasp, flinging the sweater in the general direction of the floor and bringing both hands to grip his hair. Frantic fingers twist his dark waves. You could write sonnets to his hair. “Kylo!”

You feel the clasp of your bra come undone. He rips his lips from your breasts, and with one barely-there flick of his fingers, the undergarment is on the floor next to the sweater.

“Did you just-” It’s next to impossible to smother your giggle when you realize what he’s done. “I can’t imagine the Force is meant to be used for that.”

Kylo ignores you, although you’re positive you can detect the barest hint of a blush on his ears. But then you’re not paying attention to his ears, as he’s sucked one of your nipples back into his mouth and is grazing it with his teeth. Your moan turns into a shriek when he hooks his arms under your legs and hefts you higher against the wall, so it’s easier for him to feast on your flesh.

He shifts your weight to one of his massive arms, that paw of a hand gripping the opposite flesh of your rear as he brings his other hand back up to your mouth. “Open,” he commands once more.

You take the two still-gloved fingers as deep in your mouth as you can, gagging slightly as he presses on the back of your tongue.

His dark chuckle is breathless. “Such an eager whore,” he murmurs against your chest, your answering whimper going straight to his cock. Pulling his hand back, he nips the skin at your collarbone at the same time he drags the fingers you’ve just drenched straight through your swollen folds below.

“Do you even deserve my fingers, Pet?” He smirks as you drop your head back and moan. “Such a wanton little thing you are.” He teasingly traces a circle around your clit with just a fingertip, satisfaction growing at the sound the movement elicits from you.

“Master,” you gasp.

Without warning, he twists you away from the window, carrying you with ease to his desk. When he drops into his chair, he’s unable to suppress a sharp intake of breath as he settles you on his lap and brings your core into direct contact with his cock, hard and throbbing beneath his trousers. The contrast of your nudity with his still-clothed body is intoxicating. He guides your hips to roll against him again, your moans simultaneous as your cunt makes slick the leather stretched taut over his arousal.

Already closer to his breaking point than he'd prefer to admit, Kylo clamps his teeth down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to break the skin, the pain working as usual to allow him to refocus his energy and reclaim control of his passions. Unhinged as his reputation is, there is part of his life the Supreme Leader rules with meticulous care- you.

He knows you love him, and you’ve declared time and again it’s unconditional and without reservation. Your submission is a gift he knows he will never truly be worthy of. Maker knows he adores you with every part of his long-shrouded heart. But the fear never leaves him. Decades of distrust and broken promises means he lives in terror of the day his tenuous temper snaps, and he horrifies you or, stars forbid, truly hurts you.

That dark voice lurking at the back of his mind teases him with a possibility somehow perversely worse than fear or injury: abandonment. That you’ll inevitably see him at his most honest; broken, contemptible. Unworthy.

He loathes himself all the more, because he knows if it comes to it, he couldn’t survive letting you go. He isn’t strong enough to endure the loss of the only light he still has.

Unaware of his internal torture, you grip the front of his gambeson and try to rock your pelvis against him, whining as you’re foiled by his hands still gripping your hips. “Master, please.”

Your voice jerks him back to reality, and your begging makes his cock twice as hard. “Something you desire, Pet?” he purrs, grateful you were too wrapped in lust to notice his momentary lapse.

“You, Master.” You can’t help a frustrated whimper as you try once more to undulate against him and are again prevented from doing so. “Please, Kylo, let me please you.”

He reburies his anguish, and smirks at you. “Very well.” He releases your hips. “Please me.”

As soon as he lets go, you’re sliding off his lap and on to your knees, scrambling to unhook his belt. He obligingly helps you open his trousers. You make quick work of the placket and draw out your prize, salivating as you pump his already-leaking cock.

He hisses as your mouth engulfs him. “Yes, just like that. What a good, good girl you are.”

A lewd moan escapes around his length as he fists his hands in your hair.

