Claymore Fanfiction Discussion

[Snider]

It would be nice if i could make some drawing sketches to follow the story but well...i cant draw s**t
Btw...the ff.net says its closed.

[shelter]

You just have to consider your audience when writing stories. If a story is meant to be a story, it should have its own structure, & something to keep people reading. The point of writing, finishing & reading is to be absorbed. Without descriptions, you rob the reader of what it is actually going through your mind.

Then again, people nowadays like things bite-sized, with action, & a lengthy progress from Point A (start) to Point B (end). Such stories are like TV serials: description comes with time & quantity.

But I prefer depth

[hell88]

@Snider: I read act three, I have to say its a good and dark idea about the City Of The Gravestones. The only thing I was wondering about was your characters, you don't really mention if they are in the city or not. When writing about a place, make sure you say where the characters are. That was the only problem I had.

[Snider]

I added a line to clarify that, i thought it was not necessary since in the previous chapter they met at the city's entrance in hurry to leave it

[AkatsukiYu]

We need more stories...

[Yosei]

@ shelter: I enjoyed your work on Tabitha's arc for Shards of Confluence. The narrative style I felt a bit unusual after writing three of Akatsuki's arcs in the same style I always use. But as always, I commend the style you chose.

[Snider]

If anyone is wondering which is the double arc symbol on Pelis sword its this one:



Deviantart doenst let you put pics next with text...

Spoiler for First 4 chapters of Claymore Alternative arc 1 (out of 3 arcs):

CANCELLED DUE TO OFFENSIVE FEEDBACK

[clarakiss~]

let the isley's death fics begin... ? lol

[AkatsukiYu]

Originally Posted by Snider

If anyone is wondering which is the double arc symbol on Pelis sword its this one:



Deviantart doenst let you put pics next with text...

Spoiler for First 4 chapters of Claymore Alternative arc 1 (out of 3 arcs):

CANCELLED DUE TO OFFENSIVE FEEDBACK

You can report the offense comment in deviantart can't you? There are those people who reviewed "I HATE IT" those people you can report I believe.

[shelter]

Originally Posted by clarakiss~

let the isley's death fics begin... ? lol

Unfortunately yes. But as far as I'm concerned, Yagi got rid of one of the most best characters to write about. Is it his narrative strategy that all the males get killed, except Raki?

[Snider]

Originally Posted by AkatsukiYu

You can report the offense comment in deviantart can't you? There are those people who reviewed "I HATE IT" those people you can report I believe.

It wasnt on deviantart, the comment was so amazing that continuing the story for those people to read would be a crime...

[hell88]

Originally Posted by Snider

It wasnt on deviantart, the comment was so amazing that continuing the story for those people to read would be a crime...

So your not going to continue the story because someone said something about it? If their are people reading that don't like it, then why are they reading it? Plus if you don't keep on trying to write and make your story better each chapter, then as a writer you won't get anywhere.

I was wondering where you were going with this story, as their aren't too many Claymore stories out there that are pretty much all OC characters like yours.

[Snider]

I dont enjoy doing fics what i wanted to do is to adapt it to manga but thats nearly impossible...

[hell88]

Originally Posted by Snider

I dont enjoy doing fics what i wanted to do is to adapt it to manga but thats nearly impossible...

Then why did you try to write a fic then?

[Snider]

Why? I was bored lol. I will try to organize it offline, i wasn't getting many ideas anyways.

[Tempest35]

Y'know, now I want to write a Raid (insecticide) commercial for Easley...
The poor guy.

[Defiled one]

Originally Posted by shelter

Unfortunately yes. But as far as I'm concerned, Yagi got rid of one of the most best characters to write about. Is it his narrative strategy that all the males get killed, except Raki?

Raki has Axe cause you know, he looks good in leather! Cause he, looks good in leather!

By the way, why won`t you write about the past? You can do that without interfering with the present and or getting a paradox type of fic.

[shelter]

Originally Posted by Defiled one

By the way, why won`t you write about the past? You can do that without interfering with the present and or getting a paradox type of fic.

Hello Defiled One. Long time no see you on the forums

Writing about the past is tough, because you need to keep in mind what happens in the present. That limits what you can write. Not sure what you mean by paradox, but yeah sometimes changing the past can be good.

But if you want to write a fic about the future of the Claymores (defeating the Organization, Clare & Raki unite etc.), we'll probably have to do it without Isley.

[Defiled one]

I kinda of like the Org and their Eugenic agenda. Boy, they sure know how to make scary good looking women, or undead....

[shelter]

This thread needs more stuff since it's gone so quiet. So I'm posting the last (unedited) chapter of the Tabitha story I've written for AkatskiYu.

I would like comments, especially on how I ended off this chapter. I also had trouble writing the lemon scene (so I split it up). Anyone give me advice on that?

