Thought I should maybe make an intro/navi post so when I eventually have more things written we can all get around easy peasy :)
Hey, I'm Kat! Welcome to whatever this is! I'm a Scottish writer! I've just started writing seriously and will be posting on here as and when I can. I'm currently working on one biiiiig project but I will be posting the odd thing here and there that has no relevance to it whatsoever. I'm not currently writing for any fandoms but I probably will at some point!
Requests are open! I will write for any gender in moooost scenarios, so if you have something specific in mind, send it in!
I will write fluff, smut, and angst.
When sending in a request, be clear on what you want. At least a little detail will give me a good jumping off point.
Please don't spam my inbox with the same requests/asks.
Please be aware that I work full time and won't always be able to answer immediately.
I will attempt to write as many requests as possible but please bear in mind that if I am uncomfortable with a topic or I'm unsure of a character I won't write the request. I will let you know if that's the case.
This is an inclusive space so please be respectful of that when interacting.
I don't know any writers on here well enough to tag them but if you want to join in feel free!
When did you start writing?
I've written short stories and wee bits for years but I started working on my first novel about a year ago now.
Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?
I typically write fantasy but I enjoy reading most genres - not a huge horror person though.
Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?
Nobody has read enough of my work to compare me to anyone and as far as i'm aware I don't emulate anyone when I write, at least not consciously.
Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?
It's a bit all over he place to be honest. When I'm at home, I have a big desk in my room (it's really cool, it's a sit to stand desk with lights that I won in a competition) that i use as a working space when i'm not gaming. If i'm writing on the go its in numerous notebooks and half on my phone and half on a tablet, its a but messy.
What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?
I listen to music more often than not, it really helps and often shapes some of my scenes.
Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?
Yeah - theres a strong leaning towards grief in a lot of my work. I'm a generally positive person, i guess writing is how I process things.
What is your reason for writing?
Its started as a fun creative outlet nut now i've given myself a goal and I'll be damned if I don't meet it. I need somewhere to put all my excess energy and writing seemed the most obvious place.
Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?
Any. I don't get a lot so I don't have much to compare to but I guess just a "oh I enjoyed that" would make me kick my feet a little.
How do you want to be thought about by your readers?
Oof I don't know. I suppose I'd like people to look forward to reading what's next? I'm honestly not sure how to answer this, it's a tough question.
What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?
Its both a strength and a weakness - I have a very expansive way of thinking about my writing in that I create multiple worlds, interwoven plotlines etc. but i struggle to get them all into one cohesive piece. My novel for example - it started as a single scene and now has 500 years of written history across three worlds and will more than likely end up as four or more books.
How do you feel about your own writing?
Hit and miss really. I like it to an extent. Sometimes I'll read something back and think "oh that's actually quite good!" and others I'll think "well that's a pile of shit." Also occasionally I'll read something that I've written and it won't read like it's my work. I guess i get possessed by a random author's ghost occasionally.
When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?
It's purely for myself. I've actually just realised that the style I write in leans very cinematic and its very atmosphere focussed. I don't know who would like to read my rambling about paint splodges but here we are.
and a blank edition under the cut:
When did you start writing?
Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?
Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?
Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?
What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?
Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?
What is your reason for writing?
Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?
How do you want to be thought about by your readers?
What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?
How do you feel about your own writing?
When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?
AN: Well this is different for me. Enjoy? If you can enjoy something like this. Edited as I wrote, there may be some mistakes. It's late ok?
“Jack, what the fuck!” Naomi stormed past the broken escalator, curses spilling under her breath.
“Mimi, come back, it was just a joke.”
“You know how freaked I get.” She threw a sharp gesture toward the vacant tunnel yawning behind him. “We’re stuck down here for God knows how long, and you’re making creepy little noises. It’s dark as hell down there.”
The fluorescents buzzed overhead, one sputtering back to life every now and then, leaving darkness in its wake when it died over and over. Their voices bounced against the tiled walls, each echo swallowed by the tunnel’s black mouth.
Jack stood at the far end of the platform, arms wide in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.”
Naomi ignored him. She thumped down onto one of the rusted benches lining the wall, metal groaning under her weight, and turned her head away.
A few feet from Naomi, Christophe leaned over the edge of the platform, rocking on the balls of his feet.
“Find anything useful?”
A low chuckle came from his left. Startled, Christophe swayed too far forward, arms pinwheeling. Before he could tumble face-first into the tracks, a broad hand clamped around his waist and hauled him back.
“Lucky I was here,” the man said, steadying him with surprising strength. “You’d have had no face left if you fell in.”
