musings of a caffeine addicted college grad. Mostly fandom and OC stuff.
Current fandoms: Mass Effect, Bully, Fallout. ♥
writing questions for writers who write
red: when and how did you first realize you loved writing?
orange: who is your greatest literary inspiration, and why?
yellow: what is your favorite style?
green: whose style do you imitate the most?
blue: what is your favorite genre/subject on which to write?
indigo: what do you think is the greatest flaw in your writing?
violet: what is your favorite thing about your writing?
pink: what attracts you to writing in general? why do you love it?
silver: top three sources of inspiration
black: your dreams! be published, be a critical success? what?
lemon: do you write fanfiction? if so, what genre? otp?
lime: what are some of the most prevalent themes in your work?
brown: three favorite novels
rainbow: three favorite authors
white: weirdest thing you’ve ever written
Writer first, artist second. Always was. That said, hit me up!
Lovers, friends and gentlemen, you are allowed, to harass my inbox ♥
Alenko called it a sanity check. Irina wasn’t sure about that.
She lay there in bed, watching the stars shooting past her. Staying still in the darkness of her quarters as the weight of the galaxy held her in place. She always saw herself as a weapon, one the universe crafted carefully, held highly in the eyes of every species.
She knew she was damned good at her job too. She was the best, stood out among her fellow Alliance soldiers, filling in the shoes of her father. On any other day, she’d take on her missions and assignments without complaint— it was part and parcel of her job, she did what she could.
But in that moment, where she was in bed, looking up at the stars? Suddenly she felt so small. Suddenly, she doubted herself. And when a familiar arm draped itself over her waist and pulled her close to the sleeping body beside her, suddenly she felt as though there was just too much at stake.
Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure if she was up for saving the world.
When someone writes a foreign character and they go to IMMENSE length to type out the accent.
Made even worse when the author in question has no idea how an actual foreigner would sound like speaking in English.
Because I just read through an entire bit of prose where a shameful amount of German was tossed into the dialogue. For example: “She did not go there with her brother” would be typed out as “Sie did nicht go zhere vit her bruder.”
Fuck me sideways.
I think I need to do more character writing stuff for all these babies running around in my Fallout-verse ; w;
So here’s a wee something I wrote about Malachi and his ~dreams~ 9 w9 I actually love him as a character, so I hope you guys find him as endearing as I do ; w;
So I wrote a fic? I realize I never wrote a lot about Ean and her earlier days as a young, wild n’ free mercenary. And I’ve had this scene in my head since like, forever, so it’s happening now.
Since everyone’s in a writing mood on tumblr, I figure I’d better join in the fun ; w;
It was a long day. Benny looked over his shoulder, scowling as he watched Ean remove her pearls and earrings.
He walked over to her, his rough hands massaging her shoulders, “You were with that kid again,” it wasn’t an accusation, it was a statement. a fact that sickened Benny.
“What of it? You were with that blonde last night.”
“That’s different,” he protested. She shrugged, quirking her eyebrows dismissively.
“I’m sure, but maybe if you tried to keep things a little exciting, I’d be throwing myself on you all over again.”
Without warning he grabbed her, carried her over and tossed her on the bed. He quickly scrambled on top of her, like an animal topping its prey.
He closed in, his breath hot on her lips, his scent choking her, “Is that a challenge, pussycat? You know this cat can tango.”
“It wasn’t a challenge, darling,” a wicked grin, “It was a suggestion.”
“You knew Carla?” It was a simple enough question from Boone, ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but Ean sat at the bar, trying her hardest to answer as neutrally as possible.
She didn’t get along well with Carla, distant enough from the late-blonde that news of her death was a surprise. More so the news that she was even married to begin with.
And to this lug, no doubt. Carla was a loud, gorgeous woman. Commanded attention at every turn of her head, swish of her skirt. A rival, a contender.
“Not personally, if that’s what you mean,” averted eyes.
He couldn’t admit the guilt that he felt was one of the few ways he even felt anything these days. Whenever he pushed her away, he could feel the sting of a heartbreak.
Even food didn’t taste like anything to him. Everything was gray, lifeless. Jude had taken his pride, his world, his colors.
He couldn’t have it back.
He wasted so much time.
Jude already won, always had.
And now the one good constant in his life enlisted for a losing war. She told him that she had to, it was her home. He understood. He let her go for the last time.
“Not now, Ean, I am sorry,” he said, rough calloused hands gently pushing her off him. Simple words, spoken in a gentle tone, but it was enough to break her heart. She sank back to her side of the bed, her eyes wide and bewildered.
“Not again,” she whispered to herself, inaudible to the man beside her. She had lost him to his thoughts. Lost him to whatever had gone through his mind. Through whatever happened in the past week.
He left for the hunt a determined man, told her, “Chica, things will change. I’ll be free.” He came back as though his soul had been taken away. A shadow of the man he once was.
He only called her by name, only answered her with as few words as he could manage and only touched her when he needed her off of him.
He settled into bed, she didn’t know if he was asleep. She didn’t know if it was the frustration, the heartbreak, but she couldn’t stop herself from quietly weeping.
“What happened to you?”
His hands were cold.
It was such a trivial, petty thing to notice, but it was the only coherent thought Ean could muster. She sat in the morgue, alone, late at night. It was morbid, it was something she wouldn’t have done normally, but this wasn’t a normal situation.
Malachi was dead.
It was a simple fact, but one that carried so much weight. He wasn’t just another knight, another man, another husband, another lover; to Ean, he was her world, her future. Her day-to-day as a mercenary didn’t leave many prospects for a bright future, she was happy living in the here and now.
Malachi just had to ask, “What will you do when you get tired of killing?”
The guilt of a kill— hapless innocent wastelander or swindling slaver— didn’t ever affect her. It was a job, it ensured she had a meal at the end of the day. As long as there were people on Earth, someone always wanted someone dead. Ean was just the woman for the job.
But she never thought about the fatigue. She had seen it in the older mercs of her little company. How they’d drag their feet for a kill, how they’d let a target go.
“I don’t know,” she said.
It was then, they plotted a future together.
So much time spent on it; dreamless nights along the Potomac, talking about how the city will light up again, how people could live and eat well again. They had heard about the West coast, how civilization had built itself up to fairly well. It was an aspiration that the entire DC population shared.
“And then we’ll go to Vegas for a holiday, just like how they did before the war.”
“You think we’ll make it there, Mal?”
“We will.”
They didn’t.
His heart broke. The bastard in the checkered suit would wrap his arms around his chica, whisper sweet nothings into her ear as though he hadn’t wronged her. Pretended he never had a blonde bombshell hanging off his arms not five minutes ago.
It made Andres sick. He would never treat her that way, couldn’t understand why this Chairman fucker hadn’t realized what a wonderful woman he had.
If she belonged to Andres though, he’d do everything right. He wouldn’t wrong her, he wouldn’t hurt her. He’d be the first one to pick her up when she fell and the last one leave her side.
