one down five hundred thousands more to go

Survivors (CS Survivor AU)

This idea is all @kat2609 . She’s been kicking this around, and I stole it. With her permission. We have her to thank for the fact this saw the light of day. Of course, I have so much more to be grateful to her for than just this fic.

3000 words of not quite a fic, but not quite bulletpointing, of a CS Survivor fic. The format of the show has been changed. 


Emma Swan - single mother of an 8 year old boy - Survivor contestant. It’s the last place she ever imagined herself, but the chance to win a million dollars was too tempting when her friends signed her up and forced her to film an audition tape. She never expected to make it past any of the preliminary rounds, but there she was, headed to the South Pacific for 40 days. She had no interest in the fame or glory. She was there for the cold hard cash.

Killian Jones - one handed honorable discharge from the British Navy - Survivor contestant. It was the last place he ever imagined himself, but his brother signed him up. The Navy had taught him everything he needed to know about survival and what else was he going to do now that his life was no longer on the sea? The small stipend he would receive for the accident that took his hand might be enough to live off of, but the million would buy him a boat, and allow him to leave the world behind.

They were there to win.

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OUTER RIM

Prologue

The first breach appeared in the Outer Rim nearly twenty-five thousand years ago – a fissure between galaxies, perhaps between dimensions. The first kaiju turned Tatooine into a desert.

In the ensuing galactic panic it took nearly five hundred years to recognize that this was not going to stop, and for anyone to realize any plan to the extent needed to find the breaches – for oh, yes, there was more than one, they damn well multiplied – and construct any sort of defense. The failure of the first attempts to destroy the kaiju with ships came down to maneuverability; the next, to the shocking accidental discovery that the Dark Side of the Force rolled off of them in waves, pulsing through the universe, destroying the Light.

It was only a matter of time before the Jedi were called upon to be the protectors of the nascent Republic; only a matter of time before they realized that the monstrous machines they built, hyperspace-capable and coded to their very souls, needed more than one pilot. They started winning. We started winning, despite every attack, despite every new breach, despite the realization that some kaiju were sentient, that some could communicate into and through the Dark, that some of them could even take the orders of an ambitious Sith.

The Light was winning. The Light was secure. The Jedi were heroes – we were heroes.

Pride cometh before a fall: perhaps the Republic knew this, perhaps the Senate did, in their wildest nightmares. The Jedi knew it every year, and were aware of it every hour, every minute of their lives. Each of them, as they fanned out to distant Shatterdomes and scoured the galaxy for Force-sensitive children, knew that they were co-opting younglings into a life which could end only in sorrow. For you see, a jaeger pilot is only complete with their Bonded: with their co-pilot alone are they complete. The destruction of a jaeger, or the death of one, means the complete destruction of both. Such a terrible truth had to be hidden: only those inside the Temple knew that when one pilot lived, and was asked to Choose a new helpmate, slaughter could follow – first of others, and then, invariably, of themselves.

In the aftermath of Xanatos, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi became co-pilot of the newly-renamed Living Force based solely on the dubious honor of being the only youngling to come out of Qui-Gon Jinn’s Choosing Room alive.

Ten years later, General Kenobi was certain beyond doubt – beyond anything – that he would rather die, rather extinguish himself, than ever go through the same thing.

To be continued on AO3.

Brought to you by Obi-Wan Kenobi’s stupid face, samhawke‘s technical advice, agarthanguide‘s relentless enabling, and the fact that I can’t believe this hasn’t really been done before (if it has, please do link me!) - I hope you enjoy it. This is also my first vid in 5+ years, so be gentle with me…

How not to market your books

So about 2 weeks ago, Jack Eason wrote a vitriolic and misogynistic review on an all female sci-fi anthology. 

My first thought was “what an ignorant twit”, because ayone who understands the genre knows that women (like Mary Shelley, Margaret Cavendish, Catherine Lucille Moore and Emma Orczy) invented various science fiction genres.