The same chuckle followed, dry and amused, lingering a beat too long in the cavernous air. Christophe blinked up at his rescuer: a handsome, older man, his sideburns thick and unfashionably carved into mutton chops.
“Name’s John.”
“Get off me, old man!” Christophe shoved at John’s chest, but John didn’t budge. His grip stayed firm.
“What are you, some kind of freak?”
“Just trying to help.” John’s voice was steady, unnervingly calm. He smiled. Not warm, not mocking, just empty.
Christophe brushed off his chinos, still bristling. “I was fine. I can handle myself.” He pulled out his phone. “Typical. No service.”
“You won’t get any down here,” John said. “Not with that storm. That kind of weather kills all communications. Just have to wait it out.”
Naomi’s eyes flicked between the two men before she turned back on her brother. “Jack.”
“Whaaat?” Jack drawled, flicking another pebble into the tunnel. The faint clatter echoed too long before it finally faded.
“Will you stop that? It’s getting on my nerves.”
“Thought you were ignoring me.”
“I’m trying to. You’re making it difficult.”
The silence stretched after Naomi’s last words. The storm roared faintly above, rain hammering against the glass panels in the roof.
John broke it first. “You know,” he said, lowering himself onto one of the rusted benches, “nights like this go easier with stories. Helps pass the time. Helps… take your mind off things.”
Christophe snorted. “What is this, summer camp?”
But Jack’s grin was immediate, already mischievous. “Oh, I’ve got one.”
Naomi folded her arms, muttering. “Here we go.”
“Shut up, Mimi. Okay, this one time,” Jack said, dropping onto the ground in front of John like he was centre stage. “Aaaages ago, there was this guy. Super old, nobody knew how old, but he was. And he had this long, grey hair.”
“Jack, please. Nothing scary.”
“It’s not! Promise!” His grin said otherwise, eyes flashing with mischief.
Naomi groaned.
“Anyway, so this guy,” Jack went on, lowering his voice just enough to make it carry in the still air, “he lived down here. In the tunnels. Said he could hear the voice of God in the rails…”
“The voice of God?” John arched an eyebrow and leaned toward Jack. “Down here?”
“Yeah! He said he could hear it in the thrumming of the rails when the trains had passed through the tunnel.”
“What makes you think it’s God?” Naomi crossed her arms and fixed her brother with a death glare. “Why not the devil? Or ghosts? Or demons? Or just the fucking trains?”
Jack grinned, pleased he had her attention. “Because God’s scarier. That’s what he said, anyway. The Priest thought it was a holy voice, telling him the world up top was rotten with sinners, and that it was his job to fix it. Down here, he was chosen. Down here, he’d make them holy.”
Christophe snorted. “Yeah? And how exactly did he do that?”
Jack’s grin turned sly. “The legend says he nailed people to the walls and left them hanging there. Said the tunnels would drink their sins away every time the trains rolled past.”
Naomi pulled a face. “Christ, Jack, do you have to?”
“Oh, it gets better,” Jack said with a laugh. “People claimed that if you listened closely, you could still hear the ones he strung up. Not screaming with their throats — screaming in the metal. Like their voices got trapped in the steel forever.”
The words hung in the silence.
Overhead, a fluorescent sputtered violently, then burst with a sharp pop. Half the platform dropped into shadow. The smell of burnt plastic drifted through the stale air.
Naomi flinched hard, hugging her arms tighter. Christophe gave a shaky laugh. “Nice timing, huh?”
Jack’s grin faltered, just for a second. “See? Told you. He’s still down here. Listening.”
From the far bench, John smiled faintly in the dark.
Christophe yawned. “What a load of shit, man. Are you eight? Shit’s not scary at all.”
Naomi barked a laugh, nervous energy spilling out of her.
Jack scowled. “Oh yeah? Think you can do better?”
“Course I can,” Christophe said, shifting on the bench and stretching his legs out like he owned the place. “See, I don’t waste time with ghost stories. You want scary? Real scary? Try climbing into places you’re not supposed to be. Abandoned buildings, rooftops, tunnels like this.” He gestured lazily at the platform around them. “You never know if the floor’s gonna cave, or if someone’s waiting inside. That’s real fear. Real risk.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Or real stupid.”
Christophe grinned, flashing teeth. “Fortune favours the brave, sweetheart. I’ve been doing it for years. Crawling into locked places, balancing on ledges twenty stories up. And I’m still here.”
“Somehow I doubt it.” Naomi looked him up and down, taking in his spotless chinos and shiny leather shoes. She gestured dismissively. “I bet you’ve never even climbed a tree.”
The storm groaned against the glass roof above them, wind howling through the cracks, rain hammering a heartbeat on the panels.
