W o r d s

writing blog October | 25+ | she/they

[the-wyld-october]

I'd like to apologize both for disappearing and also for the very inevitable author's note classic I'll be dropping upon my return.

[the-wyld-october]

series: Teen Wolf ship: Derek Hale / Stiles Stilinski

WIP : Stiles goes for a run at night and decides cutting through Central Park is a grand idea. He’s not expecting the monster.

tags will include: PWP, Dubious Consent, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe, Mating Rituals, Mating Run, Knotting, Possessive Behavior, Feral Behavior, Biting, Teratophilia ( Monster Fucking )

[luna-azzurra]

Unhealed Wounds Your Character Pretends Are Just “Personality Traits”

These are the things your character claims are just “how they are” but really, they’re bleeding all over everyone and calling it a vibe.

╰ They say they're "independent." Translation: They don’t trust anyone to stay. They learned early that needing people = disappointment. So now they call it “being self-sufficient” like it’s some shiny badge of honor. (Mostly to cover up how lonely they are.)

╰ They say they're "laid-back." Translation: They stopped believing their wants mattered. They'll eat anywhere. Do anything. Agree with everyone. Not because they're chill, but because the fight got beaten out of them a long time ago.

╰ They say they're "a perfectionist." Translation: They believe mistakes make them unlovable. Every typo. Every bad hair day. Every misstep feels like proof that they’re worthless. So they polish and polish and polish... until there’s nothing real left.

╰ They say they're "private." Translation: They’re terrified of being judged—or worse, pitied. Walls on walls on walls. They joke about being “mysterious” while desperately hoping no one gets close enough to see the mess behind the curtain.

╰ They say they're "ambitious." Translation: They think achieving enough will finally make the emptiness go away. If they can just get the promotion, the award, the validation—then maybe they’ll finally outrun the feeling that they’re fundamentally broken. (It never works.)

╰ They say they're "good at moving on." Translation: They’re world-class at repression. They’ll cut people out. Bury heartbreak. Pretend it never happened. And then wonder why they wake up at 3 a.m. feeling like they're suffocating.

╰ They say they're "logical." Translation: They’re terrified of their own feelings. Emotions? Messy. Dangerous. Uncontrollable. So they intellectualize everything to avoid feeling anything real. They call it rationality. (It's fear.)

╰ They say they're "loyal to a fault." Translation: They mistake abandonment for loyalty. They stay too long. Forgive too much. Invest in people who treat them like an afterthought, because they think walking away makes them "just as bad."

╰ They say they're "resilient." Translation: They don't know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden. They wear every bruise like a trophy. They survive things they should never have had to survive. And they call it strength. (But really? It's exhaustion wearing a cape.)

[luna-azzurra]

Emotional Confession Scene Prompts

♡ Voice trembling on the edge of something bigger.

♡ A truth blurted out mid-argument, raw and unpolished.

♡ Avoiding eye contact, but finally saying it anyway.

♡ A confession disguised as a joke.

♡ “I wasn’t going to say anything but...”

♡ Whispered during a moment when they think the other person is asleep.

♡ A tearful outburst after staying calm for far too long.

♡ “You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

♡ Telling the truth while staring at the ground.

♡ Letting it slip accidentally, then freezing.

♡ Writing it down instead of saying it.

♡ Starting a sentence three times before finishing it.

♡ “I didn’t know how to say it until now.”

♡ Sending a message, deleting it, sending it again.

♡ “You asked how I’m doing. I lied.”

♡ Finally saying what’s been obvious to everyone else.

♡ Speaking in metaphors because the truth feels too vulnerable.

♡ Telling someone else first.

♡ Breaking down halfway through the sentence.

♡ “I’m scared you’ll hate me if I tell you.”

[luna-azzurra]

Emotional Walls Your Character Has Built (And What Might Finally Break Them)

(How your character defends their soft core and what could shatter it) Because protection becomes prison real fast.