The mention of his own book at the end also raised red flags for me, he sounded like one of those “all publicity is good publicity” idiots. However, I was shocked when he actually confirmed that on his blog!

I’ve posted the whole thing below because I don’t want to drive traffic to his blog and feed his delusions, but the shaded sections give you the gist of what he’s saying.

Working brilliantly, is it?

Because the thing is, today, his book, the Guardian, sits at six hundred and thirty thousand in Amazon’s chart rankings.

To compare, one of mine, the Convenient Bride (chosen a random and hasn’t had any publicity recently) is five hundred thousand places higher on the chart. I literally rank over half a million places higher.

As many of you know, my earnings have been going down thanks to the changes Amazon keeps making and despite having 20 novels for sale on Amazon, (and a few novellas) I now need a second job.

So if I can’t keep myself with my rankings and twice as many books for sale, this guy is literally earning nothing more than pocket change from his writing.

So thank you, Mr Eason, for proving once and for all, definitely, that bad publicly does not pay.

Camp Tako - The Epilogue

So, four months ago, Camp Tako came to its conclusion. Today, Cat and I wrapped up the epilogue. Borderline SFW/NSFW, 2.595 words. As the 22 chapters prior, Cat wrote Grace’s POV and I wrote Hannah’s. Previous parts can be found here. The POV changes every dash (-) you see. Let us know how you feel about this.

Ahem.

Camp Tako Epilogue

After six months, Grace hits 100,000 subscribers.

The number looks crazy, a number that Grace never thought would be linked with her in any way at all, and yet there it is. One hundred thousand.

She clicks away from the screen, closes down her whole computer, and picks up her phone.

“Hannah?”

“Hey baby… what’s up?”

“I just hit one hundred thousand. I don’t know what to do to celebrate.”

“Awww, yeah!You should tweet something. And Instagram it. And tumblr. And do all the things, you know how this works now. Let your people know!”

Grace grins, because every now and then, even though Hannah doesn’t have any youtube ambitions beyond occasionally appearing in Grace and Mamrie’s videos, she will suddenly switch from being Grace’s girlfriend to some kind of PR expert, and it is adorable.

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anonymous asked:

Hi Badger! I hope this doesn't seem too personal a question, but how do you balance your work and your writing? You seem to have such a strong balance! I graduated and I've started working and it seems so complicated, even when trying to schedule it out.

Not at all too personal a question! Although I am flattered and slightly surprised to be asked it because I generally feel like I am in a constant state of controlled flailing, rather than having anything planned per se. I never know whether I’m going to stick the landing until I do, or don’t.

Originally posted by goodnightandg00dbye

So I have two answers to this question, and one is the one you asked about balancing writing and work, and another is a question you didn’t ask but that I think is relevant about figuring out how to do work-life balance as a recent graduate. But I’ll start with the writing question.

The thing about writing is, that any advice is inevitably going to have to be prefaced with “for me, it’s like….” and then followed by “…for you, it might be different.” I have many friends who are brilliant and productive writers and when they tell me their processes my response is to sit with chin in hands in fascination as though they were describing some wildly alien culture, because they write in ways that would make utterly no sense to me. So. My advice for finding time to write while also having a job and a life is largely focused around how you can best do it, not how I do it. But here are some thoughts.

  • Figure out what type of writer you are. This is harder than it sounds. There are, to wildly over-generalize and broadly speaking, two types of writers: sprinters, who let the words build up over time and then release them all in a rush, and marathoners, who write a little bit every day, day after day. (There are also people somewhere in the middle, who do well with a minimal daily practice but who also need occasional bursts of focused productivity. I don’t know enough about running to know what to call them, though. For the purposes of this, I will call them waveforms, because they do peaks and valleys.)

    The problem is that it’s really easy to think that you’re one thing and actually be another. And this may be my bias showing, but it tends to be that people think they’re sprinters when they’d actually be better marathoners, or waveforms. Because there’s a certain pleasure in only writing when inspiration strikes like lightning–only writing, basically, when it’s most fun. And for some people, that kind of burst writing is the best way for them to write.