Naomi hugged her arms tighter, eyes following Christophe as he pushed to his feet.
“Oh, how narrow your mind is, sweetheart,” he said, smug as ever. “I’ve been places you couldn’t even dream of.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and began to swagger along the platform. Naomi followed his progress with narrowed eyes, heart beating faster every time his foot landed too close to the edges lined with peeling yellow paint.
“I remember this one night,” Christophe continued, his voice carrying in the cavernous dark. “Abandoned hotel. Twelve stories high. I’d had a few drinks, and my mates dared me to climb out onto the fire escape. Rusted, bolts hanging loose, but I didn’t think twice. I walked the whole thing, handrail rattling under my weight. Any second it could’ve given way. Could’ve been dead right there with the snap of a rail.” He clapped his hands, the sound echoing round the tunnels, fading as it went.
He paused to listen, tilting his head, a smile curling. “But it didn’t. Held my weight. I made it back, heart in my throat but buzzing. That’s the thing, fear makes you feel alive, no? And me? I always come out on top.”
Naomi shifted uncomfortably, arms tightening around herself. She thought she saw John watching too, expression unreadable, like he’d heard this speech a hundred times before.
Christophe gave a mock bow, then sauntered back toward the group, smugness radiating. “So yeah, ghost stories don’t scare me. The only thing worth fearing is when you stop taking risks. That’s when you’re already dead.” He gave a pointed look to Jack who was now rolling his eyes.
“Impressive,” came John’s voice from the bench, half shrouded in darkness. His already imposing figure seemed larger in the fractured light. “You like risk?”
“Why do you care, old man? It’s not like you have anything interesting to say.” Christophe waved him off and swung onto the edge of the platform, legs dangling into the dark.
John didn’t answer. He only watched, hands folded on his knees, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his lips.
Naomi hugged herself tighter, pulse rising. “For God’s sake, get off of there. You’ll break your neck.”
Christophe snorted. “Relax. Fortune favours the brave, remember?”
Naomi’s laugh burst out sharper than she meant, brittle with nerves. “Yeah, brave and stupid. I once…” She stopped, teeth clicking shut as the memory pressed against her throat.
Jack leaned forward eagerly. “Go on, Mimi. Let’s hear it.”
Naomi sucked in a rattling breath. “I once did something similar. It was a dare, some friends had said, ‘oh, go into the school, Mimi, it’ll be fun!’” She moved toward the broken escalator and stared at the storm raging just outside. “It was late. About five in the morning.”
“Why have I never heard this?” Jack exclaimed, scandalised.
“Because you would have ratted to our parents, idiot.”
“I would not!” Jack slapped a hand to his chest in feigned outrage.
Naomi shot him a flat look. “Do you want me to tell the story or not?”
“Sorry, sorry. Please continue, Daredevil.” He raised his hands in mock surrender.
Naomi exhaled slowly, the memory curling around her like smoke. “So I went in. Just the entrance hall, nothing special, but once the door shut behind me, God, it was pitch black. I couldn’t see a thing. And then I realised the handle was stuck. Wouldn’t budge. I pushed, I pulled, I slammed my shoulder against it. Nothing. Just silence and darkness pressing down around me. It felt like the whole building was closing in, crushing me in its walls.”
Her arms tightened around herself. “I was trapped there for nearly an hour. Felt like days. I clawed at the door until my hands bled. I thought I was gonna die in there, just… locked in a place I knew but didn’t recognise. When I finally got out, I swore I’d never let myself get trapped like that again.”
The fluorescent overhead flickered twice, then steadied. Naomi flinched and crossed her arms tighter.
Jack snorted, trying to break the tension. “See? I would’ve told Mum and Dad. You’re welcome.”
Naomi didn’t answer. She kept staring at the escalator, jaw tight.
John released a deep sigh. “You must have been terrified, things like that don’t leave easily.”
“Yeah, you could say that.” Naomi turned back to the group and reclaimed her seat, folding her arms tight across her chest.
For a moment, nobody spoke. The storm rattled the roof, rain hissing through the cracks like static.
Then John leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I know what that’s like. Being stuck. Thinking you won’t make it out.” His voice was low, deliberate. “Happened to me once. Years ago. A mine collapse.”
Jack raised his brows. “A mine? Seriously? I didn’t think those were still a thing.”
John nodded slowly. “I was down there on a job, just me and two others. Rocks gave way without warning. We were buried alive in the dark.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the tunnel as though he could still see it. “The air was thick with dust. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. We clawed at the rubble until our nails split. Hours passed. One of my men suffocated beside me. The other broke his leg and… well, he didn’t last long after.”