✶ Sarcasm as armor. (Break it with someone who laughs gently, not mockingly.) ✶ Hyper-independence. (Break it with someone who shows up even when they’re told not to.) ✶ Stoicism. (Break it with a safe space to fall apart.) ✶ Flirting to avoid intimacy. (Break it with real vulnerability they didn’t see coming.) ✶ Ghosting everyone. (Break it with someone who won’t take silence as an answer.) ✶ Lying for convenience. (Break it with someone who sees through them but stays anyway.) ✶ Avoiding touch. (Break it with accidental, gentle contact that feels like home.) ✶ Oversharing meaningless things to hide real depth. (Break it with someone who asks the second question.) ✶ Overworking. (Break it with forced stillness and the terrifying sound of their own thoughts.) ✶ Pretending not to care. (Break it with a loss they can’t fake their way through.) ✶ Avoiding mirrors. (Break it with a quiet compliment that hits too hard.) ✶ Turning every conversation into a joke. (Break it with someone who doesn’t laugh.) ✶ Being everyone’s helper. (Break it when someone asks what they need, and waits for an answer.) ✶ Constantly saying “I’m fine.” (Break it when they finally scream that they’re not.) ✶ Running. Always running. (Break it with someone who doesn’t chase, but doesn’t leave, either.) ✶ Intellectualizing every feeling. (Break it with raw, messy emotion they can’t logic away.) ✶ Trying to be the strong one. (Break it when someone sees the weight they’re carrying, and offers to help.) ✶ Hiding behind success. (Break it when they succeed and still feel empty.) ✶ Avoiding conflict at all costs. (Break it when silence causes more pain than the truth.) ✶ Focusing on everyone else’s healing but their own. (Break it when they hit emotional burnout.)

[localpubliclibrary]

If I ask nicely will people reblog this and tell me what their most common breakfast is? Not your favorite necessarily, just what you have for breakfast most frequently? 🙏🏽

[the-wyld-october]

New WIP coming this weekend because I've finally gotten to the good part

[byoldervine]

Why would I write when I could imagine my characters going through the story and then get upset when a copy of the work doesn’t magically appear in front of me

[creativepromptsforwriting]

I control the narrative, I whisper to myself like a lunatic while the characters in the story I'm writing are not following my orders.

[the-wyld-october]

"This is PWP" and I'm three pages into world building with no Derek in sight.

[the-wyld-october]

series: Teen Wolf ship: Derek Hale / Stiles Stilinski

WIP : Stiles goes for a run at night and decides cutting through Central Park is a grand idea. He's not expecting the monster.

tags will include: PWP, Dubious Consent, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe, Mating Rituals, Mating Run, Knotting, Possessive Behavior, Feral Behavior, Biting, Teratophilia ( Monster Fucking )

I'm chomping at the bit to get something Sterek posted and all my other works are cursed with my need for long narratives. So I've set my sights on whipping this one out instead.

I'd call it PWP but as evidenced by the preview, I'm not good at shutting up. Worldbuilding is my language.

[the-wyld-october]

Asking my best friend which direction to take a fic for maximum emotional devastation, even though he's never even glanced at the fandom

[the-wyld-october]

I have four open WIPs and I am writing all of them concurrently. So the good news is my mojo is back and the bad news is I'm about to become unbearable.

[the-wyld-october]

series: Teen Wolf ship: Derek Hale / Stiles Stilinski, ( side ) Erica Reyes / Vernon Boyd, Jackson Whittemore / Lydia Martin, Scott McCall / Allison Argent

A preview of my current WIP

Stiles is turned by a member of the Alpha Pack and during his escape, ends up becoming one himself. Derek takes him under his wing, willing to lead his pack alongside him. Inevitably, there is fall out, but there's a lot more to be gained.

tags will include: Alpha Stiles, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Stiles, Scott McCall is a Bad Friend, ( But he gets better )

[the-wyld-october]

I'm hoping to have at least one or two fic previews to post over the weekend. Been a while since I've done one of those!

[the-wyld-october]

Batkids wondering why bruce has so many painting and photos of dick throughout the wayne mannor and confronting bruce about it 😭

There was a new painting framed above the sixth step of the main stairwell in Wayne Manor. Tim Drake stood staring at it, mug of coffee in one hand and the other on his hip. He squinted and tilted his head, as if that was going to magically change the subject of the painting. 

When it didn’t, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed someone who’d been dealing with this even longer than he had. 

“Jay,” he offered as a weary greeting.

“Sup, baby bird?”

“I think it’s time for us to stage an intervention.”

“What?” Jason managed to sound both concerned and gleeful at the same time, which was par for the course when it came to family matters. “For who? Is the demon brat collecting every mistreated hamster in Gotham again?”

“No, it’s B. It’s- You remember that charity auction last month? The one where the whole thing was themed around heroes?”

“If you mean the one without a single Red Hood work, yes I recall.”

“You remember the guy who did the painting of Nightwing where he put, like, a lot of attention into his shoulders and waist?”

“Hard to forget how many people have a boner for Big Wing, yeah.”

“Yeah, well, B bought it.”

Silence.

“It’s in the front stairway. The one you’ve gotta take to get to the second floor if you don’t wanna go the long way around.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking christ on a cracker,” Jason swore. “Okay. Okay, gather the troops, enough’s enough.”