    But it wasn’t for me, despite years and year and years of thinking of myself as a sprint writer. I was really good at it! I could dick around for weeks and then pull huge chunks of writing out at the last moment. I once wrote ten thousand words in one day under duress–good, usable words, too, most of them. 

    But then later, as a sort of experiment, I tried something else. I tried saying, “For the next month, you will write every day. It could be one sentence or it could be five thousand words, but you will write something every day.” And I found that I did better that way. For all that I’d embraced the romance of the inspiration-like-lightning writer, I wrote more and better if I wrote a little every day. Some days I’d write a hundred words, some days five thousand. But waveform writing did way more for me than even the most exciting sprints.

    And the same can be true going the other way. If you’ve been making yourself sit down every day, perhaps think about letting things marinate and build up more between sessions. See if maybe you can be a sprint writer. See how it goes. Writing the way that works best for you will make your writing time more efficient and effective, so that if you only have X hours (or minutes) a day to write, you will know how best to allocate them.

  • Make writing a priority. This is huuuuuuge.  I am lucky that I have a husband who respects my writing time, but even so, it’s easy to let other things encroach on writing time. So I’ve dealt with that by having two fixed ‘sacred’ writing times, and one ‘movable feast’ sacred writing time. I write at other times and other days, but these are the times that are, beyond doubt, without argument, are for writing: Tuesdays at 6pm PST, and Thursdays, at 5:30 PM PST. And the third, the movable feast, is at least 3 hours on the weekends.

    And during those times, I just write. That is all I have to do. I just write. 

  • Know how to jump-start your creativity. One of the most maddening things is setting aside writing time, whether daily or weekly, and defending it against all comers, and then… sitting down and not being able to goddamn write. I know. It is like to make you lose your marbles. 

    It can be helpful to make up writing rituals, but you may need to experiment with them. Some people who are much cooler and more sophisticated than me light a candle or burn some incense or make a cup of tea. I put on loud music and dance around the house for ten minutes. I swear to god, dancing around the house is the best inspiration ever… for me. For you it might be something different.

    One warning: try not to make your pre-writing ritual too location-dependent or complex. You don’t want to set yourself up for serious writer’s block if you end up moving and can’t spend twenty minutes meditating under a particular willow tree.

  • Write. That’s really where all of this is going. Write. If you have ten minutes, write a sentence or three. If you have an hour, write a few paragraphs. If you have an afternoon, plot out a story. Write. Write. Write ever and always and often. Carry a notebook. Train your brain to think of words and stories when you have a pause. Make words a priority. Make language a priority. Read beautiful things. Look at beautiful things. Listen to beautiful things. Fill yourself with beautiful things and let them come out. You may have only half an hour a day of time for yourself–but half an hour of absorbing beauty and creating beauty is better than nothing.

    You don’t have to be starving in a garrett to produce things of value. Take the time and the inspiration you have and make them into what you can, and write.

A/N.: I hope you find the smut enjoyable! There’s no Hayley and no baby. This was super fun to write!

The door flew open with a crash, echoing through the empty corridor.

“I asked you to keep an eye on her, Rebekah,” Klaus growled as he pulled a giggling Caroline into the house, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as she stumbled in her stiletto heels. He clenched his jaw as they came to a halt, and Caroline curled herself into his body, her hands stroking the sides of his neck as she buried her face against his shoulder, her inebriated laughter muffled in the fabric of his shirt.

“I tried to stop her, Nik, as I’ve said a dozen times in the last five minutes,” Rebekah sighed as she followed him, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder and crossing her arms over her chest. “If you’re going to blame anyone, blame that trashy Petrova wench. She’s the one who started tossing shots down her throat.”

“You have five hundred years on Katerina, and more than a thousand on Caroline—surely it wasn’t above your capabilities to keep them apart, or at least away from the alcohol long enough to keep her mind clear.”