Naomi’s throat tightened. “But you…”
“I walked out.” John’s hollow smile returned. “Not sure how. I dug and dug until the light broke through. People told me I should’ve been dead, that I was lucky. But the truth is…” He leaned back into the shadow, voice barely above the hum of the fluorescents. “Some people get taken. Some people walk out. That’s just the way of things.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the storm.
“Like fuck you survived a mine collapse.” Christophe snorted, voice dripping with disbelief. “You’d have scars, be all messed up or something.”
John’s gaze slid toward him, calm and unreadable. “Who says I don’t?”
Christophe hesitated, then puffed up again, waving a hand. “Yeah, right. Whatever. I’ve done worse.”
He pushed off the bench, swaggering back toward the edge of the platform. “At least I don’t sit around spinning ghost stories. I take risks. That’s what living is.”
Naomi’s stomach turned as she watched him swing himself onto the lip, legs dangling into the dark. “Hey, don’t do that,” she snapped, voice thinner than she meant.
He only leaned back on his palms, grinning. “What’s the worst that’s gonna happen? The tracks reach up and grab me?”
The fluorescent above him flickered, buzzing hard. Naomi’s breath caught-
Christophe’s grin faltered. His weight shifted. His body tipped forward. Hands scrambled at empty air.
Then came the crack. Sharp. Wet. Bone against steel.
The sound ricocheted through the tunnel until it felt like it came from everywhere at once.
Naomi clapped both hands to her mouth, a strangled sound escaping. She couldn’t even call his name. She didn’t know it.
Jack had gone still, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “Holy shit, is he…”
John didn’t move. His face unreadable, half lost to shadow.
“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck-” Naomi’s voice cracked as tears streamed down her face. She staggered back from the platform, choking on air.
Jack ran to her, grabbing her shoulders, pulling her tight against his chest. “It’s okay, Mimi. It’ll be okay,” he murmured, words tumbling over themselves, as if saying them fast enough could make them true.
Naomi shook her head violently, clinging to him, breath hitching. “I watched him. I- I watched him.”
“I know. I know.” Jack pressed his chin to the top of her head, one hand stroking her hair, like he could shield her from what she’d just seen. “We’ll get through this. We just… we just have to hold on till the storm passes then we can get some help ok.”
From the bench, John finally rose to his feet. His shadow stretched long across the tiles, his voice steady. “He’s gone. Nothing to be done now. Best thing is to rest. Save your strength.”
Naomi lifted her tear-streaked face, staring at him in disbelief. “Rest? Are you insane?”
John’s eyes lingered on her, unreadable. “You can’t fight the dark all night. It’ll take you faster than the tracks will.”
“I think he’s right, Mimi. There’s not a lot we can do for…” Jack’s voice cracked; he shook his head. “Fuck, I don’t even know his name.”
Naomi pressed her face harder against his chest, her sobs muffled by his jacket.
“We can’t do anything for him now,” Jack whispered, rocking her gently. “May as well try and sleep.”
Her body shuddered against his, but the edge of panic dulled. She managed to pull in one jagged breath, then another. “O…k,” she croaked. “We… I’ll try.”
Jack smoothed her hair, his lips close to her ear. “That’s my girl. Just close your eyes. I’ll be right here.”
They sank down together onto the rusted bench, Naomi curling into his side. Her eyes burned from crying, but exhaustion pressed heavy on her bones.
Somewhere above, the storm rumbled on. The fluorescents buzzed, dimmer now, like the station itself was holding its breath.
To the left of them, John lowered himself back onto his seat, his silhouette still and watchful.
Naomi tried to focus on Jack’s warmth beside her, on the rhythm of his breathing. But even as her eyelids drooped, she couldn’t shake the image of the nameless man sprawled on the tracks, and the sickening crack that still echoed in her ears.
The sleep wasn’t restful. Naomi felt herself getting colder as the hours wore on and the night grew thin. Every creak of the station made her flinch. She could feel it, the sensation of being watched, but she didn’t dare open her eyes. If she didn’t look, maybe it couldn’t see her either.
At some point she must have drifted deeper, because when she stirred again the platform was brighter, the fluorescents humming faintly back to life. Her head throbbed, her mouth dry.
Then she heard it.
A wet, rhythmic sound. Squelch. Tear. Pull.
Naomi’s eyes flew open.
Jack wasn’t beside her.
Her gaze darted wildly until it snagged on the far wall across the tracks. For a moment her brain refused to make sense of what she was seeing.
Jack was there. On the wall. His body spread wide, arms held aloft as if nailed through. His head lolled to one side, blood spilling in sluggish streams down the tiles.