Title: Half in Love
Chapter: Three (Final)
WARNING: Implied sex & violence.

Spoiler for Half in Love:

3. Half in Love

UNEDITED

5.
“Bitch.”

“Look at yourself first.”

She knows this fight was dying to happen. Tabitha knows the words were all armed and unsheathed, eager to spear in retort from her mouth. But when it actually happens, she finds herself alone, and everyone against her.

“You’re nothing but a dog,” Eliza taunts. Her eyelashes are painted with frost and snow. “Miria’s dog!”

“And a dog should be punished.”

When Tabitha squirms free of the knee clamping down on her right arm, Eliza drags her left arm into an acute angle, then lowers a second knee. She feels the pressing weight of Eliza’s muscular, uncoiled kneecap on the small on her back. Another warrior, their guard duty replacements, has settled a sharp, angular metal boot against a thigh.

“Now who’s a bitch?”

She sees Eliza’s fist – then her nose bursts into pain, an accelerating pain so strong it makes her scream even though Eliza’s weight had begun to force the snow down her throat – when she sees again: she only sees blood mucking the snow, unusually red.

There is a brief moment when Tabitha thinks the pain is disappearing. The swirling snow seems to cloud Eliza as she departs from view, and the echoing sniggering – almost howling – diminishes –

“Give me her Claymore.”

“Hold still, bitch.”

She wants to get up and run, but the metal boot from someone locks her thigh into the snow. She feels her muscles buckle under its sharpness. And then she feels Eliza’s entire arm’s weight on her ponytail, and then a stabbing pain between her buttocks, and then warmth – warmth greater than that which she feels when she is around someone like Miria – burns through her waist till it floods her crotch.


6.
The next thing she knows she is standing in the crumbling shell of a building. Blood has frozen on her lips and face, like an extra layer of skin so thick she has trouble breathing. Her Claymore is set into the snow in front of her, patterned with sweeping crimson stains.

She picks up the blade. She catches the burning lights of the tavern in this distance, made insignificant by the intensity of the storm. She thinks of James, in bed, snug like a set of warm fatigues, unstained, untouched –

Pathetic you are. She does not let this incident stir her. Instead, she sheathes her Claymore, pats down the rear-guard of her faulds so that the tear in her uniform would not so look so obvious, and departs. She looks for water: she needs to clean the twisting strains of blood from her thighs.


7.
“You look as if you came back from a war.”

She is startled that James is standing – standing the doorway of the miserable room, blanket curled around his pale frame, torso showing. He is taller than she expected, but thinner. No wonder he got so badly injured, she thinks.

She sees his eyes lower themselves to her waist. And her eyes dart away –

James’ face crumples like leaves in autumn, his voice is lower, an growling undertone pervades the question she expects him to ask: “Who did this to you?”

But she knows she will not answer the question. She knows she will not – she cannot – tell him. Because –

“Tabitha?”

He takes her into the room, and without another word seats her on the bed. Tabitha feels in a daze now, unsure of what to think; but she feels the dancing tapers around her and she imagines she is James, awake on the bleak surface of the bed, a symbol of injury and failure. She almost thinks she will see herself troop into the room and stand guard by the window.

“Lie down. Stay still.”

But she disobeys him: she remains upright. Lying down reminds her – of being pinned down in the snow. So she sits. She does not even bother to remove the sheath and its Claymore. And even though only a threadbare layer of linen makes up the bed, pain bursts through her as she remains seated.

The person who barges in, with a rag in hand, fully clothed now, is not her, but James. With one pull he jerks the sheathed Claymore off her back and props it against the bed-frame. She closes her eyes, and as she anticipates, a gentle hand at her shoulder relaxes her onto the bed.

“My turn to look after you,” he insists.


8.
“I want you to tell me who did this.”

She has not opened her eyes. In the blackness of that interval, she appreciates James’ ability not to ask questions, but to put her at ease. Now that someone has finally shattered that quietness, she occupies herself in the silence. Her mouth fails to move. Her lips are burdened with a moist film, the blood washed away by James’ careful hands. Her throat ignites upon syllables of Eliza’s name, but she catches herself in time.

She feels James’ guiding hand – yet another warmth feeling, contained in the spine-like touch of his fingers, the oppressive clutch of his thumb, and the coarse filthy rag these fingers are clutching – between her legs. Before she can control herself she herself is overcome with a self-conscious heatiness; it only threatens her to cry out even more when the unforgiving, inhuman fabric scrapes against her thighs, peeling off the frozen blood with purifying water –

It is only the beginning. She can hear James breathing heavily, the audible displaced sigh of effort as he wrings the cloth loose of water, and the cackling laughter of heavy water droplets against dead wood. A second of emptiness and James moves in again – she thinks him a nurse, a good Samaritan, someone much like –

Much like after the disastrous battle just a handful of days ago – when she had been wounded – and there as she tried to nurse himself back to her feet, the open-clawed fist of the Awakened being she had helped to chop down still embedded in her torso, she remembers the exact, desperate pain – and how as shadows swarmed around her, she could hear one strong, able voice blooming through faint recognition:

“Use your yoki,” it had said.

