Fangirling Phoenix

Hiy'all, I'm back on my shit because my old "ADHD tips for writers" post is the like only post I still see in my notes at all times and there's a few problems with it so I'd like a do-over plz

Anyways, the obligatory disclaimer: I find ADHD tips are super useful for writers whether they have ADHD or not, so feel free to read & use the tips in this post if you find they apply.

Respect your fatigue. Here's the thing about ADHD. You get fatigued super easily. We know this. But when I say "respect your fatigue," I only partly mean it as taking breaks when you're tired. Before you decide you're too burned out to write, weigh this: people who have ADHD wear themselves out MORE when they have nothing to mentally chew on. Sometimes respecting your fatigue means respecting that you need to paradoxically put in more effort to do your writing, because that will actually slow your fatigue down in the end. Try it, if it doesn't work take a break.

Get ahold of the pressure level. Pressure is a tool for you to motivate yourself, you should NOT be under it at all times. How to do this? Adjust your goals, don't marry your outline.

Set the right goals. Stressed by wordcount but can work by hour? Can't focus for any stretch of time but can hyper-focus if you promise to get one scene done? And consider mix-and-matching. You can make a goal of getting a scene done in one day, but if that scene happens to go over 1k then it's reasonable to quit. If you set a goal that is actually attainable, it's safer to put pressure on it.

Confines begone. Seriously, don't try to make yourself do things in a Stupidly Specific Way. You do NOT need to draft in submittable manuscript format. You DON'T need it to fit your outline exactly. It doesn't need to fit a genre, it doesn't need to appeal to a specific audience, it doesn't need to be what it was in your head. If working with those things slows you down or makes you stressed, YEET.

Pavlov, Profit. I write on my bed with a scented candle while wearing a certain pair of pants. I use a specific playlist to cue me in to which WIP I'm working on. Maybe I pull out a specific stim toy I don't use otherwise. I write at a certain time of day and look at certain pictures while I do it. I drink water with lemon in it when I don't if I'm not writing. The words flow like a crystalline river and I don't even know how.

No I'm serious I cannot emphasize enough how powerful Pavlov is, literally it is the BIGGEST hack of my life. You train your brain to identify what "writing mode" is and afterward if you just set up the trappings of "writing mode" brain goes "OH OK NOW WE WRITE." I can't even

Throw slumps off with word wars and writing sprints. As always, word of caution for those who have trouble with their self-expectations: if you can't make the words sprint, that's ok! This is super useful to me and others for kicking off a writing session, but if you struggle to focus for any length of time then don't stress! But I do seriously recommend trying out word sprints at whatever time limit works for you, because after you've done it the words happen so. Much. Easier. I'll personally rev up with 5 mins, 15 mins then 30 mins. That 30 gets into the "this might actively burn me out" territory, so be cautious. It really might not work for you.

Don't underestimate minor changes. Font! Color! Screen blue-light! Using a different word processor! Tweak and change, hack the brain.

Journal about it. When I get stuck on a project, I will literally open a new file and just ramble into the file like I'm explaining the project to someone. It's rubber duck decoding, except it exercises the same muscles you use to do the actual writing. Makes for a great warm-up or dust-off.

Identify if/when you need outside support. Sometimes you need to ramble to a friend in order to kick a slump, sometimes you need community support for a WIP through the whole process. It might change for each case.

External incentives generally don't work. Honestly, I find external incentives don't work for me point blank, let alone to get myself to write. Maybe you can drag yourself across the ground like that sad cat on a harness by promising yourself a bowl of ice cream, but you're just not going to do your best work like that. You need to foster genuine motivators.

External motivators are different from incentives. If you're writing because someone is waiting to read it, that's not an incentive, it's a motivator.

Internal motivators that can be useful: fostering excitement for WIP elements (not by saying "if I write x words I get to make another moodboard, more like going ahead with the moodboard and using it to increase ur excitement), making a bar chart of progress and watching it grow, de-pressurizing writing so much that it can be used as a wind-down.