The squelching came from his shoulders, where the flesh seemed torn, pulled by something invisible, pinning him tighter with every sickening tug.
Naomi’s scream ripped through the empty station.
Jack’s head lifted weakly, his eyes finding hers. His mouth opened, choked words barely audible across the gap.
“Mimi… run.”
Naomi’s scream broke into ragged sobs as Jack’s head sagged forward again. She lurched to her feet, stumbling across the platform.
“Jack! Jack, hold on!”
Her shoes scraped against the tiles, slipping on grit. She fell hard to her knees, palms stinging, but she scrambled onward, wild with panic.
Halfway across she tripped, sprawling forward. Her body slid to the very lip of the platform, and her head tipped over the edge.
For a heartbeat she forgot Jack.
Christophe’s body lay sprawled below, but it wasn’t the same as before. His skin had gone slack, mottled, wrong. Patches of him seemed already sinking into decay, the stink of rot wafting up. His eyes were open, milky, staring at nothing.
Naomi gagged, tearing her gaze away, only for a pair of hands to seize her shoulders.
“I’ve got you,” John’s voice rumbled behind her, calm and steady. He hauled her upright in a single motion. She sagged against him in relief for half a breath…
Then realised he wasn’t letting go.
“Jack!” she screamed, thrashing in his grip. But John only pinned her tighter, his arms like iron bars locking her in place.
Across the tracks, Jack writhed weakly, blood smearing down the tiles. His mouth opened in a final silent plea, then his body went slack, arms splayed wide.
Naomi bucked against John’s chest, sobbing, trying to wrench free. He didn’t force her to look, but he didn’t let her look away either. She was trapped in the crook of his arm, staring straight ahead as her brother died, powerless to turn her head.
When it was over, John murmured against her hair, almost kindly:
“Some things you can’t save.”
Naomi sagged in John’s arms, numb, broken, her mind an empty howl. She couldn’t do anything but stare across the tracks at her brother’s lifeless body, his blood still glistening black on the tiles.
John slowly uncoiled his grip, releasing her. She crumpled to the platform, her hands limp on the cold concrete.
Above them, the storm was lifting. Pale light seeped through the cracked panes of the roof, a fragile promise of morning. The fluorescents guttered once, then steadied, buzzing softly like tired bees.
John rose to his full height behind her. The new light caught on him, stretching his shadow across the tiles until it swallowed her whole.
Naomi blinked through her tears, breath catching. Dawn. The world was waking up above them. Maybe she still had a chance. Maybe she could run, get out, escape this nightmare before it swallowed her too.
Her eyes flicked toward the broken escalator.
It sat at the far end of the platform, silent, waiting. She knew she only had one chance to get out of here. She could get out, get help, tell someone. One chance.
Naomi shakily turned her gaze away from the horror before her and looked at John. He stood, watching her, face impassive.
“It’s okay, girl,” he said softly. “Don’t you worry.”
Naomi rose to her feet on trembling legs. She felt very much like prey.
Step by step, she backed away, never turning her back on him. John matched her pace, slow and steady, his boots clicking on the tiles. Every movement of his loomed larger in her mind, his silence pressing against her like a hand at her spine.
By the time she reached the escalator, her chest was heaving, her resolve splintering. She hesitated only a second, then spun and bolted up the unmoving steps.
The machine roared awake beneath her, the sudden mechanical growl drowning out her scream. The steps shuddered, grinding downward. She clawed upward, scrambling, but the motion dragged her back, dragging her down.
“No - no, no, no!” Naomi wailed, hauling herself higher, fingernails splitting against the grooved metal. She could see the light of dawn above, brighter with every heartbeat.
The machine groaned louder. Her foot slipped. The escalator seized its chance. The steps shunted her backward, faster and faster, until she slammed into the base.
There was a horrible grinding shriek as the teeth caught her. The mechanism chewed her ankle, then her leg, dragging her into its steel jaws. She screamed, kicking, clawing at the railing, but the machine only pulled harder.
In seconds, she was gone. The escalator shuddered once more, then fell silent, lifeless again, her blood soaking the lowest steps.
John arrived at the base, his shadow spilling long across her broken form. For a moment he simply stood there, watching.
Then, without a word, he stepped over Naomi’s body and onto the frozen escalator. He climbed upward, slow and measured, until the dawn swallowed him whole.
AN: Hi I'm back! and for my next trick - sad about rugs?
The intricate rug was frayed around the edges, grounding her in a way nothing else could. She loved the feel of it beneath her bare feet, the way her fingers found loose threads when she sat on the floor. She traced the patterns so often she could draw them from memory. The once-plush pile was worn to the base in places, thinned by years of her touch.
It had been there for everything - love, anger, blessings, curses. It felt like home because it had seen it all and stayed.
Somehow, it had become the most constant thing in her life. If she died and came back as a spirit, she knew she’d find herself wherever the rug was. Spend enough time with something and it becomes part of you. Not physically, but in the quiet maps of your mind.
And now it sat rolled in the corner, a loose cord knotted around it, waiting to be taken away.
She looked at it for a long time. Longer than she meant to.
She wasn’t sure how you were supposed to say goodbye to a friend like that.
AN: This is my first writing on Tumblr and it just kind of fell out of my head so please let me know if I should have tagged this as anything specific! I don't know what I'm doing OK LOVE YOU BYE
Word count: 731
You wander through the forest, just like you do every other night, your footsteps crunching on the fallen twigs the only sound in your ears. You've become accustomed to the slight whistle of the cool wind as it licks at your puckered skin, sending shivers down your spine. You should have worn something warmer—your pyjama shorts and threadbare shirt do little to hide the curves of your body, let alone keep you warm, but you don't mind. You know it's only a matter of time before they sense your presence.
You find the clearing you usually frequent, hoping that they aren't far behind. It's particularly cold tonight under a cloudless, starry sky, so you gather some wood and try to light a fire. You huff in annoyance when no sparks fly and throw down your flint in defeat, sitting yourself down on the loamy ground and curling in to preserve your body heat.
"Having trouble?"
A low voice rumbles at your ear. The sound seems to come from all directions as well as from within. You feel their hot breath on your neck as they let out a low, growling chuckle.
"Let's see if we can't get this going, hmm?"
They step forward into your eye line, and you're left breathless as they tower over you, emanating an aura of ancient power. Their skin is as dark as the deepest shades of the forest night, almost blending in with the surrounding trees. You are certain you wouldn't see them if not for the faintly glowing spirals adorning their skin, casting an otherworldly luminescence into the night. As usual, they are only wearing some woven ferns between their legs, having no use for mortal clothes.
They crouch between you and the pile of wood and blow onto it. You know this is for show; they could've lit the fire without even so much as looking at it, but power like that scares mortals like you, so they've resorted to theatrics. As they're crouching, performing their little show for you, you notice some slight scars on their back, marring their beautiful skin. You reach out and trace a finger down one of the more jagged scars, marvelling at the feeling of their skin. They are warm to your touch, your finger gliding over their smooth obsidian skin. They shudder under your light finger, and you smirk, knowing what you do to them.
"That... is very cold."
They turn from the now roaring flames and face you fully, their green eyes seeming to glow in the firelight. Their lips curl into a smirk as they see your eyes widen and darken with lust. They know that they have the same intense effect on you as you do on them.
"You're earlier than usual."
The words were almost too quiet to hear over the fire burning so brightly, framing them in an ethereal glow. You can't help but lean toward them, your hand now fully on their waist, eyes beseeching them to close the distance between you. They lean ever so slightly toward you before suddenly pulling away and letting out that low chuckle again at your whine. You crave to touch them more, but they have danced just out of reach, their hulking form surprisingly graceful.
They stretch their long limbs to the sky and spin slowly, absorbing the forest's energy. The trees seem to bend inward toward them as they spin, creaks and snaps coming from all around until they stop spinning with a deep breath. You had been slowly inching your way toward them across the forest floor, but now they have fixed their penetrating gaze on you once more, and you almost cower from the intensity behind those incredible eyes. You can't bring yourself to look away as they stalk toward you and reach down to bring you to your feet.
Your head barely reaches their chest as you gaze up at them in wonder. Their presence never ceases to astound you. You know you were never meant to see them, let alone speak to them. Let alone... touch them. Your hands find their waist again, anxious to feel their burning hot skin against you once more. You lean into their heat, the luminescence from their body illuminating the bliss on your face as they wrap their arms around you and bury their nose in your hair, inhaling your scent.
AN: This is fun and I might continue it! Also I may have written this while a little tipsy so it might not be great? I proof read it exactly 1 (one) time so please excuse any grammatical errors!
Word count: 610
Still gazing up at them you find yourself gasping for air as they stare back at you - as though they can see into your soul itself.
“Yes my love?”
They utter quietly, their voice as rich and dark as the soil covering the forest floor. Their eyes fill with mirth as you squirm under their scrutiny, floundering in their presence like you always do.
“I... I…”
You stutter as you glance back and forth between their enticing eyes and sinful lips. They let out a booming laugh, and you can feel their body move beneath your hands as they succumb to their unending amusement at your inability to form a cohesive thought. Before you can say anything else they have grabbed you by your waist and thrust you up into the air, spinning you round until you’re even more breathless, the sparks from the fire nearly catching your clothes alight.