And she had obeyed – and she voice remained beside her, urging her to gather her strength, ministering to her wounds, steadying her pulse with additional yoki. Finally, it seemed – finally when the call of victory had reverberated through that melancholic alley, she had looked up to see Miria’s face, angelic and gloriously tattooed with her blood. My blood, she thought.

And now again – my blood! – as James hands smoothen the inside of her thighs, she finally knows: so much like – Miria.

But where had Miria gone?

And Tabitha, humiliated, body stiffening, lets the tears fall.

When she finally opens her eyes, slicing the heavy black overlay of her insistent memory into two, she remerges into the room. It shakes as she jerks upright, and all the stray pieces of furniture scatter at the shedding of her yoki. As yoki pulsates from her body – her wretched, used body – she sees James’ eyes go wide.

Use your yoki.

“Tabitha!”

She tries to heal the wounds herself, in her recklessness she has reopened them, and fresh blood stains the seat of her uniform, and mars the immaculate greyness of the linen. She has no effort to hold herself back anymore: she seizes James hand, twists it towards her like a final, hopeful lifeline – James yells in pain as the joints holding that hand secure come apart – and she buries it between her legs, in her own desperate attempt to stop her bleeding.

She exhausts her own ability to control herself, but she is losing so much blood that the yoki dissipates on its own. She reels from the exertion, and she collapses, back into the bed, overcome with sweat.

She can only feel it now, as James unclenches his hands. But she feels the twirling, spindly points of his fingers bury into the deepest folds of herself, she feels warmth scurrying through the walls of the most peaceful flesh.

She lets her eyes slip away into darkness again, and she can only summon herself to murmur:

“I did this to myself.”

But she cannot remember if James is even listening.


9.
“Why do you put yourself through this?”

She cannot tell how long she has been asleep, or whether sleep has healed her wounds. But against the coveted, self-imposed darkness of her eyes, she can tell the yoki signature of her visitors: definitely Queenie, Eliza, one unfamiliar one, and Miria herself. She wants to tell them all she is on the verge of awakening herself, and not let them hear it from James.

“I know you can hear me but just won’t open your eyes.”

Beneath the truth of that statement, Tabitha can feel her wounds entombed in dry blood, and the moist crease along her legs the work of James’ meticulous cleansing. In and out of her own conscience she feels yoki signatures, but there is one that contradicts all of them: that of James blazing, conspicuous humanity: she imagines him leaning over her.

She imagines herself reaching out to him. She imagines her own hand doing what it did before. She imagines the stunned countenance, the brash response of his own proud impropriety and his attempt to pull away. She imagines the same obtrusive human-ness pulling itself into her, ridding herself of all the yoki and the shame which comes with being wounded by her own blade.

And, most of all, she imagines James taking all that filth out of her; she tries to envision it inside her own head. But she can only imagine him consuming away her uncleanness. She can imagine him placing himself beneath her waist, until her whole pelvis becomes a basin from which he can drink away her sorrows.

“Tabitha? You listening?”

Forcefully, she opens her eyes. But James is not drinking: she is hovering an inch above her face.


10.
The next time Tabitha sees Miria is when she takes over the watch for her squad leader, at a different area in town. The warrior named Clare is her partner.

As she settles into the dugout with her, Miria touches her shoulder, and she turns to her like a moth to a flame.

“When I visited you, James said something about a wound,” Miria’s eyes are so narrow that her eyelashes are draped in snow and ice. Her leader’s concern, visible in the hand which is still fastened on her shoulder, is like a wound itself. One that seems to render the last few days’ completely worthless.

“Did anything happen out there with Eliza and the others?” Miria asks, her voice cloaked in smoky warmth. “Or with James?”

Across the ruins and frost-polluted standing structures of Pieta, Tabitha can almost see the exact spot where, she had crawled after the fight with Eliza, the blood flushing itself from in between her buttocks and carving swirls on her legs. And further beyond there, she can see, in almost exact certainty, her own room. The bed which James had gotten up from and which she had laid down on solid sick and wounded for the entire week.

Or with James?

The phrase sounds suggestive. But James is there: his face so close to her face she can make out the watery screen of his eyes. And then she is awake. And then she has taken his face because she knows he will refuse. And then, he is drinking from beneath her, drinking deeper and deeper.

“No, Miria. Nothing happened.”

END.