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Weak Conflict
There should always be a strong, compelling source of tension between two people who are considered enemies. Even if their rivalry stems from external sources, such as bad blood between families or competing for a number one spot, there should always be a concrete reason why they hate each other.
Not Explaining Forgiveness
When one of these conflicts subsides, or a tense moment resolves, it should be justified. Tension and emotions shouldn’t disappear because you’re trying to stuff romantic moments in here and there. If one of your characters crosses a line and the other character chooses to forgive them, there needs to be a clear and understandable reason. It doesn’t always have to sit well with the reader. Your character can make a blatantly stupid decision, but it needs to serve the plot.
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Finding Credible Sources
This can be a major struggle, especially for those who don’t possess a lot of skill in writing research papers or writing informative works. I could write an entire article on this subject alone, but instead I’ve decided to link a few helpful articles that can help you identify credible sources. A good rule of thumb is to pay attention to how recent the information is, who wrote it (what are their credentials), and who/which organization published the information. If you’re unsure of whether one or all of these things indicates a lack of credibility, cross-reference against other material, and always keep the list of sources you’ve used handy for future reference.
Familiarity vs. Accuracy
The ultimate goal of writing historical fiction is creating an immersive experience for the reader, which takes place during a period in time they didn’t live through, or in a location they didn’t experience during that time. It’s about immersion, and it’s important that you don’t sacrifice that experience in an effort to make the material as factual as possible. You are an artist, and you have the room to pick and choose where accuracy is necessary, and where familiarity can supplement it.
I'm writing this show and I've stopped and started over and over even though I know what I want to write and I finally figured our why. As much as I wanna finish and potentially get it made, if something ACTUALLY wants to take it I don't want to lose my control. In a perfect world I'd direct/co-direct, but as a 16 year old with no experience or people in the industry it's probably unlikely. I just don't want to lose something so close to me.(I'm trying to write all 5 seasons by myself as of now)
Don’t let hypotheticals about the future stop you from what you’re trying to accomplish now. People can accomplish all kinds of things at any age in the era of YouTube and social media. You’re setting up your own stumbling blocks before you even reach your goals. Don’t give up! Finish what you’ve got, and then focus on the next step. In the meantime, look into how you can accomplish what you want to do. Are there programs that can help you? YouTube series you can study for tips? Writing groups you can join for feedback?
Focus on the now, finish your scripts, and don’t give up!
So I never went for the vampire senses-option before when trying to rescue Sanja, but with a People-focused M-mancer I figured I might as well try it out, and....
imagine. my next detective going to be named aphrodite and just--- is there an option to generally have an expansive vocabulary for the sake of generally praising one's self in front of ava?
( yes )
considering the fact that detective mc thinks ava is generally egotistical--- when they themselves is too pfft.
"I'm tired." His voice is quiet. Deadly so. The monsters in the other room are quiet too. The shuffle of feet soft on the plywood floor. There's a sharp intake of breath and then,
"I am, too." Onix turns to the door. Nate's voice peculiarly clear. And wonder, then, if he is there to be heard or if he is the only who heard what he had just said. But there is no response with the others. Perhaps, gone. Though, unlikely.
"You shouldn't try so hard, then." He purses his lips, burying his body deep into the duvet. "You should---" He inhales, sharply. It's like a knife hiting the tiles when Onix is the only one in the room. Pain, silent, even when he screams. "rest."
There's a pregnant pause.
"You should too, then."
He doesn't hear anything then, after that.
But maybe… Maybe it is tiring. When he closes his eyes, Onix could only imagine how it must be, briefly. How your most quiet thoughts seem louder to the chasm. How monsters must be.
"I'm tired." And Onix closes his eyes. A tear dropping to the comforter. To the comforted. "Please."
--
OR! the scene where the vampires are in our Detective Onix' home. That cute scene where Onix supposedly asked liek "If there is vampires, then there are other kinds of creatures too...", the cute unicorn scene and i turned it to angst.
