Charlotte Francis
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cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Charlotte Francis
@cfranciswrites.bsky.social
1.8K followers 900 following 3.3K posts
(Charlotte Harris) 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿🇳🇱
SFF writer
On submission with my debut novel
Rep: @helenlane.bsky.social

Website: https://charlotte-francis.com
IG: https://www.instagram.com/c_francis_writes/
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cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Charlotte Francis @cfranciswrites.bsky.social · 11d
Made these slides for Instagram, but I figured this would double as a good pinned post for the top of my profile here... and I also need to justify the many hours I poured into these! Procrastination is my jam.

If you just landed here: Hi. I'm Charlotte. This is my story.
Introducing the series of slides. There's a big poster-style cutout image of me with some handwritten labels (SFF nerd, compulsive writer, ex-teacher, frazzled mum, maker). There are a few polaroid type images at the top: A sunset silhouette picture of me writing in a notebook at the rocky beach; a picture of me as a 3-year-old wearing an 80s style helmet; and a candid, cheerful moment where I'm grinning like an idiot, holding the edges of my sunhat. The main text reads: ABOUT ME I realised I’ve never properly introduced myself. I’m always so busy worrying about the stories in my head, I forgot to tell the story of me. So, with much ado, here I am. It’s lovely to meet you. The background image features a B&W picture of the shelves in my study with general writerly gubbins on display, including a typewriter. 2nd slide in the series. Title: In the Beginning. The main bulk of the slide is a picture of my parents from the 70s—or rather, two pictures, a tear between them. My dad's in front of a blue sky, rocking the 70s flair with shoulder length hair, a shearing tan coat, a black polo neck top, and a silver medallion he made himself. Definitely a character; he was only 20 or so at the time. My mum's picture is more muted. She's indoors, the colours are darker. She's smiling serenely into the camera. The background is lined up with the tear to put her in the darker segment, as if to put her in shadow. I was trying to symbolise the fact I've lost her while my dad lives. And the tear was meant to symbolise their broken marriage when I was a teenager. More handwritten labels surround them. On my dad's side: tells the wackiest, most inventive stories. On my mum's side: exemplary primary teacher, loved reading. There's a cut out image of a Welsh flag on a pole in the bottom right of the slide. The main text reads: I guess my story starts in the 1970s, up in North Wales, with a couple of crazy cats. The background of the image is scrapbook collage style, with a muted colour palette throughout all the slides and torn paper. Slide 3 in the series. Title: Born and Raised. There are lots of childhood photos on this slide. At the top is a big picture of me and my brothers when I was 6. There's a negatives style strip of picture down the left hand side with various pictures: 3-yo me doing my own face paint at a street party, 9-yo me playing baseball, holding the bat; 2-yo me decorating my face with dinner; 7-yo me with our kitten; 8yo me playing the flute. There's a Dutch cut out image of a flag beside it. And beside that is polaroid style image of me and my oldest brother in novelty giant clogs at the Kinderdijk in the Netherlands. The label reads: cultivating outsized expectations since 1989. The main text reads: Born in the mid eighties, the youngest of three, I grew up bilingual in the Netherlands. Slide 4 in the series. Title: Early Days The background features a copy of the first story I ever word-processed when I was 10/11ish, complete with my bilingual spelling and grammar mistakes. I'd just started writing in English that year (though I could read it before). My first language was Dutch at the time after being at a Dutch school since nursery. This was my first year in the international British School, and I was still taking ESL classes. