Hi There!

Hi there!

Having whumpee OCs of your own often means having a preferred way of whumping for the each one. Sometimes it's not planned, not deliberate - just a feeling these kinds of suffering fit them right.

If this sounds relatable for you, which whump tropes each one of your OCs usually get? Which ones are just made for them?

Ooooh, this is a good question!

Adelie: exhausted, bloody, and bruised, knowing that no matter what she does, she cannot save someone in a given situation, and blaming herself for it.

Melody: being confined or bound, especially small rooms/fear of her whumper no longer being imprisoned

Cat: having to watch as someone he loves is hurt, helpless to stop it

Travis: the people he loves being hurt mere hours after he left them, but being too far away to do anything

Manuscript Word Search Tag

Thank you for the tag @oh-no-another-idea !

These are from a LOT of different WIP’s of mine, because without fail, all of the words I get are never contained within one novel. Also, I’ve apparently never used the word fuel. Who would have thought?

Feeling:

She felt like a god, and for a second, she understood why the villains did it, just to keep feeling this strong, invincible—

Float:

Instead of going back to her room, she veered through the halls, sliding out one of the few balconies and into the night sky. The air buffeted around her, holding her like she was nothing. It was comforting, almost. Like floating in a pool, but better. Always better.

Fancy:

“Cheap shot,” he remarked. She kicked his leg in as he grabbed her wrist, and her back slammed into the floor as he went down to his knees.

There was a mural up on the ceiling, something ornate and fancy. She only looked at it for a second before Catastrophe was looming over her.

“If you leave now, I might let you live,” he offered, and she glared at him.

Fish:

The brig smelled of fish, sweat, and regret. She had no idea how much of that came from her, and how much of it came from the salt warped walls.

She didn’t know how long it had been, but she did know they delivered food every so often, seemingly without schedule. Either the siren was trying to keep her disoriented, or it simply kept forgetting she needed food.

This is an open tag for anyone who sees it, and I’ll also tag @imaginativemind29new @jay-avian @clairelsonao3 —your words are shimmer, slight, stab, sorry, shadow

manuscript word search tag 🎏

Filling out an old one today from the wonderful @talesofsorrowandofruin -- thank you, friend! These are from my royal taster wip, which I wrote a bit of yesterday :)

Matter:

Anaar’s face was dim in the waning light, but he was frowning. “The emperor is very clever,” Sal told him. “No plan, no matter how clever, survives the first battle,” Anaar intoned dully.

Minute:

“What do you want?” the teenager asked. She was bored, selling on her boat all by herself. Hot too, likely. She wasn’t at all worried about a tiny urchin girl. Sal just smiled and sat down with a plop. She interested herself with some fraying rope pieces; separated into five, carefully coaxed back into union. The teenager lost interest in her within three minutes. Sal tipped over the lobster baskets.

Morning:

Breakfast the next morning was congee with salmon, carried up to their schoolrooms on several heavy trays. Sal ate half her bowl and then remembered Anaar was somewhere down in the kitchen eating happily, having dodged another poisoning to keep her safe. She put her spoon down, got scolded by Master Li, and missed half the questions in her books.

Myth:

The imperial palace was bigger than even the city, Sal was almost sure. She walked through the doors with Master Li and promptly forgot where the doors were. Statues of precious golds and jade adored every room, and the doors were so tall they disappeared into the far-off idea of the ceiling. Wall paintings depicted pieces of story from ancient myths, and Sal studied the lowest parts as she passed, nose to nose with the black ink strokes. Had the artist flicked the brush just so on purpose, or had it been a fortuitous happening?

I'll tag anyone who sees this, and also @writingamongther0ses @avocado-frog @the-stray-storyteller @did-i-do-this-write @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @the-broken-pen @serenanymph @late-to-the-fandom -- your words are fish, fancy, feeling, fuel, and float 🐠

Nora updated her bio on twitter and she listed out her books (TFC, TRK, TKM and Elysium)- i know what they are but what the hell is TSC? Any ideas? 🤨

Any clues?

New book?

At the moment, we don't know what TSC is!!

Some are speculating it could be a fourth AFTG book, some think (due to some tweets Nora made recently about finding songs that fit Jean and Jeremy's characters) that it might be a new spin-off book/series focusing on jerejean. Others think it might be a new, completely unrelated series altogether.

Personally, I am keeping my expectations low! I would LOVE for it to be a new book focusing on Jean's story and/or making jerejean canon, but the evidence for that is mostly just conjecture at this point. I would much rather be delightfully surprised than terribly disappointed if it turns out to be something other than what I had expected.

I also doubt it will be a continuation of Neil's story, and frankly if it is in the aftgverse I doubt it will follow the Foxes much at all. I'm fairly certain (though don't quote me on this bc I haven't read most of the EC myself) Nora had previously talked in her EC about how there were the beginnings of a fourth book at one point, but that she decided to scrap it because she was already happy with the series' existing ending.

At this point, there is a lot we don't know. What we do know is that Rainbow Crate is teasing us with special edition hardcovers of the English versions, planned for release in early 2024. It's possible Nora's breadcrumbs are related to that, and it's possible that they are not. It's too soon to really speculate much yet. Only time will tell!

“If I help you learn this, you won’t do anything illegal with it, right?”

The villain shot them a dry look.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question, and if it helps, you can pretend I gave a comforting answer.”

The book was soft like butter under the hero’s fingers, old and worn. There had been a lock around the cover, but that was easy enough to break off. It was a miracle the school kept any students at all out of the restricted section—but maybe that was the point.

