@tinyhydra im in the middle of something rn so i can't read the whole thing yet, but can i just say that i skimmed the first paragraph or so and MAN AM I HOOKED, what a good opening, 10/10 for that, im super tempted to stop all the Things im doing rn just to sit and read through that whole passage
Popping back in here after far too long and missing far too much to let everyone know about a Writing Challenge my partner and I are partaking in/creating. October Offings! It's like NaNoWriMo, except there's no word count limit, and the genre is "Horror/Suspense/(Murder) Mystery" or something similar. I'm super excited, so I wanted to let y'all know in case anyone else wanted to participate.
I would so partake but I cannot write suspense/horror to save my life the closest I ever came was writing about a woman who got kidnapped and killed
Ah, can be any, need not be all. A mystery is a mystery. And there can be other themes, too, that just is meant to be a solid component.
Haha, oh noooo, I stumbled headfirst into Fury Road, and now I'm writing fic when I haven't even gotten around to reading the comics. Spoiler: WIP for a Wife + War Boy Daughter Bonding Prompt Fill His name is Flare, for the bright red of his hair that shows through white clay no matter how high he layers it. He had a name before, when he was up high, when he was a she, but he is a War Pup now, and his name is Flare. There are others like him, Boys but not boys. Barren breeders and in betweens and mangled half men. Boredom is a knife pressed sharp against his ribs, so he hides and he schemes and he learns to spot them by gait and by scars and by the sharp strange jut of their hips. Rag, who is Barren and mottled brown and white under his clay, Pike, who shredded himself in a mad frothing rage, Torque, who is soft and sharp and broad all at once, Flare finds them all, hoards them like treasures, like mysteries he's unwound. Pike says he's Nosy, when he is lucid. Rag says he's Watchful. Torque cuffs him upside the head, too old for pups and their games. He likes the Barrens best, secretly, because he's one of them. He pays them special attention, carves all their names into the soft stone of the Nest where he and his littermates sleep. Diesel he likes best of all. Diesel who is short and broad and shines the staples on his chest and belly like they're something to be proud of. Diesel roars and grins and swaggers like Valhalla itself is his for the taking. Diesel lets Flare climb all over him, swings him around like he's lighter than air, butts his head against his and lets Flare nip at him with sharp baby teeth, blue eyes against sharp grey. Diesel has a voice like the rumble of an engine, and he talks long and low about Glory and Pride and Valhalla, and lying on his chest in the smokey crowded Garage, Flare learns to believe. And when Diesel is welcomed to Valhalla, Flare grins and crows and carves his name into his belly, alight with the certainty that they will meet again, heroes both in the halls of Valhalla.
I was gonna wait for this to be more edited but ehhh I could use general advice probably, and right when I'm about to start the editing process is likely a good time to ask for feedback!! The end is a little messy bc I wasn't sure if I wanted to end it with a fake news clipping type format, which I started with, but then segwayed into something else?? Also I feel like my symbolism is super heavy handed and obvious, so feedback for that would be nice :""0 I tried to pull some of shrodinger's personal beliefs into it but idk how well that worked. comments are enabled so feel free to do whatever to it??? warning for gore, general body horror probably, some sort of disassociation most likely??? "The lab, silent, watched as their head researcher approached the metal lockbox. The little ceiling vent fans, whirring, a constant hum and murmur of trepidation. The researcher, stoic, shaking hands betraying him, carefully undid the latch on the box. The box, exhaling, an ethereal finality, like the maw of a coffin gaping into the unknown." https://docs.google.com/document/d/...WKUcz76u1D39FN5QetPchtk/edit?usp=docslist_api
Augh, writing villains during their "pretending to be good" periods is so hard for me. I cringe so much because I know he's evil and in this case the readers know he's evil (it's an AU fic) but the POV character has no idea and just... Argh.
The smut I put on AO3 has gotten more views in 24 hours than the other two fics I've put up have gotten in a week ... This is highly amusing for some reason. |P
Aw, dude, I'm fucking purring here. That's fucking awesome and I love it. I don't think the symbolism was too much or nothing. Felt right to me. The ending was a bit of a weird turn, yeh, but I don't think it was necessarily bad. All in all, it's a really cool little piece.