Onix is confused, fearful. Detective Onix is usually tough, stoic. He doesn't know feelings too well and I hope that reflected well as Im sort of new to writing and i wanted to... yeah. xD
He's not really witty. Bad at words and feelings. So "tired" means a lot. Tired can mean exhausted, and tired could mean sadness. Worn out. Tired means... Alone, too.
I have been addicted to Wayhaven since 2018 so!! SKKSK
it starts like this—
threading carefully through the rain, buying coffee sachets at 7/11 stores in three a.m., and nudging him awake in the early rises of the sun streaks. it starts as easy as this— star-kissed happiness, dark hair foaming in between his fingertips filling his palms with its softness. the soft banks of the clouds just peeking through open windows. affection slipping past to easily between the two.
It ends like this—
i forgot you’re staying over, but he always does. always forget so easily he’s coming over and viktor grins and yuri— the other blonde yuri would scowl, and leave, and the door locks. and it’s just the two of them, see. makes him feel so soft even though he shouldn’t. but viktor’s place always has this rain-streaked windows and see. see the light rushing fast—so fast and it’s drowning viktor so good, so nice. he’s all the colors of the rainbow, and there’s this glass heart beating for fragile in his chest, so easily sneaking past its cages. he’s saying, i didn’t agree to this. but maybe yuuri did. maybe he didn’t realize that it’s more than just that first time he broke the teacup and insisted he paid for its cost. maybe he didn’t realize that when he caused the wrinkles in viktor’s expensive linen that he did it on purpose. did it all to stay.
the kettle boils behind them, curls of steam rushing in to the small kitchen and viktor rushes past from where he’s standing—past yuuri and flicks the dial off. he turns. slow, gently. round, small toes squeezing, adam apple bobbing.
it feels like before.
(like—
empty streets after the fall of rain. raincoat blocking his eyesight, the sudden sun causing phosphenes in his eyesight. ting! ting! a marketplace door pushes open. someone runs and something catches the sharp and slender bone—
[crash!]
it falls too easy. the fragile tea cup. and maybe that’s when everything fell apart. when the chessboard decided taking the king was too easy and now the queen’s part of all this challenge. and that the rules have changed. they’re not meant to be. yuuri can see it in the easy on-set of a smile on his face, the easy apology slipping past his tongue. the way he laughs, and holds teacups that was so cliché, the way he likes a specific type of tea with a specific brand. the way viktor just wasn’t supposed to be.
but maybe that’s the thing. maybe that’s why yuuri had wanted to stay, had wanted---insisted let me pay for the teaccup—)
and viktor surges. moves and holds him close. yuuri laughs, giggles—carefree, free. viktor tastes like tea. like fuzzy blankets. and both of them feels at home. home with all these unwashed dishes, and un-made beds. home with all these faults, all these wrongs and rights.
I. the bruises you give me are blue. after every kiss, my lips are pale and your sorry's are drained of any blood. you like your name on the tips of my tongue. you tell me that i turn your ugly name into something sweet. and you like that... i like it too
II. your name is sweet. your name is an oxygen tank but sometimes your name--- your name sends me tumbling to a cliff and no matter how many times i call you your back is in front of me still.
III. you like the oceans in my skin, the reds in my eyes and the purple on my cheeks. you tell me i'm a rainbow. you tell me i'm everything.
IIII. but i dont like the scars. i dont. so if i'm a rainbow, it's alright for me to fade away when your tears and my name isn't in your tongue anymore, right?
His finger prickles a thorn; harsh and sharp, its lethal tip crying in front of a gradient glow. Clear red jewels, not once lamented as it hit the ground, triggering miniature crimson pools. Artemis, isolated and cornered as she let the peaks of her arrow strike the truth.
There is only one truth in a multitude of lies.
Viktor holds an impossible in his hand. Homicidal arrows whisked from thin, frigid ice— Viktor soars. The blades of his skates carving figures— doves flying on blood soaked skies and sun-drowned galaxies, Artemis cries on puddles of habromania; the scent of a dying dream. The walls shrinks, the gaps in between the trees tightening until they seemed to be woven threads.
Viktor lands his first quadruple flip.
He swore— he opens his palms and reaches out for the skies.
He swore.
