writing blog. mostly references, writing tips, and random thoughts about my creative process.
current project: interloper, a dragon age inquisition story
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 12
The dodecahedron is broken and had Dorian agonising over whether to reveal to Rick his true identity. As the two share more intimate moments, his decision may be one that will pull them apart.
He wished he could disappear completely. To have every thread of his consciousness absorbed, consumed, obliterated the instant his broken body was taken over.
Because that life was never his to begin with.
Every day, he drifted, formless and void, clinging to the edges of Shiro’s soul. Like a reluctant passenger held captive.
It was his hand that touched Keith’s shoulder. It was his smile Keith returned. It was, by sheer technicality, his voice that said hello, and yet he could only watch on from the fringes, hapless.
They talked about the fight at the facility again, under the dim lights of the lion’s cockpit. It’s so easy to absolve yourself from the sin of another, wasn’t it?
“It wasn’t me.” He felt the rumble as Shiro spoke. “That thing that hurt you wasn’t me.”
Keith understood, because he always did. “I know.”
But he didn’t know. And he would never know. He would never know how much it still horrified him to remember the rushing heat of the energy blade, the smell of sizzling flesh, the anguished plea in Keith’s eyes.
I’m so sorry, he wanted to say when Shiro’s fingers brushed against that scarred cheek, I wasn’t strong enough to resist her control. I am so sorry.
How do you write the stories? You make it up as you go along. This is a terrible thing to have to tell people. But I’ve spoken to other authors and when there is no one else near by, that’s what we agree that we do. We just have different definitions of ‘make up’, ‘go’ and ‘along’. And possibly of ‘it’, too.
Terry Pratchett - A Slip Of The Keyboard: Collected Non-fiction (via aeshnacyanea2000)
By the time he’d reached the city bridge, the moons were well up over the peaks of the High Reaches.
The guards at the gates stopped him and motioned for him to dismount. Not unexpected, he supposed, as he’d arrived at the capital in the dead of night, alone and without any obvious indication of his profession.
Holding down his hat with one gloved hand, he eased off his horse stiffly, as if his hips were made of stone. His back hunched, his straggly white beard fluttering in the bare breeze as he took faltering steps toward the guards.
“What’s your business here in Minrathous, old man?” one of them drawled.
“Well, I came to buy myself a young, strong slave. Someone trustworthy to help around the house and tend to my horses. My old bones aren’t what they used to be, you see.”
“You came at a good time, then. Word is they will be introducing another bill to abolish the slave trade, so the slavers are all scrambling to offload their inventory for cheap. You might find yourself a real bargain.”
A broad smile broke over his face and his eyes widened in happy surprise. “Truly? That’s incredible news!”
“Not that it matters to us, anyway,” the other guard snorted. “I can’t even afford a wife, let alone a slave.”
The first guard caught sight of the sheathed sword strapped to the side of his horse. “That’s a fine-looking weapon for an old codger.”
It wasn’t the best blade in his armoury, but it was a good enough working sword. “I’ve had this for years, my friend,” he said. “It has protected me against bandits and demons alike, though I don’t wield it with quite as much might as I did in my younger days.”
“All right,” the guard said, seemingly satisfied with his answers, and waved him along.
Taking the reins of his horse, he continued on foot into the city, hobbling slowly along the stony thoroughfare.
His destination was a mansion in the Tidarion district in the eastern part of the city, where many of the upper echelon of Tevinter society built their estates.
Pausing at the entry gates, he discreetly looked left and right to make certain no one else was around before stepping quickly into the front courtyard.
It was late in the hour. The servants had retired for the night and the stable hands off to their quarters.
He groaned and stretched to his full height, pounding his back with a fist.
“Maker’s Breath. I swear this is going to kill me one day,” he muttered under his breath and blew a strand of stringy beard out of his mouth.
He led his horse to an empty stall in the stables and, by the dim light of an oil lantern, removed her saddle and gave her a perfunctory rubdown. As the mare helped herself to the hay in the corner, he took off the shabby cloak and hat he wore, rolled the garments up and shoved them into the saddlebag. Then, he shouldered his travel sack and headed for the house.