“Stop, stop! No more!”
You gasp through heaving breaths. They eventually set you back down on unsteady feet. You feel ready to topple over after the dizziness caused by the spinning and the fog in your mind brought on by the presence of their very being.
As they lean over you once more, you can’t help but admire once again the sheer enormity of them. They dwarf everything around them, the trees themselves seem to cower before their might.
Once you’ve somewhat gained your composure and ability to stand on your own, they remove themselves from you and you begin to mourn the loss of their intense touch, every second a treasure in your mind. You look up at them beseechingly, finding a small, sad smile on their face. They steal a glance toward the fire, its flames having nearly died out.
“Our time is almost gone my love.”
Tear prick your eyes as you take in the scene before you - the creature holding its arms toward you, the flames slowly guttering, the pale light of the moon dancing over your skin. You dare a final look into the creature’s eyes, their glowing depths full of sorrow, before you fall into their arms once more.
“When can I see you again?” you question.
“There are rules my love, we can only meet here, under the waning moon. You know that you only need to call to me as you have done tonight and I’ll be here.”
Your arms are still locked around them as if you don’t want to let them go as you lean your head back, eyes brimming with tears.
“Please... stay a little longer.”
You begin to cry in earnest as their arms envelop you. The soft ethereal glow bathing you both in an otherworldly light. The trees themselves seem to droop as if they know what is about to happen. The only sound to be heard is their breathing and your heartbeat. Everything else is but a whisper in your mind.
After what seems like an eternity but feels like a second, they let you go.
“I must leave, my love. We can be together soon, but you must first perform the ritual.”
Your eyes bored into theirs, so otherworldly you almost couldn't respond. You somehow find the courage to -
“I know, I will find a way.”
You promised them. They smile and as they do; the flames seem to grow brighter; the trees seem to grow taller, and he night seems to become darker.
“I know you will, my love.”
They utter their final words to you and disappear into the growing forest, consumed by the dark until they are just a speck of light that you may have just been imagining.
Don’t have them die of old age after a long, fulfilling life. Many people don’t even think of this as sad (note that this can still work if you have enough of the other factors).
Leave one of their major goals unfinished. The more enthusiastic they are about completing the goal, the sadder.
Give them strong relationships with other characters.
Make them fight against whatever is causing their death. Their ultimate loss is sadder if they struggle.
Kill them in the middle of their character arc.
Don’t describe their funeral in detail. Maybe it’s just me, but I find that long descriptions of funerals kill the sadness.
7. If possible, try to kill them off in the middle of the story, so we had time to like them and we will have time to let the loss settle in.
8. Also, place surviving characters in a situation where having the deceased person there would help them get out. You can choose whether you will point this fact out or if you want the audience to make the connection themselves.
so… let’s add some frustration to your dear readers’ sadness, shall we?
14. kill the character in the middle of making a joke, smiling, or expressing/experiencing joy/happiness.
15. make the character’s death slow and painful, but make them unable to call out for help even though they can literally see the other characters nearby.
16. after killing the character, have others think the character had betrayed them so they’d always hate them and remember them as traitors and never say nice things about them… Give your readers no chance to have group-therapy with other characters by making them the only ones who know the truth.
17. right before their death, show a side of them nobody has seen. (someone who is always tough and brave being genuinely scared of dying alone; someone who is always laughing being in tears before dying, etc.)
18. make them the only person who knows a big important secret that would help other characters in the story.
19. have them being lied to before dying. (thinking they’ve been betrayed; thinking they weren’t loved; thinking they’ve lost their loved ones, etc)
20. make the character very enthusiastic/passionate about a certain goal, constantly put stress on their goal, have them die unexpectedly before they can reach their goal.
and the best one…
21. have another beloved character kill them–better be a close friend to your character, one that absolutely nobody suspects, one that everyone can’t help but love, one who is always enthusiastic about things and encourages your character. THEN
reveal the truth only later when it’s too late and the a-hole character has already escaped.
have a cowardly character know the truth and never tell anyone else
have another character find out the truth and have them die before revealing it to others.
have the said character ^ not actually die, but go through something so they’d forget the friend of the deceased character is actually an asshole.
This way only your readers will know the truth, thus the frustration would be… most enjoyable for you.
Leave the physical shell walking and talking, but strip out everything that made that person who they were. Make them forget all about their loved ones, themselves, their experiences and past, their skills, and have them have to start over completely from scratch. Physical and mental disabilities bonus points.
And keep them in a place where their loved ones will be taunted every day by a living ghost.