Are you a pantser who lives in a constant state of writer's block? No you're not you're not, you need to develop some sort of plan if you're getting stuck constantly. It doesn't need to be a super locked-in plan (I don't recommend those in general), but using lighthouse planning or developing some guiding element is important.

Contrarian hack: have someone who isn't a writer write the thing your're stuck on for you. (Consider: have AI write it for you.) Read it. Dislike it and use the motivation to write yourself. Profit.

Struggling to get started because the WIP is too daunting? Don't work on the whole WIP. Work on This Scene. This Scene too daunting? Work on This Small Part of This Scene. This Small Part too big? Work on the next sentence. Work on opening the WIP. Break the steps down as small as you need to.

I used to use Google docs, but the white mode only was really annoying me (tires my eyes), so I swapped to Ellipsus (which I genuinely love and recommend), but it was bothering me a bit that I need wifi in order to use it, so now I switched to LibreOffice Writer, which I do like.

It very much has a Microsoft Word feel, but is open source and you need no accounts to use it. It's local on your device, so no AI can scan it, and no wifi is needed.

Chapter 19. A Dog Is A Dog.

Outside, the world was a lively song of morning noise. The bustling of the cooks and serving staff, the calls of men breaking camp, the whinnies and squeals of horses. But inside the royal dining tent, the only sound was the scrape of cutlery on plates under the cloud of simmering animosity of the royal family. Raya had just stepped inside, pulling the heavy canvas flap closed behind her, when a small body hurtled towards her.

"Aunt Raya! May I ride with you this afternoon?" Myrcella asked, her voice a burst of pure excitement in the stuffy air.

“You’ll ride with me in the wheelhouse,” Cersei didn’t look up from her plate, but her words had the effect of a cracking whip. “I don’t imagine your aunt can manage to keep her focus on you for more than a moment. It would be irresponsible.”

Joffery scoffed. “You’ll probably fall off and snap your neck.”

“I’m sorry my love,” Cersei cooed as she brushed a golden curl behind the princess’s ear. “It’s just safer this way.”

King Robert let out an unamused sigh that seemed to still the very air in the tent. “Gods woman,” he nearly shouted. “Let the girl ride a bloody horse with her aunt.” He looked to Raya with a irritated, furrowed brow. “Do with my daughter whatever she asks. That’s a command.”

Raya’s lip quirked into a small smile as she saw the satisfaction drain from her sister’s face. “Yes your grace,” she said with a nod before she sat down next to the princess, sending a glance and barely perceptible shrug to Cersei.

“Clegane,” Robert said firmly, pointing his fork in the direction of the looming grey figure at the far side of the tent. “Keep an eye on the girls today. Both of them.”

Joffery bitterly picked at his food but didn’t dare to speak against his king father. His dog tasked with watching someone other than him was the greatest affront.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

Keep an eye on the girls. Both of them. The King had said.

Hard not to. Sandor ruminated.

He’d done little else in the past few days as it was, but now next to him with the warm sun reflecting the gold in her hair and the beaming smile on her face she was nearly unbearable. The phantom of her body against him and her lips on his had all but vanished. He craved the feel of it again, the warmth, the rightness. But it was nice, he thought, just being next to her while she was happy. Here on the road that cut through the vibrant rolling green, in the clean air that didn’t smell of city and sea but the calm, fresh earth. She looked like she could finally let out a breath she’d been holding for too long.

Myrcella pointed to a cluster of wildflowers by the roadside, her face bright with curiosity. “What are those ones called?”

"Those are called kingscrown," Raya replied, her smile audible in her voice. "Look, you can see how the little yellow petals form a crown in the middle."

Raya heard Joffery scoff from just ahead of her and Sandor. He pulled the reins on his pristine white palfrey to ride alongside Raya and the princess. Raya could tell by the smirk on his face he was intent on ruining their peace.