--- x ---

In retrospect, Dick should have realized something was up when almost every member of the family showed up to Sunday dinner. Not that Sunday dinner itself was unusual, it happened to be a standard part of the week going back as far as his own Robin days. It just wasn’t very often that everyone managed to be there at the same time.

Dick was one of the first to arrive, hoping for a few minutes alone with Bruce before the rest of the brood descended on them. Cassandra and Duke appeared not long after him, having been upstairs. Then, one by one, the assorted Wayne’s and Wayne-adjacents walked through the manor doors.

Bruce put up a good front, but Dick could see how each new person brought a new glimmer of joy to his eye. For all he preached independence, a more selfish man would’ve forced all of them to stay close for his own happiness and peace of mind. It was one of the things he loved about him.

Dinner itself was a raucous affair. They fell into their usual seats, filling out the massive dining table until they were practically crammed elbow to elbow, with Bruce at one end and Alfred at the other. Conversation flowed easily, voices overlapping, dishes and cutlery clinking, until every plate was clean.

Dick used the uncommonly full table as an excuse to press their knees together beneath the table and lean into Bruce’s space when they talked. There was a time he felt guilty for stealing touches from his former mentor like this. When he was younger, it felt wrong to linger over a few moments of physicality to feed a growing affection that would never be recognized.

These days, Dick was mature enough to know that his stolen touches were harmless, even if his feelings weren’t. He’d become very good at burying them deep, hiding behind the city of Bludhaven to keep a good amount of distance for his own sanity. 

Generally, Dick was the one to help between courses, but he thought nothing of it when Kate waved him off as he went to stand. She and Damian helped Alfred clear the table, a lull falling over the dining room in their absence. 

Now, Dick Grayson was many things and an idiot wasn’t one of them. He’d noticed how people kept exchanging glances and now, as conversation petered out, there was tension building in the air. A quick look at Bruce proved he’d noticed too, brows furrowed in concerned suspicion. 

Alfred returned from the kitchen with Kate and Damian in tow, no dessert platters in sight. Alarm bells were going off in Dick’s head.

Jason cleared his throat.

“Alright. So. Bruce,” he fixed their patriarch with a stern look. “This is an intervention.”

Dick’s head snapped around so fast he felt it in his neck. It was a small comfort that Bruce looked thrown by the announcement. He’d never been good at taking care of himself, not even when someone was around looking out for him. And let’s face it, Dick hadn’t been around to watch his back for too long. 

“An intervention?” Bruce echoed. “For what, exactly?”

“For all the fucking–”

“We’ve noticed,” Barbara interjected, silencing Jason with a look. “A startling amount of the art decorating the manor is related to… Dick.”

“Huh?” wasn’t the most intelligent thing Dick had ever said, but it felt appropriate. 

“Uh, plus all the Nightwing stuff down in the Cave,” Duke added, clearing up approximately nothing. 

“The new painting was the final straw, B,” Tim sighed, rubbing his forehead like the memory hurt him. “It’s kind of a lot.”

“It was for charity,” Bruce defended. 

“Okay, sure,” Stephanie shrugged. “But what about the ones in the library?”

“Or the Flying Graysons poster on the third floor.”

“That’s been there for over a decade.”

“Okay, but there’s kind of a shrine of newspaper clippings around it,” Duke winced. “The ones all about the stuff Dick’s done for Bludhaven?”

“And the photos,” Tim added. “The ones I took as a kid are one thing, but the one in the second floor hallway is nearly the size of a window.”

“Jesus, and the portrait with the flowers in the conservatory,” Jason groaned.

“Hang on!” Dick blurted, jerking forward in his seat to look wildly around the table.

Heat was beginning to crawl up his cheeks. It felt a little bit like someone grabbed reality by the neck and shook it, leaving him disoriented and dizzy. 

“Hang on,” he repeated, when it became evident no one was going to interrupt him. “Bruce has gotten portraits done of all of us! There’s stuff all over the place about everyone here!”

The family exchanged looks. 

“You are the only one with a marble bust,” Damian finally said, which was fairly damning on its own. 

“And the only one with a dedicated room in the Cave,” Kate added.

“Also,” Cassandra said. “The amount.”

“Can’t go anywhere in this place without seein’ your face, Dickiebird,” Jason grimaced.

Dick thumped back against his seat, feeling shaken. 

The thing about being the oldest was that he was simultaneously the most familiar with Wayne Manor, and the least. He’d moved out years ago, which meant his visits were short and usually involved specific rooms. His own, primarily. 

If he thought about it, Dick couldn’t remember the last time he’d wandered the manor in its entirety. To him, the scattered family photos all seemed fairly proportionate, but there was no way that was true with how everyone was talking. 