Next to him, Caroline giggled, pressing her lips to the pulse point in his neck. “Such a grumpy hybrid,” she murmured, nibbling on his skin as her hand caressed the expanse of his chest.

“For God’s sake, Nik, she’s a grown woman,” Rebekah scoffed, her heels clicking against the tiled floor as she made her way to the bar, lifting a tumbler of Scotch to her nose for a moment before pouring the amber liquid into a glass. “She has better control than I do, and we both know she never indulges in the finer aspects of the vampire life—so why not just let her have her fun where she can?”

Caroline nodded against him, pulling away from him with wide eyes and a sharp nod of her head. “Yeah, Nik, let me have my fun where I can,” she slurred. His eyes glared down at her, and she tried to copy his expression, but her lips spread into a smile and she burst into a bubble of laughter, collapsing against his chest, the multitude of colorful beads dangling from around her neck.

Klaus sighed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before he turned his attention to his sister once more. “I’ll deal with you and Katerina later,” he growled, turning on his heel and pulling Caroline after him towards the open office door across the room.

Rebekah barely flinched when the door slammed behind them, crossing one ankle over the other as she lounged against the bar, bringing the glass to her lips. “Surprise, surprise,” she murmured before swallowing the bitter liquid with a roll of her eyes.


xxxxxx


“What were you thinking?” Klaus demanded as he finally relinquished his hold on Caroline, running a hand down his face as he stalked to the other side of the room.

Caroline twirled on her heel, her arms waving at her sides to keep her balance as she laughed. “I was thinking…’Mardi Gras!’ And then I was thinking booze and music and a million other things that I can’t quite remember right now because my head is very, very fuzzy.” She giggled, threading her fingers through the many necklaces that hung around her neck. “And look at all the beads I got!”

Klaus could actually hear his teeth grind as he clenched his jaw, his nails digging into the palms of his hands to keep him grounded—to keep him from shaking some sense into the drunken blonde. “Beads that you received for flashing your knockers at every Tom, Dick and Harry that paid you attention.”

Caroline snorted, eyes still captivated by the way the fading daylight glinted off the tacky jewelry. “Knockers.”

Her laughter was cut short with a gasp when he suddenly flashed in front of her, a tinge of gold staining his eyes as he glared down at her. “There is no humor in this situation, Caroline,” he told her, his voice barely above a whisper. “You are the queen in this city. You should behave as such.“

Caroline’s hazed over eyes lifted to his, and one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched as she looked at him, her lips parting slightly as she scoffed. “’Behave as such?’” she asked, taking a step back from him, her hands still entangled in the sparkling beaded necklaces. “Seriously? You know, I’m not your lapdog. I’m not one of your stupid failed hybrids. You can’t tell me how to behave. ‘Behave as such.’” She shook her head, stepping around him and shoving her shoulder into his.

Klaus sighed, already regretting his choice words, but she had to learn at some point. Things were expected of her, as his queen. He’d explained as much to her when she’d finally shown up in New Orleans two years ago. Fresh from college, with a new mindset, her days of being one of Elena Gilbert’s ever adoring harem long over.

She’d stalked him for over a week. She never let him see more than just a passing glance of her—a flash of her blonde hair, a quiet giggle here and there, a pair of blue eyes peering at him from over the bar and then gone in a blink. He’d thought he’d finally lost his mind—until he’d felt her hand on his shoulder one night in the crowd. He’d turned to see her smiling face, bright and beautiful and everything he remembered. She’d smiled at him and bit her lip, her blue eyes shining, and he’d crushed her to him with a quiet growl of “Promises be damned” and they’d never looked back.