“Speaking of kings,” he began, eyeing his sister and aunt with a discomforting gleam in his emerald eyes.

“Remember that serving girl in the Red Keep, the one who spilled wine on my doublet? She was too stupid and inept to even apologize to me. She just ran off in tears. She deserved to have her tongue cut out, the loathsome little bitch.” His face couldn’t appear more disgusted and disdainful. “I’ve decided that when I’m King I will have a whole collection of tongues in jars to show everyone what happens when I’m disrespected.”

He said it with such pride and confidence that Raya couldn’t help but shake her head at him.

Joffery’s smirk deepened when he looked to Sandor. “And I’ll have you hold them down while I make the cut myself. How’s that sound, dog?”

Dogs obey their masters, even if they are vicious little shits. Sandor thought, unbidden.

“Mother says you are not to speak like that around me!” Myrcella exclaimed suddenly, her voice carrying a mixture of fear and indignation.

Joffery rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Gods you women are tedious,” he muttered as he dug his heels into his mount and advanced a few lengths from them.

They rode in silence for a long stretch with Joffery’s blatant disregard for sensitivities lingering amongst them. Myrcella cut through the rhythmic soft thudding of hooves on the earth.

“Where does that road lead?”

Raya looked at the paths that branched from either side the Kings Road. She couldn’t say for sure where exactly they even were. They were certainly entering the Northern Territory, she knew that much just by the cool bite in the wind and the dwindling frequency of civilization.

“I’m not sure to be quite honest,” Raya told the girl.

Myrcella twisted in the saddle, her bright eyes turning to the imposing figure riding just behind them. "Sandor, do you know?"

“That one takes you to Barrowtown,” he said gesturing with his chin to the westward fork.

“What about the other way?”

“The other way takes you east, to White Harbour.”

The princess hummed to herself. “I’d like to see White Harbour one day, I think.” The princess turned attention back to the path ahead, searching for more worldly wonders to discuss.

"What kind of bird is that, Aunt Raya?"

"That's a kestrel, sweetling. He's looking for mice in the long grass, hunting for his supper."

Sandor found himself thinking about when he’d first seen Raya at Casterly Rock when she was around the age of the princess. How different they were. Raya, ever the meek little thing that had her nose stuffed in a book or was being toted around by her older sister like some prize. Never daring to speak unless addressed. A quiet little doll to be positioned and postured just the way her family needed her to.

But look at her now. Little lion found her voice.

And she used it to name the wonders of a sweet little girl that adored her. She held such endearment but there was also that edge of steel that she’d built a backbone from that allowed her to face her brother and sister with a boldness that was so fucking satisfying to witness.

This woman was a stranger to the timid little thing that once lived beneath her sister’s feet and under the thumb of a man who tried to diminish her.

Joffery slowed his horse again and stared back, his contemptuous gaze fixed on Raya. "You seem to be growing too fond of her," he sneered. "Acting so kind as if she's your own. You'll never be a mother, so you shouldn't act like it."

"Joffrey! That is cruel. Aunt Raya could be a wonderful mother one day, you don't know. The gods just haven't blessed her yet."

Joffrey's smirk widened into a grin. "And the gods never will," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "She's barren. Do you even know what that means, stupid girl? It means she can’t perform her only womanly duty. Ever."

"Enough." Sandor’s voice was sudden and quiet yet still carried authority.

Joffery looked at him, his petulance wavering only slightly.

"You know, a prince should watch his tongue in front of the princess and his lady aunt," Sandor said, his voice a low and devoid of emotion. “Ought not speak of things he doesn't understand."

Joffrey's face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. Without another word, he kicked his horse and galloped ahead, leaving them in a tense, heavy silence.

Sandor glanced at Raya and the little girl in front of her with the furrowed brow who was glaring at her cruel brother’s back.