He swore—
She was a mirage, fading in and out of existence— ilunga flowing whilst the golden ickor in her veins. He swore; he apologized; he promised. She flung out the beast, iron instilled in tangled strings, drawing out each breath as if it’s her last. Querencia. He was home. The sun, the playful skies— Apollo was home. Now—
He will die.
Viktor breaks the International Junior Records.
Orion glows in the sky, a fervent caim that fills the broken promises in her heart. No one will know; Hyacinthus taking his last breaths to bloom hyacinths. No one will know, sedate roses stitched on every gap of his skin. His blood cracked open rivers. His last breaths casting the empty fogs whenever she cries, isolated and alone.
You aren’t alone.
Viktor smiles, youth springing with each step. Blue roses stitched in a crown atop his head, heavy metal hanging on his neck.
Do you know what blue roses mean?
They aren’t real. They are inconceivable realities----
She tells his stories on a warm hearth, her silver arrows stunted; Orion glaring down at her with lithe playfulness as he shines— breaths in from above.
Viktor wore a dream on his head, a stitched-up velleite wrapped in tacenda.
He’s picking up the pieces, and he bleeds every time. Veins pressed over paper, dewdrops trickling down holes. It’s getting hard to remember why he’s picking them up and putting them together. It’s getting hard to remember why he’s working away from the rumbling storms.
His colleagues were split into Roman and Greek armies every time the clock strikes twelve. The workplace was a coliseum of printers, crumpled papers, tangled strings and yet-to-be-turned-over documents. He, he was on no one’s team. He stays on his desk, the sky on his back. He is Atlas. He bares the world, and he lets no one near. No one was allowed to interfere.
The sun walks down.
Viktor’s trying to remember why he’s here again. Mila, a rose-haired girl with a disorganized flower garden growing in her head, tells him it’s alright. But what was alright? He still has to submit the whole team’s expenses to the team manager (he may as well be the one in-charge of all this pre-planned chaos), and audit. He’s a workaholic, stuffing as much heat into his body as he could and wraps himself in multitude of jackets before nightfall. What was fine? He’s left alone to warm himself.
It’s cold at night.
It’s quiet too.
The workplace dims. It loses its light and warmth from the morning that slowly garnered to a void by the afternoon, and then shrinks. Viktor doesn’t mind. He’s too busy running from another storm.
He doesn’t remember.
It’s really getting hard to remember why he was running in the first place. There’s a fall coming from somewhere high, rocks he never meant to tamper with falling from it. Somewhere, he’s at the bottom running to survive, to get a breath. But it doesn’t feel right.
Viktor remembers he’s tired.
He’s tired of this mentally laboring job, tired of the schedules he looks at before he sleeps. He’s tired of checking his watch the first thing in the morning, and tired of following the sticky notes on his office.
He forgot his execution.
He runs a hand through his hair; the storm he’s running from wasn’t a storm after all, it was an execution he was running from. He takes a one of the notes stuck to the side of his desktop, crumples it and throws it to the bin. He doesn’t need to run. He will just delay it. Like he did last month, and the other month, and so on, so forth. Nothing will change.
He tries a smile. It fails.
He doesn’t try again because no one was watching him. He doesn’t need to try for an invisible crowd.
—+—
Chris turns to a wolf once a month, crashing his mundane schedules without a sweat. He invites him to party, to go to the nightclub just done the street. He considers.
Chris, just like any of his colleagues, was set into a schedule in his mind. Mila was going to the Crispino’s for dinner. Chulanont, at specifically twelve, would running off to some latent rendezvous, missing the company lunch every time. Yuri was an intern… following Chulanont with his rendezvous. Viktor doesn’t care for where the two goes, but he’s curious. He can’t deny that.
Viktor, in the end, agrees.
Mila, just as he predicted (and expected), was going to the Crispino. He didn’t know why he offered in the first place, but it hadn’t hurt at that time. Now, his arms hooked around Chris’ like a clingy boyfriend, it hurs. Mila had someone. She pushed away the conservative views of society, and loved her. Viktor once met the Crispino’s daughter. She was a beautiful, evening-blooming cereus.