Scaling the side of a residence as well-kept as this mansion was no easy feat. No protruding brick to get purchase against, no cracks to find grip on. But he’d had plenty of practice by now, and he clambered up the wall with the agility of a mountain goat to reach the balcony above.
Through the window, he saw the room bathed in the warm, mellow flicker of candlelight. There, upon a massive bed covered in maroon silk sheets, lay the form of his love, fast asleep, an open book overturned beside him.
The doors were sealed with runic magic, so he pulled off the gloves with his teeth and splayed his flesh hand against the small glyph etched into the frame. It flared to life beneath his palm, and the doors unlocked with a soft click.
Once inside, he toed off his boots and stripped down to his braies, discarding his filthy outer clothing in a heap on the floor. He undid the brace that held his prosthetic arm in place and left the metal limb on the desk.
Climbing into bed, he kissed the sleeping man’s neck, his bare shoulder. It’d be so long since he’d tasted him—salt and heat and Dorian.
He nibbled his way down and closed his mouth over a dark, perfect nipple, feeling it harden under his tongue.
Dorian stirred finally, arching sleepily, beautifully against him.
“Amatus?” He moaned when Trevelyan’s hand travelled lower. “What are you--? I thought you said you were arriving tomorrow evening.”
Trevelyan smiled down at him. “I left a day early. I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“You could have at least taken off your hideous disguise before getting into bed.” Dorian reached up and peeled off the fake beard, tossing it aside. His face grew soft. “There you are.”
The blatant adoration in his eyes made Trevelyan’s heart tighten with emotion. The sneaking and trickery, the long journeys between Kirkwall and Minrathous… all for these stolen moments of happiness. It had been a long road, but here they were. Together again.
He slanted his lips over Dorian’s, teasing them open and flicking his tongue into his mouth. Dorian made a small noise into the kiss, which only made Trevelyan ache more deeply for him.
Tomorrow, he’d congratulate his lover for bringing the Slavery Bill to its present maturity. He’d tell him about Gus’ mishap with her first battle staff. And Varric’s upcoming birthday party they’d been cordially summoned to attend.
But tonight, Trevelyan would lose himself in Dorian, offer all of himself to Dorian. Every breath exchanged was a gift he dared not believe he’d have again, and he intended to take as many as he’s given.
“I love you,” he whispered against Dorian’s lips, and felt him smile in response.
As he had done so many times before, Dorian mentally connected the freckles that spilled across those wide shoulders. He’d once told Trevelyan that this was a much more enjoyable puzzle than any of the astrariums, and he could always find his name in the constellation on his skin. It was, naturally, further proof that Trevelyan was meant to be his.
How come fanfic loves to "torture the cinnamon roll"?
I mean, I’m sure we could poll people and come up with a hundred different answers, ranging from “I just like to think about attractive people covered in blood” to “suffering is fun to write about” to “I’m working out my issues through fic, leave me alone.”
………..but also today I watched a comedy special (Nanette, on Neflix, it’s amazing) and the comedian talked about how all jokes are, really, just a matter of setting up tension, and then releasing it. You tell a story in a specific way, winding your audience up like a spring, and then release the tension with a surprise ending. That’s when people laugh, it’s the release of the tension.
Now, obviously not all stories are written to make people laugh, but I do think it’s useful to think about all writing in that way. Some stories build dramatic tension (watch these two characters pine after one another) and then release it through a triumphant act like a kiss, or a confession of love. Other stories build dramatic tension (you care about the characters, you love them) and then release it through a great tragic act, like their deaths.
For the release to work, you need the tension—imagine a joke that’s just a punchline, it’s not funny. Additionally, the way you build the tension has to lead up to the release—think of Game of Thrones, which trapped itself in a narrative hole killing off so many characters. Because the release (the death of that character) is expected, the tension is gone. The story can keep pushing that button and trying for that release, but there’s no tension to propel your audience into feeling any emotion.