He doesn’t need to say another word. You can read it in his eyes, every filthy, dark thought as you bob your head on his shaft. How good it feels when you take his cock in your throat; that he knows exactly how hot and wet it makes you when he fucks your mouth; how knowing you’re waiting in his quarters to be used as his personal whore is the only thing that gets him through the day. You moan again, and one corner of his mouth twitches.

You know him well enough to recognize it as a smirk.

“As delightful as this is, Pet,” he finally sighs, a slight waiver to his voice the only indicator of how close you already have him to release, “there’s a different part of you I desire at this moment.”

Releasing his cock with a ‘pop’, you continue to stroke him with your hand as you beam up at him. “As you wish, Master.”

Your mouth and chin are wet with precum and spit. He drags his thumb through the mess and brings it to your lips, his cock jumping in your grasp as you wrap your tongue around the digit.

“Up,” he snaps.

Rising immediately, you can’t help your squeak as he spins you to face the desk and pulls you back onto his lap, impaling you on his cock with one hard thrust. You gasp, unable to cry out as all the air is expelled from your lungs. Your arms are wrenched behind you by invisible bonds, the posture thrusting your breasts out. You hear his low chuckle as he tweaks both nipples while simultaneously bucking his hips, eliciting a shriek from you.

Thick fingers twist into your hair, pulling you back until you're flush with his chest. His breath is hot against your ear as he snarls two words that have your cunt clenching in anticipation: “Ride me.”

No further encouragement is necessary. He works your body over as you rock in his lap, reducing you to a burbling mass of arousal. Releasing his grip on your hair, his hands make their way down your body, the leather feeling so kriffing good as he caresses every inch of you.

Plush lips drag against your jaw as he leans forward, pressing his chest closer against your back. He trails his fingers up your thighs while simultaneously dragging his teeth along your earlobe. The noise that escapes you is undignified at best, and positively libidinous at worst.

The bastard’s smirk is obvious against your heated skin. “My beautiful Empress,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your neck.

You can’t suppress your panting as he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “I’m not your Empress,” you manage, your voice breathy with arousal as you continue to move.

“Mmmmm.” Kylo hums as his right hand trails up your abdomen to gently cup your left breast, those elegant fingers plucky at your nipple and making you moan. “Not yet.”

“Oh.” You squeak as he latches on to your pulse point, his teeth scraping over your skin as he marks you. His other hand drops to your core, fingertips stroking your folds as deftly as a musician plays a hallikset. You cry out as he deliberately ignores your clit, but your cry becomes a gasp as he abruptly slaps the inside of your thigh. “Kylo!”

“Feel how wet you are, little whore.” He pulls his hand from your cunt and wipes your slick across your cheek. “Only the most depraved whores drip like this.” When he wraps the same hand around your throat, you sob in euphoric bliss. His chuckle is low. “Look at you, reduced to a needy slut who wants nothing more than to be filled by her Master.”

You can’t help but moan as he tightens his grip, the other hand on your breast squeezing hard.

“Speak, Pet.” His order is hissed in your ear, his breath hot on your skin. “Tell me how much you want my cock.”

“Need you, Master,” you gasp, deliciously light headed from the lack of oxygen. “Need you to- oh, Maker!- need you to fill me, need you to fuck m-me oh!”

A squeal erupts as he abruptly thrusts up, hard, and proceeds to set a brutal pace. Helpless to do anything but take what he gives you, all you can do is wail and enjoy the desperation in his movements.

When he stands and surges forward, shoving you against his desk while still buried in your swollen heat, it’s just enough to send you over the edge and you crash into your climax with a scream.

Over your shoulder, you hear Kylo tsk in admonishment. “Oh, princess,” he chides, as you feel your Force bonds tighten even more, “you know better than to cum without permission.”

With that, he shoves you forward, pressing your chest flat against the thermoplastic and using his knee to spread your legs. You willingly comply, relishing in his hiss as he pumps into your wet, waiting warmth. He finally releases your throat, and the sensation of your cunt clenching as you cough is too much for him. His pace becomes blistering, each thrust sending your pelvic bone into the edge of the desk; speech is now beyond your power, incoherent babble all that remains as he obliterates your cunt.