Spoiler: Nux/Furiosa kink meme prompt, sans kink i dunno, some stuff about Nux being lonely and sick and bummed, slit's long since left him and the Organic is elsewhere. It's the bloodbag, he thinks. Sad, old, half-dead thing, hanging closed-eyed and open-mouthed, sucking air with a slow wet rattle. He can practically feel its fightless blood hit his veins, a thick cold sludge gumming up his works and making his thoughts all rusted and dingy. Nux shakes the chain connecting them, plaintively. "Come on now," he croaks. "Add some nitro!" He rattles the chain and sings tunelessly, the first notes of a War Hymn. Practically feels it thundering in his head, loud enough to boil the blood and rock open the gates of Valhalla itself, hears his soft pale shade of it till Larry and Barry tell him to stop, pressing hard against his windpipe till he coughs and sputters. The bloodbag doesn't respond, doesn't even open its eyes, blood still flowing sedately down the line and freezing Nux's insides. Nux groans and thunks the back of his head against the wall behind him, one, two, three times, till the skin hurt and the inside hurt blurs together, dull and grey like rotten steel. It's like this, weary and pale and running on fumes that they find him. War Boys, older and bigger than him, faces and scars he doesn't recognize, wearing scraps of colored cloth round their necks and biceps. A luxury bestowed from on high. Imperator's Boys, then. They grab him as he's dozing, yank him from his seat and tear the line from his arm carelessly, leaving blood dripping freely from the bloodbag in its cage. A waste. The Organic will be displeased with him. One of them knocks his head against the ground hard enough he's afraid it'll split. Nux feels bile rise in his throat, feels the hard press of Larry and Barry against him as the world pitches sideways underneath him, like he's blown a tire and been sent rolling. He curls up, instinctive, tucking his head down to his chest and wrapping his arms around it. His legs kick sluggishly, kick the door out, musta crashed how bad he hurts. He hears a nasty chuckle through the ringing in his ears and feels a fist thud against his side, not quite on his stomach. He's thankful for that, the way it's rolling. Can't afford to lose a meal. He goes limp. Give them what they want. He's in no state to fight back, has no desire to die without his hands on a wheel and his tires on the Road. Hands still rough, still tight. Smart. Pays to be wary of those you think defeated. Still, wishes they were cocky. The ride might be smoother at least. The world is a riot of liquid colors behind his eyelids. Opening them proves no relief, the half light of the Citadel's twisting corridors enough to hurt like a needle through the eyes. Catches enough to know that he is thoroughly lost, in the brief snatches he is able to hold them open. He makes a half-hearted attempt to count the turns, but his head is throbbing and the numbers slide from his grasp like sand through his fingers. Going limp feels like giving up, but he is a Driver, and he knows that sometimes it's the only way to survive a crash. Slit would call him soft if he knew, but Slit isn't here. Might not have ended up like this if he were. Eventually they come to a halt. The War Boy that's been carrying him dumps him unceremoniously on the ground, and if Nux were harboring any delusions about fighting back the jarring crack of his skull against stone would have swiftly brought an end to that. Nux swallows a fresh wave of nausea and moans, pressing his fevered face to the cool stone floor. But they don't allow him even this small comfort. Rough hands grabbing at him, pulling him onto his back, catching at the heavy canvas of his pants, tugging them down his thighs, and, oh, oh, he knows this, has seen it happen before, Boys dragged into corners and quiet alcoves or taken right in the middle of the Garage for all to see, ripped open screaming and kicking, has never had it done to him before, but now, now. His eyes roll behind his lids, frantic, and his whole body tenses and relaxes in turns, warring instincts spiraling through his head like a sandstorm scouring the inside of his skull. Go limp, fight back, roll with it, kick down the door, bail, bail, bail. He chokes back bile and gasps, can't stop himself from babbling, nonsense, fragments, no words, his brain can't hold them, his mouth can't shape them, mute, dumb, rusted thing he is. A second set of hands pin his arms as the first rids him of his pants, all he owns in the pockets, all he owns bare before them to take and rip and shred. The first touch against his skin is cold and he jolts with it, the anticipation of pain skittering through his veins and burrowing into the roots of his teeth. It takes him a while to recognize this hollow echo of hurt for what it is, even longer to comprehend the steady pressure cutting a wide cool swath across his torso is not a pain in itself. Not metal, not skin, cool and rough, cloth. Wet cloth, wet, water wet, a frightful waste for a War boy and to what end he cannot see. Around and around, scraping across his chest and belly, dragging roughly against the dry catch of half clotted blood and hard edged scars. Scraping him raw and open, a desert cat opening her prey with a rough hooked tongue. Nux feels as if he's going to vibrate his way out of his skin. He twitches and squirms, the faint scratchy pull of foot-worn sandstone against his back a grounding almost-pain against this too-gentle unfamiliarity. *Disgruntled hydra noises*
I am working on an Undertale fic but am really nervous about showing anyone and maybe if someone is wanting to help I would like to talk to them? Aka: I am a baby I need reassurance and guidance
I guess! It's not done yet, so I will hit you up when i finish the first chapter... which is... almost done? maybe?? (god i haven't named it yet either i dunno what to call it)
I haven't written much in a long time, but I got an urge from a post I saw making the rounds on Tumblr about wanting a cute fluffy necromancer couple. I fiddled around with dollmakers for a while and ended up falling totally in love with a pair of red-eyed lesbians I have dubbed "the necrocuties". Now I just need a story to put them in, but my brain is turning up very little to work with. I know they live in an urban-fantasy world without any silly people-don't-know-about-magic-because-reasons stuff. I'm pretty sure they're in college and have a friend who's studying to practice demonic and/or fae contract law, just because that's a character I've had kicking around in the back of my head for ages. I think they probably don't have red eyes all the time, but as a temporary aftereffect of doing magic. I don't know a whole lot more about them, though.
Been working on this for months and I'm almost done, writing-wise. I'm aiming to finish this up before the end of the month so I can begin possible conversion to actual fiction for Nanowrimo (and then never get around to it)