Warnings: torture, mild gore?, kidnapping. I don't think I missed any but please let me know if I did!
Word count: 256
AN: I'm impatiently waiting for Concrete Jungle OST to come out (15 minutes!) and to take my mind off it I dumped this out of my brain!
Taglist: @ace-malarky
There was only so much pain that you could take. But you weren’t about to let him know that. Instead you merely grunted through your gag as he slid his knife along your thigh once more, slicing through the supple flesh there. You opened your eyes and found his own boring into you.
“Still got nothin’ to say love?” he teased with a menacing glint in his eye, verging on madness.
You shifted your gaze to the patch of damp on the wall, using all your strength to focus on the dark pattern, a sickly brown colour staining the peeling blue wallpaper like dried blood. If you looked hard enough at it you could almost see a face peering out at you. Your only friend in this hellscape of a basement. You shudder as he finds a fresh piece of flesh to torment, your body was already littered with scars, what’s a few more, right? The blade sliced deeper this time, you could tell he was dragging it out as slowly as possible, savouring in your harsh breathing. He was enjoying this.
You didn’t have the luxury of even wondering how you got yourself into this position. Tied to a metal chair, gagged and, until very recently, blindfolded. These kind of things happen in your line of work. Not all that often but still enough for it to almost be expected - a kind of rite of passage. You would be hailed as one of the best of the best. If you made it out alive.
Get to know your mutuals/writers you follow! Reblog and have fun! Send an emoji to ask a question!
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The last thing I wrote was a part two to the forest god? so uh... here ya go!
"I will find a way.”
you promise them. They smile and as they do, the flames seem to burn brighter, the trees seem to grow taller, and the night seems to become darker.
“I know you will, my love”
They utter their final words to you and disappear into the growing forest, consumed by the dark until they are just a speck of light that you may have just been imagining, leaving you alone, cold, and longing for their incandescent touch.
AN: This is an excerpt from my WIP, and may well change. We do know the unknown creature and male, just not at this particular point in the story. This was the first scene that popped into my head and I got written so it made sense it was one of the first to post here!
Word count: 593
Fen tore through the tangle of branches, her hair whipping at her face as she desperately tried to reach the voice calling for her. So familiar yet she could not place it, like she’d dreamed of it before in her deepest sleep. “Fenella!” the voice screamed, more agitated than before. Fen raced through the thick woods without knowing the identity of the voice, but knowing she had little time to reach him. A strangled cry from up ahead, Fenella stopped in her tracks as she heard a murky laugh and an unpleasant voice rasp “Too late, old friend. You’re too late.” A boom of wind as two figures rose to the sky, not ten feet from her, one winged creature carrying a limp body the unknown voice that had called to her seemed to belong to. He looked to be unconscious ‘or dead’. The unwelcome thought burst into her mind as her eyes started to well up. There was no reason for it. She did not know this person, though he seemed to know her. Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps she had been in the Ariundle Wood too long and the lingering witch-mist had addled her mind.
Fen stared at the spot where the creature had been long after it had left her sight, a feeling of remorse and dread settling around her. She couldn’t shake it off even as she made her way back home, her trailing basket empty of the herbs she was sent to gather for her mother. After what seemed like an age of walking through the wood, Fen finally reached home. She opened the creaky door to their small, cosy cottage just south of the wood and was grateful for the sight before her: her mother, feet propped up on the small stool by the fire, leaning back in the worn armchair, her book still open on her lap, and completely fast asleep. Fen crept over, avoiding the noisiest boards beneath her feet and peeked at the book, a thick leather bound tome of what she knew to be to be fairy stories. She had attempted to read it once before while her mother was asleep, flipping to the most worn pages, but had only managed a snippet before her mother snatched the book out of her hands and ordered her out to gather more herbs from the wood. Fen didn’t mind gathering the herbs, she had come to know them all by heart, and had even started her own herbal, hoping to one day follow in her mothers footsteps and take over the small herbalist store she ran. All manner of herbs grew in abundance in the wood surrounding the cottage and Fen knew every patch well enough that she could gather in the dead of night with the moonlight obscured by the tall trees. Often she had found herself wandering the woods late at night to keep a stock of the most essential herbs that sold out most often, it was at these times that Fen would recount the passage she managed to imprint on her mind before the book was torn away.
“creature astride the milk-white steed appeared to Thomas as the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen, with long flowing hair the colour of a flame in midwinter woven with nine silver bells and eyes reminiscent of a stream wending its way over heather crusted hills. She wore a skirt of grass-green silk and a velvet cloak, her appearance such that she looked to have been borne of the forest itself.”