The villain leaned over their shoulder, warm through the hero’s coat.

“You figured it out?”

“You asked me to, didn’t you?”

The villain snorted, reaching over to scoot the hero’s hand off a piece of the text.

“We’ll make a Baneswallow out of you yet.”

The use of the villain’s last name pulled a blush to the hero’s cheek, and they ducked their head. The villain’s family was—nice. Ostentatious, and well known, but they still smiled at the hero whenever the villain dragged them home for dinner. They looked at the hero like they were worth just as much as their own child, asked about their day like they were one of their own.

It was a kind of softness the hero didn’t have for themself.

“So. It’s mainly a concentration spell, which means you’ll need a conduit—“ they twisted around, and found the villain focused on them intently. “What?”

“Nothing.” They shook their head, stepping back. “I just forgot how happy you were.”

The hero’s brow furrowed. They closed the book.

“Are you okay?”

They reached for the villain, standing from their chair, and fell instead, the smell of metal permeating their nose, sharp on their tongue, down and down and down.

They slammed into wet concrete with a snap.

“Fuck,” the hero wheezed. It took them a moment to get enough breath to roll onto their back. They were dizzy, mind swirling as they tried to figure out where and when they were. The villain watched them closely. “A memory spell?” They asked as they sat up, head reeling. They massaged their temple with one hand. “Why?”

The villain shrugged one shoulder.

“I wanted answers.”

The hero swallowed, nauseous and sick with the bone deep out-of-place feeling that came with being thrown into a memory, especially one so old.

“Did you find them?”

“Yes.”

The silence was palpable, a fragile sort of thing the two of them never used to hold between them.

“How’s your family,” they tried, and the villain’s face darkened. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“They’re fine. They miss you,” the villain’s voice was quiet, but it was steeped with anger. “They’re proud of you, too.”

Their mouth went dry. “They’re proud of me?”

The villain scoffed. “Of course they are. Did you think they stopped caring when you stopped coming around?”

The hero didn’t have an answer for that.

“You really thought—“

“I didn’t think they’d appreciate my profession.”

The villain shrugged once more. “They don’t care too much about that. Plus, it’s you.”

It’s you? Like it was any sort of answer, like the hero was something the villain’s family held dear.

When they spoke again, the villain’s voice was hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I always told you everything, you know that.”

“No,” the villain spat. “I thought I knew that. Then I found out that you—“ they broke off. “Why?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s complicated,” the villain seethed. “That’s what you said. It’s complicated.”

The hero went cold.

“It is,” they rasped.

The villain turned away, hands shaking with unspent anger.

“It’s complicated is what you say when your parents don’t believe in magic. It’s complicated is when you aren’t speaking, or when they don’t accept you, or when they’re divorced. It’s complicated is not what you tell your best friend when your parents are brutally murdered.”

For a moment, they couldn’t breathe.

“Villain—“

“You could have told me.”

“I didn’t know how,” their voice was sharper than they had intended, and the villain froze. “What, you think it’s easy to tell someone, someone you love, that your parents died in the worst way possible? That you found them? You think I should have just said it over breakfast one day, like it was nothing?”

“I think you should have let us support you—“

“Shut up,” the hero hissed, and the villain did. “You still have your family at home. They’re wonderful, and they care, and they love you. I don’t have that. I haven’t had that for a long time. So stop telling me what I should have done, when you’ve never had to do it.”

They were wearing the villain’s coat, from all those years ago. The villain’s mother had given it to them on the way out the door, tucked it around them and whispered “keep it,” one winter break. They had wanted to keep that feeling of belonging, too, but the hadn’t. They wondered if the villain recognized it.

“They love you too,” They murmured, and the hero just stared at them. “To them, you were always just another child of theirs.”

“What?”

“They ask about you,” the villain continued. “All the time. Ever since graduation. Dad keeps all your newspaper clippings. Mom hasn’t given me a moments rest ever since she found out, asks me to invite you for dinner every time she sees that we’re fighting again.”

The hero was going to vomit, or cry, or both.

“Stop it.”

“Why,” the villain challenged. “It’s true. They miss you.”

They were a breath away from the hero, and the hero didn’t know when it had happened, or when they had stood from the ground.

“I miss you,” the villain whispered, and then, the hero did cry.

“I was worried you’d never look at me the same.” It wasn’t a sob, but it was close.

“What way is that?”

“Like I’m something more than a tragedy.”

The villain smiled something soft.

“You are a tragedy. But you’ve always been my favorite.”

The hero swayed, and then they were tucked into the villain’s neck.

The villain hushed them, arms tight, and it felt like childhood.

“My parents are dead,” they murmured into the villain’s neck, and this time, they just hummed.

“Mom is making Alfredo,” they said quietly, and the hero didn’t move.

“She still makes that?”

“You told her it was the best thing you’d ever had, once.”

“I remember.”

The villain held them closer, like they were memorizing them.

“Let’s go home,” the villain breathed. “Please.”

Home. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Somewhere between starting school and ending it, they had become something more than just the villain’s friend.

Somewhere between starting the academy and eating Alfredo, they had become a Baneswallow.

“Okay,” the hero whispered. “Okay.”

With a snap of magic, they were gone.

The amount of times I could have been that white girl in the horror movie could honestly be a movie in itself and it’s honestly a waste that my entire life isn’t constantly recorded on film because it would be HILARIOUS

I am in a writer’s block spell so I would greatly appreciate some writing asks/requests if you have them 🥺