The lewd symphony of your coupling is punctuated by his growls and your cries. You can already feel the crest rising anew and you beg for salvation. “Master, please!”

He grips the back of your neck, anchoring your head, snarling as he takes you with rapid, deep thrusts. “Do you think now you'll be able to follow instructions?”

You nod frantically, trying desperately to stave off your orgasm. “Yes, Master!”

His voice is deeper than ever, trembling slightly as he uses your body to chase his own end. “Tell me, my little slut; who owns you?”

“You, Master!” You can’t hold back the shriek that erupts from your lips as you feel that subtle tickling of his powers against your clit.

The sounds you’re making have him right on the edge. “You’re mine, all mine,” he sneers as you cry out once more. “Say it.”

“Yours, Kylo,” you gasp. “I’m yours!”

“You need to cum again, sweet little Pet?” When you frantically nod, he fists your hair and yanks your head back. “Do it,” he hisses next to your ear. “Cum for me. Now.”

You explode around him, screaming your pleasure. His echoing roar is your only warning before he slams into you a final time, ripping himself from your heat and snatching your body off the desk. You land on your knees just in time to receive his spend, splashing across your face and chest as he pumps his length.

---

It takes several moments before you can even start to become aware of your surroundings once more. In that time, Kylo has bundled you in your favorite cozy blanket, and cradles you in his lap as he smooths your hair back and murmurs sweet words of praise. His seed still decorates your body, and you preen as you feel his hands, finally ungloved, gently rub it into your skin as one more claim of his ownership.

Your contented sigh is what alerts him to your consciousness, and he can’t help his proud smile as your eyes slowly flutter open, or the chaste and caring kiss he presses to your temple. “How are you feeling, princess?”

A beaming smile is his reward. “Wonderful,” you sigh, and then giggle. “And filthy, in the best possible way.”

“As requested,” he slyly teases.

You notice that sometime during your torpor, he’s shed his gambeson and trousers, replacing them with soft lounge pants and the stolen sweater. Hooking your fingers over the neckline, echoing his own earlier actions, you tug gently. “Thief.”

He laughs, your favorite sound in the galaxy. “The Jawa calls the Ewok short.” Your answering eye roll elicits another chuckle and another brush of his lips. “Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs against your forehead.

“Thank you, Supreme Leader.” Your smile is soft as you raise your face, content when he understands the overture and leans down to press his lips to yours. A/N: Alexa, play "I Want Kylo Ren To Rail Me on a Desk" by Beyoncé or someone.

Likes and reblogs feed my dirty, dirty soul. I always want to tag mutuals but then I feel like that would be super presumptuous even though I love being tagged, so IDK I guess send me an ask if you want me to tag you in new writings?

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captain-of-the-historicfuture · 3 years

Note

~hello~ !! For the meta asks!: 3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24, and 25 :))

Hello!! Thank you for sending these; I was really excited to see that ask game and I was hoping somebody would send some in. It still took me a while to actually answer them though, and for that I apologise. But without further ado! Some meta answers (under the cut because they ended up being fairly long, whoops):

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (Consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway.)

I thought of a few examples, but they could basically be grouped together under a common theme: whumpy/angsty scenes that were self-indulgent as all heck. The whole self-indulgent aspect often required the characters to be just the teeniest, tiniest bit OOC and/or necessitated rather unrealistic plot circumstances. So it was simply easier to keep such scenes as maladaptive daydreams, rather than trying to think of explanations for the character/plot issues…or exposing myself to judgement for them LOL.

Receiving permission to write/share one such scene anyway is an opportunity I can’t let slip by though. It might be because I’m writing this while running on zero (0) hours of sleep—let’s hear it for insomnia, y’all!—but I suddenly couldn’t remember any of my newer ideas under this category. However, I did recall a one-shot I had started writing a couple of months ago that sort of counts? “Sort of” because I could actually be arsed to write it since I was, ya know, writing it. Only got about six hundred words down though.

…should I share those six hundred words…?