Mila grows a garden in her head. She is an enigma— a predictable enigma— who has her heart in her sleeve, a hidden card ready to be gambled. Sara, Viktor considers, would be a one-of-a-kind trophy.
But he knows.
He knows Sara was more than that.
His thoughts were pulled taut, and the string snaps in half. The sun dies once a day, allowing the blooms to shrivel, and the moon to sit on her throne. In a secluded area, the stars were forgotten. Neon lights on every wall, sophisticated black and white frames hung on some and the scent of burning cigarettes filled his nose. It dazed him, intoxicating his senses. The music blares hard into his eardrums, and he feels hot. He hasn’t drunk any beverages and yet he feels as if he did. The notes, and octaves wraps around his form like a sly snake. The whole club was a glowing, irresistible catharsis. He wants to dance, he wants to throw away his jacket to the nearest person and dance with the throbbing and bleeding floor.
Chris pulls him away to a corner bar. The desire to strip away his mask and truly sentence his name to a basket fades.
“I can see your ass practically shaking to a hula,” Chris doesn’t meet his glaring eyes. He, instead waves for a bartender. When he turns back to him, his eyes were steel rods. “But it’s best to get yourself drunk… You’d want an excuse in case you aren’t yourself, don’t you?”
Chris hates masks.
Viktor was a mask.
“For someone who brought me here, you can’t chastise me wanting just a little dance.” He tries a smile.
He fails, but he doesn’t say anything; alexithymia clogging the words in his heart from coming out of his lips.
“Chris!” Viktor turns to the voice in-place of Chris who didn’t even turn his head to it. “I didn’t know you’d visit. Phichit didn’t tell me anything, or… You didn’t tell him? How’d you get past— Viktor?”
Curious brown-filled eyes stares into his, and his heart… It palpitates. He was a tempting, pulchritudinous man with an angelic face and a sinful, sublime figure. He was already breaking his heart. He was like a memory, a mirage slipping in and out of existence and Viktor barely managed to stop himself from holding onto him. He looks familiar.
Viktor doesn’t remember. He’s a bit dazed, actually. But he feels familiar. He feels at home.
“Ahh!” Chris finally turns, and there’s something bitter in his voice. “This is Viktor. Viktor Niki—”
“Just…” Viktor inhales a breath, cutting off Chris with a glare from beside him. He attempts. He tries a smile. He tries a change. The man before him, he looks familiar. He was so familiar it hurt. He was like the countless sunflower on the field when he walks home. He was like the ray, the glowing light in his deep sea. He prays to Metanoia as he takes a drink from a stranger and chugs it down his throat.
“Just…”
He feels better, he feels lighter.
“Just Viktor and…” He sees the glint in the stranger’s eyes, plucking familiar words from dusty memories. Words that a workaholic would never say. “Would you like a dance?”
---+---
One-shot AU of Workaholic!Viktor with Bartender!Yuuri. Viktor and Yuuri met in college. I know the end is a bit hurried up, but hey! A finished one-shot, yippeee. Anyway, yeah, Yuuri once asked him out for a small dance at College. But, instead of Yuuri forgetting that time, it’s in reverse.
Viktor forgets.
Yuuri remembers.
And a few years later, they meet again. I’m thinking of making it longer and etc. Tell me what you guys think, I hope I did alright. p.s. I’m perfectly aware that there might be some… plotholes and etc. But meh.
Also, seriously, do telll me what you think. this is my first trying a different writing style and I’m TRYING a lot. This style, is a bit difficult for me but so far I like it? So, in all honestly, I seriously need help.
I have loved you in so many ways and for so much time I don’t know how to live without you by my side. All I have left is an ocean of regret, of memories we never made, a story half finished with unwritten pages that drip with pain.
I want to open each of the spaces hidden in your soul and immerse myself in all the secrets that you keep; to know you from end to end and explore all the feelings and thoughts that make up your being; to be able to paint your portrait with closed eyes, not with my hands but with my heart and have you with me so that neither time nor distance, failed thieves, can take from me your essence, which I merge with mine and so, with every breath, I make you infinitely mine, at the same time that I become infinitely yours.
jacobvanloon
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
dailybridgerton