“Go after him,” Raya said, her voice sullen but she gave a weak smile. “We’ll catch up. I wouldn’t want him to be seen unattended.”

He gave a curt nod and sighed as he moved away from her to go collect the prince.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

The camp was coming together as the sun began to dip below the treeline, the smell of roasting meat and wood smoke filling the air. Raya was sitting on a log by the fire, watching Myrcella and Tommen chase each other near the edge of the woods.

“This is quite the improvement,” Tyrion said from next to her, handing her a cup of mulled wine. “Smiling, I mean.”

“I find myself with an abundance of things to be pleased about. Not spending every waking moment at the tip of our sister’s fingers does do something quite refreshing for the soul.”

Tyrion chuckled, settling himself on the log beside her with a sigh. He followed her gaze to the children. "You have a knack for them," he observed. “Myrcella speaks of you like you’re the one who hung the moon.”

Raya watched the prince and princess cupping their hands over the lightning bugs flickering around the berry bushes nearby. She ached for the daughters and sons of her own she’d never get to know.

Tyrion’s focus drifted from the children to the other side of the camp, where Sandor was standing by the tethered horses. "And you're not the only one who seems pleased," Tyrion said, his voice dropping slightly. "I've noticed when he thinks no one is looking, eyes always seeming to find you. It's an interesting thing to watch, the wolf who's decided he'd rather guard one particular lamb than to devour it."

Raya felt a warmth creep up her neck at his observation, but she didn't deny it. "He's not as awful as you think he is, Tyrion."

"I'm aware he's more than just a mindless dog," Tyrion stated. “I stand corrected, I’ve seen it now.”

"But that’s what worries me." He took a long drink from his cup, his gaze distant for a moment, as if seeing something else entirely.

"I know what it's like," he began carefully, "to want someone so much that you start to build a version of them in your head. You see the good, the parts that speak to the empty places inside you, and you polish them up until they shine. You ignore the rest, the scratches and dents. You tell yourself the sharp edges don't matter even if they cut."

He looked at her then. "You start to believe that you are the only one who truly sees them. That your love is special enough to fix whatever is broken in them. That your acknowledgment is enough to make them whole."

He took another drink. "It's a powerful feeling, to feel wanted. To hear someone say it. To feel like you're the only person in the world who can offer them the love and acceptance they've never had. It's the most intoxicating drink in the world, Raya. And it is always, always a farce."

"Because reality doesn't care about your version.” He looked at her with a mixture of pity and care. “A whore is a whore. A dog is a dog. A Lannister is a Lannister. And in the end, the world will always remind you of that. It will tear your little fantasy apart, piece by piece, until all that's left is the ugly truth and the piteous ache in your own foolish heart."

He stood up. "I don't want to see that happen to you. So please, don't mistake attention for love. Enjoy the moments, sister. But don't deign to imagine you can build a life on them."

He walked away, leaving Raya staring into the fire. She sat with her brother’s words, the weight of his own pain. But it was just that, his. She hadn’t really considered the longevity of it. She couldn’t want for something to last if she never truly touched it to begin with.

To feel wanted. To hear someone say it.

She tempered with the words. Surely she’d been desired by others but to hear it from one who mattered to her would be a balm on the wound of her inutility.

Always, always a farce.

Sure it could be, but the hurt of finding that it was would be less than the ache of never pursuing it at all.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

The rest of the party were asleep save for a handful of watchmen, the only sounds the crackle of the distant fires and the whisper of the wind through the pines. Sandor sat with his back against a thick trunk, a wineskin in his hand, staring at the calm waves lapping at the lakeshore.

Raya emerged from the shadows, a thick wool cloak draped over her shoulders, and sat down on the cold ground beside him. She said nothing, simply held out her hand. After a moment's hesitation, he passed her the wineskin. She took a long drink. They shared the silence, finding a solace in one another’s presence that needed no words.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said, her voice soft.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he returned.