Her footsteps echoed against the floor as she slowly stalked towards the chaise that rested against the wall, her hand reaching up to run through her hair. She sighed, a thought crossing her mind, and she turned on booted heel, peering at the hybrid from over her shoulder as she crossed her arms over her chest.  “So I embarrassed you?” she asked, raising her brows when he turned to face her.  “That’s why you’re mad. I reflected badly on the Great Hybrid King of NOLA?” When he only continued to stare at her, she smirked, sliding her hands across her torso until they crisscrossed over her stomach, her fingers wrapping the hem of her blue tank top. “Or…maybe it’s something else entirely, hmm? Maybe you’re just mad because you’re jealous?”

Klaus scoffed, and the sound brought a smile to her face.

“Mmm. I think that’s really it. You’re jealous because a dozen or so complete strangers got to see what belongs to you.” As she spoke, her hands slowly inched up the fabric of her top, a strip of tanned skin being revealed, and she watched in satisfaction as Klaus’ lips parted and his eyes narrowed. She giggled, tilting her head to the side. “I mean…you’ve told me so many times…I’m yours. Everything that’s me…is in your possession.” The fabric slid further up, her skin teasing him in all its glory. “And here I am…just letting every Tom,” she bit her lower lip as she inched it up further. “Dick,” she said with a flicker of her eyes towards his lower extremities, smirking when she saw the familiar bulge beginning to form beneath his dark washed jeans. “And Harry,” she added with a tilt of her head, pulling the shirt up over the curves of her breasts before finally letting it slide down her arms and the floor, her array of beads clinking together as they swung between her chest. “Just take a gander.”

She giggled quietly as she watched his gaze darken, quickly slipping out of her heels as she lifted her hands to her chest. Trailing her fingers across her skin tantalizingly, she started to walk backwards, fighting to keep her steps strong and even, her eyes staying riveted on the hybrid before her.

Klaus knew it was the alcohol. Caroline was rarely this uninhibited. He’d always had to remind himself that in many ways, she was still just a child. She hadn’t tapped into nearly half of everything that she possessed, her sexuality included. He knew that at times she was intimidated by him; by his want for her. She found it overwhelming, but enjoyable nonetheless. He had no doubts in his mind that the boys she’d called lovers in the past hadn’t spent nearly as much time making her feel as wanted as she should. He’d worked to make her bring out her confidence when they were together, to voice her wants and desires. He urged her to tell him where to touch, what to nibble, how fast or how hard or how gentle. He’d wanted her to know that he was at her every beck and call.

Clearly now, he wondered if his lessons had been a tad too articulate.

He watched as her fingers danced across her flesh, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips as her nails scraped the skin beneath the curve of her breast. They slipped beneath the offensive beads that hung from her neck, and he felt another rush of anger as he thought about the unworthy men who had gotten a glance of his siren today. Had they pictured her doing the very thing she was so unabashedly doing for him? Did they picture her skin, the way she would moan or sigh? He wondered if they pictured her coming undone beneath them or above them, and the anger morphed into rage and jealousy, and when Caroline’s fingers moved up to the circle one her nipples, and a hushed moan escaped her lips, he felt his control snap.

Before she could even react, he’d flashed to her side, shoving her back until she sat on the arm of the antique chaise behind her, his mouth closing hotly over her puckered pebble and lavishing it with his tongue. She moaned loudly, her hands reaching up to tug at his hair, and he growled against her skin, his grip nearly bruising against her hips as he wedged a knee between her legs. He could feel her heat, her want, and he smirked, lifting his head to attack the skin of her neck.

“Sure you’re not jealous?” she breathed against his ear, tilting her head to allow him better access as she clawed at the shirt on his back.

“Oh, I’m rabidly so,” he murmured, his blunt teeth nipping at her clavicle, relishing in the gasp that resulting. “Do you so enjoy torturing me, Caroline? Making me imagine all this common filth laying their hands on you?” One hand stroked her breast as the other slid further down, slipping between her legs and beneath her frilly skirt, teasing the hem of her silk panties as she writhed against him. “Imagining them making you moan…making you gasp.” He slid a finger beneath the flimsy material, tracing the length of her, and relishing in the bite of her nails as they dug into his shoulders. “Making you come undone until you can’t even remember your name?”