………nahhh. I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet.

But here’s the gist of it: Coulson and May (because of course it’s Philinda) were married for quite some time before the Attack on New York. But then Coulson DiedTM and then got ResurrectedTM. But gasp of horror, he had to lose his memories of his romantic relationship with May because reasons. (I actually did have some ideas for those reasons but sshhhh this is about me yeeting context and setup.)

The first half of S1 still happens as normal (except MayWard doesn’t happen because??? Vows) and it’s now post-E20 “Nothing Personal”. The morning after (or a morning soon after, whatever) the T.A.H.I.T.I. reveal! May’s mom—who doesn’t know about GH.325 and whom May fed a cover story about Coulson divorcing her or something equally as oof, IDK—shows up at the hotel and starts ripping into Coulson for breaking her daughter’s heart, then dragging her back into the field with her ex-husband (him), then accusing her of terrible things and forcing her away again.

Poor guy’s confused as heck, and so is the team, and soon enough so is Lian. The only one who understands what’s going on is May, and she’s freaking dying off to the side like why is this happening to me and eventually everybody’s like! Explain??? (Was thinking about including something from Coulson like, “Are you still keeping things from me?” Just for that extra smidge of angst, yay!)

So yeah then May gives a, like, two-sentence debriefing that elicits more questions than answers. Coulson decides to take May aside and they have a heart-to-heart. Lots of feelings and angst and hurt/comfort and at some point plenty of kissing too. Just! May hiding her feelings for Coulson’s sake but really magnified, plus some actual apologies and consideration of the grief May’s been through on Coulson’s part.

And uhh yeah that’s basically it I dunno hdsjncjshd. I warned y’all it’s OOC, plot-bendy, and very self-indulgent!

6. What character do you have the most fun writing?

I don’t think I could name a single character for this. I get different things out of taking on different voices, you know? I guess recently I’ve found myself gravitating towards more taciturn and introspective points of view, like JQ from my original novel Rosewood or M. Yisbon from my…other original novel Temple.

Generally, however, I like tackling stories from an outsider’s perspective. That’s why I so rarely write my more “substantial” (serious? demanding? for lack of better words?) projects from the PoV of my “preferred” character. This usually means writing from their love interest’s perspective, but not always. With shorter fanfic, using a more removed/unconventional/niche PoV can be really fun. Like, I once wrote a canon compliant ficlet purely(-ish) about Philinda from Tony Stark’s perspective. That isn’t always sustainable with stories that demand more character development or closer character studies, however, which is why it’s a good thing I like writing drabbles!

9. Are you more of a drabble or a longfic kind of writer? Pantser or plotter? Do you wish you were the other?

My word counts tend to run long, but I usually only write one-shots for fanfic. If I’m even inspired with a novella- or novel-length story idea for a fandom, you already know I’m in deep with them. And if I actually find the motivation to plan and execute that idea? Dangg. That’s only ever happened…twice, maybe thrice, and I’m in a lot of fandoms.

At times, I wish I could go for more of a middle ground ’cause, like, you know what I love to see? An AO3 dashboard with several completed novellas for my ship/character of choice. I mean yes, I hecking love >90k fics, but sometimes I’m in the mood for quick reads…and what am I supposed to do when I burn through all the drabbles and 2k one-shots? (Besides despair and/or reread my faves desperately.) Novellas are basically always safe for me LOL, and I’d hope to be able to give as much as I take.

Ultimately though, I think I’m okay with where I am with regards to that. I wish I could write more in general, but I’d be okay with “writing more” just meaning “writing more one-shots”, ya know? More than okay, really. I have mad respect for fic writers who have, like, a hundred or more one-shots under their belt for this one ship. The fandom ecosystem would be incomplete without them (as well as every other type of writer, but sshhh that’s the type of writer I’m closest to being right now).

I’m definitely a plotter, and I definitely prefer it that way. It’s cool having such a detailed record of my process. I like feeling like a frazzled genius on the brink of a major discovery with all of my different outlines and colour coding and many drafts and various websites.