“I’m revoltingly curious, aren’t I?” A small laugh escaped her. "But this one is… personal." She mulled over the last word, a surprising lack of sureness that made him finally look at her properly.

He sighed reluctantly. “Well get on with it then.”

"You've never told me how it happened," she said, her gentle gaze on his face. "The scars. I just wondered… you don't have to tell me if you'd rather not, if I’m overstepping.”

He contemplated a long while, so long that Raya thought she’d crossed a line. He kept looking at the ripple of silver across the lake.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so bold.” Raya said meekly.

“My bedding caught fire,” the words were flat and grim. “That’s what my father told everyone.” He took a long pull from the wineskin.

“My brother caught me playing with one of his toys, a little painted wooden knight. Thought I was stealing it. I wasn’t. He was too old for shit like that anyway, but it didn’t matter. It was his, and I wasn’t allowed to touch it.” He paused, his eyes distant. “He grabbed me. He shoved my face into the brazier and held me there.”

Raya felt her breath catch in her throat. She was staring at him, not with pity or horror, but with a soft, kind sorrow that made his gut twist. It was the sort of look a mother gives a child when they are hurt, a look he couldn’t recall having received before.

"The pain was bad," he said, his voice hollow, empty. "The smell was worse. But the worst part... The worst part was that it was my brother who did it. And my father, my fucking father, just covered it up. Protected him.”

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. "I'm so sorry that happened to you and your family failed you. You didn’t deserve that." She let the words hang in the air, a sincere offering of comfort. She could imagine him then, a little boy with a wooden knight, before the scars, before the anger and cynicism had carved out a home in his heart.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to get my revenge and be done with it,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense rasp. “My own brother and all I’ve ever wanted is him dead by my doing.”

“That’s the only thing you ever wanted?” Raya asked taking his hand in her lap.

“Aye, for a long while.” He trailed off, his gaze drifting back to her face. He looked at her with an intensity that seemed to see right through her. “Some things change.”

“So does that mean there are other things you might find yourself desiring now?”

“Might be,” he offered, a ghost of a smile touching his lips as his eyes flicked to hers for half a heartbeat.

Raya shifted from the cold ground, sliding onto his lap, her knees settling on either side of his thighs on the damp earth. She felt his entire body go rigid beneath her. She placed her hands on the hard plane of his chest, leaning in until her lips were just a breath from his.

"Is this one of those things?" she asked, her voice a silky whisper.

For a heartbeat, he didn't move. He just stared up at her. Then his answer came in the form of the harsh press of lips on her own. Slow, deep, and deliberate, his hands gripping her hips and pulling her down flush against him.

He was firm and demanding, and she welcomed it instantly with her hands sliding from his chest up to his shoulders, clinging to him. She grazed her teeth over his lower lip as he feverishly roamed her body.

She pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against his. "Tell me. I want to hear you tell me," she whispered, her lips brushing his with every word. "Is this what you want?"

"Don't ask me things you already know the answer to, little lion."

"But I don't," she insisted, her voice cracking with desperation. "I need to hear you say it." She shifted against him deliberately, drawing a sharp breath from him.

His eyes closed for a moment, as if fighting some internal battle. When they opened again, the raw vulnerability there nearly took her breath away.

"This," he rasped, his hand slipping up her skirt to claim the bare skin of her thigh. "This is what I want. That’s what you want to hear?”

"Yes," she breathed.

"Gods, you fucking torture me," he admitted.

It pained him to tell her the truth. To let her know how weak she made him feel.

“Nothing about this is right and you know it as well as I do but I don’t want you to stop.”

He was vulnerable, powerless to her.

"You've been bleeding me dry for months."

“Live a little then,” she whispered as she looked into his dark eyes highlighted by the silver moon. “Indulge in what you want before you succumb to the blood loss,” she teased. He could feel the heat of her cheeks as she smiled against his throat.