The lack of tension is why some people not me of course complain about fic where characters just….have a nice day, or fall in love peaceably, or calmly and openly discuss their issues. There’s no tension there, and so no release.
Torturing an innocent character—you can’t make me call them a cinnamon roll, sorry—is an easy way to create that tension. In fact, it can be either a way to build tension or to create release. If a character suffers prettily, and is then comforted and cared for by another character, you’ve built the tension (suffering) and then released it with something different (comfort and care). If you have an innocent character moving through an uncaring and terrible world, and then have them—I don’t know, beaten up in an alley somewhere, then you have a release (the situational irony is resolved.)
There’s more to work with, from a narrative perspective. There’s no tension in an innocent character having a lovely day.
I know it’s going somewhere good when I get shy writing it.
Smut comes easily for me. It’s primeval, instinctive, the melding of bodies as skin turns to liquid.
Romance, though. That first touch. That first glance. That first fluttering in the stomach when you know something has changed. The world has shifted, with them in the centre now.
The odd heat in your chest you can no longer ignore - it grows warmer as you play back in your head every interaction you’ve ever had, over and over again. Until your heart feels so full that it might burst at the seams.
This I get shy writing, because to love is to put your vulnerability on display.
“Amatus,” Dorian groaned, though the word came out whinier than he’d intended. “Where are you hiding?”
“I’m right here,” came the reply. A moment later, Vaxus oozed into view.
Thank goodness he had a buff warrior for a lover, for the Inquisitor cast a very large, and very welcomed shadow over the bed.
“There is an incessant pounding in my head,” Dorian said, rolling his face into the pillow. “It’s much less pleasant than the other sort of incessant pounding I’m used to.”
Vaxus laughed, and even through the fogged pain, Dorian thought it was a wonderful sound. “Well, if you’re well enough to joke.”
“It’s the truth, my love.”
“Oh, is it ‘my love’ now?” Vax said, sitting on the side of the bed. “What is it you want from me?”
Caught out, Dorian turned over, squinting with a smile. “Could you please be a real sweetheart and fetch me some water and an elfroot potion? And maybe a pastry if you happen by the kitchen?”
“You’re asking the Inquisitor to go pick up your breakfast like a common servant?” Vax grinned.
“Yes, because you love me dearly.”
Vax sighed, but it was a fond sound. “Now that’s the truth, my love.” He pressed a kiss to Dorian’s forehead. “Stay put until I get back.”
Dorian mushed his face back into the pillow. “Not going anywhere.”
little something I just got from @elidoo <3 thank you so muuuch
My stories will bore some readers. Some readers will hate them. Some won’t understand, won’t connect the dots, won’t relate to the characters. Some won’t because they can’t, some won’t because they don’t want to, but most won’t simple because my stories just aren’t for them.
My stories aren’t for everyone.
My stories are for me.
And they’re for the readers who will love them. They’re for the reader who have already loved them. For the readers who will see what I see in them and feel the characters and the world the way I do. They’re for the readers who wanted these stories before they even knew they existed. They’re for the readers they’ll make smile, the readers they’ll stick with, and the readers they’ll save.
And just because my stories aren’t for everyone doesn’t make them worth any less to the people they are for.
Not everyone likes butterflies. Not everyone likes spiders. But the people who love those creatures more than anything else would lose a part of themselves if they didn’t exist.
So no, my stories are not for everyone. But that doesn’t matter.
Because they’re for someone, and to that someone, they’re irreplaceable.
Last night, I mentioned offhandedly to @dinah-myles that Luther smells of sandalwood because of the soap he uses, and they told me it’s their favourite scent and that in Spain, it is considered a good luck charm.
Which brought me great delight because I imagined that it is Josie who buys the soaps and sundries for the Inquisitor, and Antiva being sort of fantasy Spain, it isn’t too great a leap to say perhaps she thought he could use the extra luck in the seemingly impossible battle against Corypheus.
Isn’t it wonderful when you discover something new that adds more layers to your story, however unintentional it was?
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