Caroline was shaking her head, her back arching, breasts pushing against his chest as her hips moved against his hand. “So not even possible,” she gasped, tilting her head up to catch his lips. “Pretty sure you’re the only one who can ever get me off again.”

Klaus laughed, his fingertips tracing the edges of the beads that still dangled between her breasts. “Care to prove that statement, love?” he asked, wrapping the plastic in his fist and ripping it from her neck, delighting in the way the beads flew and scattered across the floor.

She opened her mouth to reprimand him, but he captured her lips again, making quick work of her skirt and underwear, the ripping of fabric echoing through the room as her protest was muffled against his lips.

She returned the favor, ripping his shirt clear down the middle and tossing the mangled fabric to the side before moving her hands to his belt. The leather snapped in a second, the denim quickly pooling around his ankles, and then he was pushing her back, one hand planted firmly on her chest while the other gripped her hip.

Her blue eyes were clouded with lust and booze as she gazed up at him, and his fingers trailed up to trace the curve of her jaw, the gesture so gentle compared to the way he thrusted into her, her moan catching in her throat she arched against him.

He sighed as he felt her slick heat envelop him, that comforting, overwhelming sensation that caused his eyes to roll back into his head every bloody time. It never ceased to amaze him how well they fit together…as if they were made for each other.

Caroline’s hands gripped his wrists as she began to move her hips against him, urging him on, and he gritted his teeth as he drew his hips back, waiting a mere second before slamming into her again. Her body jerked with the force of his movements, and he watched as her eyes closed and her head rolled back, her blonde curls cascading onto the maroon fabric of the chaise beneath her.

They started a rhythm, harsh and punishing, fast and primal, their moans mingling and rising in decibels as their skin slapped together. Klaus pulled her hips to the edge of the chaise, titling them up to angle inside of her better, and was rewarded with a high pitched moan as Caroline threw her arms over her head, her fingers grasping for the other arm of the chaise.

He quickened his pace, watching as she writhed beneath him, his hands slipping beneath her knees to wrap her legs further around his hips. Her heels dug into his back, his fingers sliding against her slick skin as they traced the curve of her calf, the dip in her waist, before caressing the skin of her stomach. Her chest was heaving, her breasts bouncing with every movement, and he was mesmerized, captivated by the baby blonde vampire that had him wrapped around her finger even though he denied it.

“Klaus,” Caroline moaned, tightening her thighs around him to pull him closer.

Klaus groaned at his name falling so wantonly from her lips, focusing on the feeling of being sheathed inside of her heat.

He thrust deeper inside of her, gritted his teeth when he felt her walls begin to spasm around him, her cries of release echoing up to his ears, and with a final quick succession of rough thrusts, he threw his head back, grunting as he succumbed to his orgasm.

Caroline’s body was trembling as they came down from their mutual highs, chests heaving, and Klaus slowly unwrapped her legs from around his waist and lowered them until they dangled limply from the chaise. He panted as he leaned forward, pressing a trail of lazy kisses up her sweat soaked body as he slid them further onto the chaise, curling her body around his.

Caroline hummed contently when his lips finally reached her, lifting her arms to drape lazily around his neck. He brushed the damp hair away from her face as he kissed her again, his fingers dancing across her breasts as she sighed. “Like I said,” she hummed, pressing her nose into the curve of his neck. “The only one…”

Klaus chuckled as he titled her head up to kiss her again, his arms encircling her waist.

A loud rapping against heavy oak tore their lips apart, and their heads craned towards the door as Elijah’s voice bellowed to them from behind it.

“Niklaus, need I remind you that the three of us had an agreement. No more fornication against the antiques, and I won’t, as Caroline so eloquently puts it, ‘cock-block.’ I do hope you’ve honored it. I’d hate to cause such discord in our household again.”

Caroline giggled as the elder Mikaelson’s footsteps faded down the hall, and she curled into a sighing Klaus once more, pressing her lips to his neck as she smiled.