He tightened his grip on her hips and guided her in a slow grind against the straining beneath his breeches, making her shudder.

The world dissolved into a haze. His hands roamed, one sliding up her back to tangle in her hair, the other gripping her thigh, holding her to him as she began to move against him in a slow rhythm that was pure, sweet torture. She was so soft and warm. So needy and desperate.

All for you, filthy dog.

A low moan escaped his throat, a sound of surrender that was the most delectable thing she had ever heard.

A loud, sharp clatter echoed from the deep woods, the sound of a heavy branch snapping under the weight of something.

Raya gasped and clambered off Sandor, hanging onto his forearm like a child with a white knuckled grip. He went rigid, his entire body tensing. The haze of passion evaporated in an instant, replaced by the cold, sharp instincts of a watchdog. He lifted his head, his eyes scanning the oppressive darkness of the trees beyond the shoreline, waiting for an approach but it didn’t come.

Sandor glanced from the dark woods to her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He relaxed back against the log, a slow smirk touching his lips. "What's the matter? Afraid of the dark?"

"I'm not afraid of the dark," she retorted a little too fast. "I just have no desire to be killed or maimed by whatever the fuck is lurking around in those trees. Did you hear how big that was? That sounded big, didn’t it?”

He let out a low chuckle. "Sounded like a deer stepping on a dead branch. Might have even been one of the guards off for a piss. Nothing out here is going to hurt you."

"You don't know that," she said quickly, edging closer to him. Her unnerve was palpable. "My fucking luck, a bear, maybe a wolf that'll maul us both. You ought to quit laughing at me and walk me back before that happens."

He shook his head, unable to stifle the amusement she caused. He enjoyed it far too much. He felt that surge she’d created in him before. That thing that made his stomach twist in shame even as his blood ran hot. The helpless, desperate grip she had on him was a potent, intoxicating fuel. Gods help him, he got off on being what she needed.

He took her hand and pulled her against his chest and spoke against her ear. "You know what? I think you’re right, it might be a wolf. Sounded heavy enough to be a big one. Must be starved to be so bold as to get this close to a camp."

"That’s not funny," she hissed, her eyes wide as she looked between him and the darkness.

He looked at their joined hands. Her grip was surprisingly strong, and her palm was clammy with a cold sweat. He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb stroking the back of it in a reassuring gesture.

"Alright," he said, his voice soft, all teasing gone. "Come on. Let's get you back to your tent before your wolf gets brave and wants a taste.”

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚ ˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

Can you tell that Tyrion is one of my favourite characters to write as? Even more so than my OC? probably not.

Giggling and kicking my feet over Sandor though!! Yuck I love him!! Have your girl!! (Jk I get to decide and I fucking love tension👹)

YOU🫵'RE 🫵 NE->XT.!! moTHERFUCKER!!!!

𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭/𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

Also this is 18+ ... we acting like grown ups.

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

Pandora Sphinx Moth (Eumorpha pandorus), family Sphingidae, OH, USA

all his neighbours immediately distrust him because he’s russian and they haven’t gotten over the red scare and also no one new has moved in to the town in almost a decade

but then he participates in podunknowheresville’s annual lawnmower race with a monstrosity made from scrap metal and far too much duct tape and he wins second place in a neck-and-neck final round against sam americason, the most anti-russian man in the village

However, he replied to said email within five minutes, asking a question that required an answer. So I answered and was like "Also, I was going to apologize for answering emails during this call, but I see we're both here at the Devil's Sacrament, so I don't think an apology is necessary."

I watched him read that on screen and try not to laugh. And then at the end of the call as everyone started saying goodbye, he goes, "Hey, MJ, I meant to tell you. I like your shoelaces."

And I looked straight into my camera, stone cold serious, and said, "Thanks. I stole them from the president."

And the rest of the team was like, "What...the fuck...?" before he abruptly ended the call for everyone.