12. Do you want your writing to be famous?

Not exactly. It might be cool if my original works were recognisable in the world, but I don’t think I’d want to be recognisable. As for fanfic, I’d low-key enjoy gaining a place in that fandom’s community as a fic writer. Like someone who gave and got fic gifts from fic writer friends, who participated in challenges and GCs, who received writing prompts on Tumblr, whose name was known for doing a certain trope/genre a bunch of times… Ya know what I mean?

Unlikely to happen when I’m so hecking hesitant to publicly (i.e., outside of AO3) claim credit for my writing, but fjnskfsjhfjs. A writer can dream, right?

15. Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?

Of those three, tags are the easiest for me, for I have a reliable system for figuring out those.

Next easiest would probably be titles. For fanfiction, I like to use titles that are a quote from the source material. You should have seen all of my old Hamilton fanfic… I was really proud of some of those titles. And I don’t mean, like, whole lines—usually only two to five words. It’s a unique type of wordplay that I just love dabbling in.

And lastly, summaries. Sometimes inspiration strikes me and a snappy and intriguing synopsis just jumps out—one that I’m quietly pleased with—but most of the time I’ll spend way too long trying to think of such a synopsis and eventually just go with whatever I’d come up with so far. And live with my quiet dissatisfaction for the rest of time.

18. Do any of your stories have alternative versions? (Plotlines that you abandoned, AUs of your own work, different characterisations...?) Tell us about them!

Typically, no. If I have deleted scenes, I save and publish them separately, but that’s about it. I sometimes think of AUs for my own work and might talk about them in my author’s notes—might even talk about writing them—but I never really do anything with them.

Although…

It’s not uncommon for me to decide a plotline isn’t working for a certain story or to think of an interesting but undoable arc for a certain character, but what I’ll do is make a whole new story for those ideas. Once I’m done developing the original idea and the branched-off one, you probably wouldn’t be able to tell they grew from the same roots. Does that count?

21. What other medium do you think your story would work well as (film, webcomic, animated series, etc.)?

That depends on the story. I’ve actually written stories in other mediums—movie screenplay, musical stageplay, poetry, TV show scripts, play scripts, roleplay—but the novel does tend to be my comfort zone. Sometimes, if I have an idea that I think could work, or would even work better, as another medium, I’ll label it as such in my folder of ideas and decide not to write it as a novel.

Most of the time, my non-book projects are collaborations. I’m working with five different people on six different story ideas: two webcomics, one stage musical, one anime, and two animated TV shows. Little concrete progress has been made in any of those, mind you, but they’re still fun to discuss!

24. Would you say your writing has changed over time?

Absolutely. But I’ve been writing stories since I was five years old, so we would hope so, huh?

I wouldn’t say my writing’s changed completely, though maybe that’s just my insider’s perspective.

25. What part of writing is the most fun?

Oh gosh, I can’t believe you’d make me choose. Writing is just such a wonderful experience for me; I love just about everything to do with it. Admittedly, not all the time, but. Since that barely qualifies as an answer, however, I’ll give you this—

The endings. Not only that intense feeling of rightness when you wrap up that last sentence, but also the moments before. The adrenaline of knowing you’re almost there but you gotta push just a bit more to actually get there. And also the part right after—the real wrap-up, honestly: the revision and the editing. Heavens, I love revising and editing my work.

Which is not to say I don’t like writing it out for the first time, too—there’s nothing quite like seeing your cursor scroll to the next page, like going from a blank expanse to a Oh man, how many more lines are even going to fit on this page?, like watching that page counter tick up another number. However, there’s something cathartic about finally ironing out those problems I had to force myself to stop worrying about earlier because “just finish the first draft dangit”.

I guess that’s not really the end of the writing process, but whatever. Close enough (as fic writers are wont to say).

Another thank-you for these asks, and feel free to come back with more at any time! ;P

Send in fun meta asks for your friendly neighbourhood writer!

#thou canst not then be false to any man #ask game #invictusmaneo #to write and read comes by nature

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