You have quite a knack for giving the reader insight as to what your characters are thinking and how they're digesting the situation at hand through your prose. Your storytelling really makes me feel like I'm stepping inside the mind of the subject, which is incredibly impressive with how well you write such complex characters. The way you write is vibrant and brimming with life 🤍 It's really refreshing to get to read.
What is the most noticeable thing about my writing style?
It’s important to me that Will’s thoughts and how he sees something is expressed because he’s usually caught up on something unrelated to the overlying issue LOL. 💓💓 Thank you though your compliments are too much. Will is so enjoyable and typically fairly easy for me to write.
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@kinomorebi /Violet whispered: "What is the clearest memory you have of your father? Something that sticks with you. Something you'll never forget. It can be good or bad."
“My first official arena fight came a year too soon. I was twelve.” Bitterness already, heavy on the tongue. “I can still taste it.”
He was a boy then— twelve years old, gangly, limbs still growing into themselves, already stretching toward six feet, a looming shadow in threadbare training leathers. The trainers whispered prodigious, though their pride always trembled with unease: corridors fell silent when he passed, eyes flickering away, as if they feared what he might become.
“I was matched against a slave— untrained, drugged. Giedi’s logic: why risk an heir in the pit when you can choreograph his first kills?”
His weapon was a kindjal, heavy and blunted, designed to drag out the spectacle. The crowd savored every moment of anticipation.
The first man staggered in, buckling under dread. Sweaty bruises oozed purple, the iron tang of fresh blood rising in waves. Ilya remembers staring into clouded eyes, glazed with fear and narcotic haze, wondering if he was supposed to feel something. They’d promised the first kill would be transformative. It wasn’t. It was just another thrust, another twist. The man fell.
“I killed him. Then, a second was let in. Still drugged, but more experienced in combat.”
The next opponent was older— thirty, perhaps— with scars lining the corded forearms like map-routes to death. He too was drugged, but less frantic, more resigned. Ilya ended it with a single reflexive twist.
“I killed him, too.”
A third was led in, in black rags that sucked light from the black sun above. The man stumbled, then caught himself. Face slack, but the eyes glistened bright and red-rimmed, pinpricked with fever.
“And the third. Are you familiar with elacca? It’s a narcotic, turns the skin orange. It eliminates the user's will for self-preservation. Makes them insane in a fight. He almost killed me.”
The man, when shoved into the sand, hadn’t looked at Ilya so much as through him. Though only for a moment; then he’d screamed and charged, a herky, uncoordinated lunge, but there was no caution in it. He‘d wanted blood, even if it was laced with his own. After a few maneuvers that nearly lost him a limb, Ilya had raised the blade— impaling the man, who only drew the blade into himself further, reaching for Ilya’s throat. A twist of the kindjal, another, another; until the movement stopped and the arms went slack. The audience had been silent the whole time; then the applause broke like a fist through glass.
“I won in the end. I remember being deafened by the crowd.”
And blood had soaked the sand in a permanent shadow around his knees. He’d held still, one hand on the dead man’s shoulder, as if expecting another trick. It was over. The thing inside him flicked its tail and stilled— sated, for now. The boy had rolled the body off his knife, his own face burning, cheeks fevered from exertion and the eyes of a thousand voyeurs trained on his back.
“It’s customary to acknowledge the audience and, more importantly, acknowledge the Baron. I turned to the stands, and looked up for him.”
Yet, Feyd-Rautha’s gaze tracked in another direction entirely, away from the kill, away from the sand, and fixed instead on the girl beside him: Vera, the first and best, with her white-plaited hair and mouth full of secrets.
“Except,” and the laugh that followed was devoid of anything near warmth, “He hadn’t been paying attention to me at all. Only to my sister, the na-Baroness.”
🕯️ Ikora conjured: Dark!Ren:// ❝ I can feel your heart beating in your chest. ❞ { from this meme /accepting }
“Don’t…”
He staggers back, suppressing this bursting pustule, this beating thing in him, with both hands.
“Get away,” he rasps. “If I am to rot, let me rot.”
The air hissing in his lungs through that battle-scorned helm may be deadly different, but so, too, are his lungs. There are parts of his body that are no longer his: those that have a new awareness, a new way of navigating space, a new method of motion, of pumping blood. A vessel, moving through the tides of night.
A living planet unto himself, so much like Crassus.
Does he know she will consume him? Perhaps. In the parts of him that are Ren. Whatever remains of the man struggles against this repatriation with his flesh… and Ikora.
🫀 Annora broke & bought: Music!Ben:// ❝ Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same. ❞ { from this meme /accepting }
He turned his head, and without fully looking, murmured
"Shut the fuck up, Annora."
Just before the aerosol and the garment brush (like the band wasn't going out to sign and wave in fucking 'helmets'), and the hashing out of whose security detail would flank the carpet (like Hollywood SWAT hadn't swarmed the place), Kylo had warned her. He would go to Snoke. They would establish new terms surrounding what could and could not be said between them.
Never had he ever thought Annora could get to him.
Now he just said, "Shut up or do something."
Grabbed his mask and muttered, "I'm on."
Stormed the loading dock doors, toward the roar, and joined the others.
Never had he ever thought he'd grow tired of the sound of screaming.
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He doesn’t mean to wake her. At least, he had tried to move quietly through the home, finding his way to the porch to light his cigarette under the light glow of the porch light. It was flickering, something he’d check out in the morning. For now, he leans against a rickety swing that decorates the patio. At his feet, there was a stray. A dog he found on his way from his fake job, something to help immerse them into the community, the patchy dog walking the side of the road just as aimless as Will felt. He named him Winston, and when this was all done, he would take him back to Wolf Creek with him.
It’s when a light clicks on from the inside, and Will is glancing up, like a man caught in the act, even though she wasn’t really his wife and he had no reason to hide it from her. Nonetheless, he smiles sheepishly.
“Did I wake up? Sorry.” He says, “I was a little restless, so Winston and I came out here for a bit. Want to join me?” He pats the swing next to him, the dog at his feet lowering its head on its paws when it realizes it was just Violet.
🫀 Annora broke & bought: Music!Ben:// ❝ She’s not good for you. ❞ { from this meme /accepting }
If ever he needed a reminder that Annora chose Snoke when she'd had recourse from Manhattan—no—Tokyo to Hollywood.
"Nothing ever is."
Kylo shrugged her off, and she followed him down the hallway. But that was just her job—bobbing at his shoulder, keeping an eagle's eye on a range of people, foods, places, pleasures, and miseries that were not good for him.
△: Why are you so averse to the idea that someone could truly, genuinely, wholeheartedly love you? All of you. What are you so afraid of? (This 🔪 to the throat has been brought to you by Violet~)
Send me a △ and ask a really invasive question aimed at my character
7/10 doesn't want to answer
His tongue runs the roof of his mouth, something bitter lodged there he couldn’t quite free. He wants to laugh, and then he wants to obliterate something. The duality isn’t lost on him. She could do better than trying to pry into his brain, demanding answers he hasn’t offered over. “It’s difficult to trust someone else when you’re not sure they are capable of seeing you, when you are not sure who you are, even to yourself. I do not want another person to live under my skin, do not trust them to exist there. It’s confined enough for one. I never offered to disassemble my barricades for the sake of another’s feelings. It’s simple, really.” He murmurs, eyes raising. “Acceptance of such a feeling, at my core, I am fundamentally at odds with. It would be better spent loving a lamp shade for all I know. I do not want to know what love would ask of me,” and where he would inevitably disillusion.