He could think of a few of them off the top of his head. A photo from his police academy graduation in Bruce’s office, the aforementioned portrait in the conservatory from a brief stint as a life drawing model in college. The marble bust was something he’d commissioned as a joke a few years back, he didn’t know Bruce kept it.

And they were right. There was a room dedicated to memorabilia from his exploits as Nightwing in the Cave. He’d never thought of it as strange before now. He’d been active as his own hero longer than anyone else, so it just kind of made sense. 

The same could be said about the portraiture. Bruce first had him sit for a painter over a decade ago, back before words like “son” began to chafe. He’d been around the longest, so obviously he’d be the most omni-present. There was nothing strange about that.

Except.

Except that if there wasn’t, Bruce should be saying so. Should have said anything, at this point. 

Dick turned to Bruce, who was staring blank faced at the table top. His jaw was tense, hands flat against the woodgrain. To an outside observer, he must have looked calm. To Dick, he was the picture of discomfort. Not afraid or in pain, just exposed, like a child with their hand in the cookie jar.  

Almost a decade of rationalization suddenly looked a lot like willful obliviousness. 

Every time Bruce’s hands lingered on him, Dick convinced himself it was a show of trust and nothing more. Whenever his eyes swept the length of his body, that was just him cataloguing any changes, potential injuries, maybe looking for areas he could improve. And his words? Bruce never meant the way his voice sometimes went low and husky, or the things he said which could be taken as double entendres. 

Dick Grayson was not a creature of moderation, nor self-denial. If he’d let himself hope, ever even considered that maybe his feelings were returned– 

“You know,” Alfred said, speaking for the first time since the intervention started. “Your father used to collect every photograph of your mother he came across.”

“Holy shit.”

Dick regretted it the moment the words tripped off his tongue. Whether it was his voice or the mention of his parents, Bruce decided he was done with the intervention. He shoved back from the table, making to stand.

“No!” Damian barked sharply, stilling his father where he stood. “You are not doing this, father. You are not going to walk away before we are through.”

“You’ve made your point.”

“Oh that was part one,” Barbara pushed her glasses up her nose. “You’re part two.”

“Me?” Dick pointed at himself. “What did I do?! I don’t have a gallery of–”

He clamped his mouth shut abruptly, primarily because Tim produced a tablet from god knew where and held it up menacingly. The threat was very much implied. 

Jason snorted.

“No one needs to see your spank bank, Dickwing, you’re not that subtle.”

Offended, Dick tried to splutter out a defense. Cassandra gave him a smile from across the table.

“You really aren’t.”

“We aren’t shaming you two,” Alfred said, his tone gentle. “This comes from a place of concern.”

“For our sanity,” Stephanie added helpfully.

Duke elbowed her. “And yours.”

“We wish for your happiness, father. Richard.”

“And for someone to cut the sexual tension with a knife,” Kate agreed. 

With that, the gathered family all seemed to conclude that their work here was done. They rose, almost in unison, chairs scraping across the carpet and clothes rustling as they dusted themselves off. Jason, Stephanie and Damian beelined for the door, Kate sauntering after them, while Cassandra linked her arm with Alfred’s.

“We’re going to give you guys some space,” she told them. “Talk.”

Barbara wheeled herself out with Tim on her heels, leaving Duke to shut the door after the last of them. Then it was just Bruce and Dick, alone in the massive dining room.

Dick didn’t realize he was still staring at the door until Bruce audibly dropped himself back into his chair with a sigh. He blinked and met the man’s gaze properly for the first time since dinner ended.

Bruce smiled wanly. 

“World’s greatest detective,” he said dryly. 

Dick barked out a short laugh, all tension draining from his body.

“Wow,” he chuckled. “We’ve been kinda stupid, huh?”

“I want to say I didn’t realize what I was doing, but that would be a lie.”

“Would it make you feel better if I admitted I’ve got some old issues of People Magazine you did spreads in?”

“Which ones?”

“I’m not admitting that until I see the painting that set this whole thing off.”

To his surprise and pleasure, Bruce’s cheekbones grew pink at the mention of the offending piece. 

“I really did buy it to contribute to the charity.”

“Uh-huh. I remember you were talking to the artist for a while.”

“We may have a similar appreciation for your… form.”

Something warm burst behind Dick’s breastbone. The raw affection bled through him until he was sure it was visible on his face, a painfully besotted smile stretching his lips. Bruce’s mouth twitched in answer, his own smile small, but no less adoring. 

“You should show me.”

“I think I should.”

[the-wyld-october]

Welcome, all ye new and old, as I start this whole blog thing over again. Hopefully having a more direct line to people and community will encourage me to get more writing done.

That said, I'm going to hit you all out of left field by telling you that in this house it is officially Sterek hours.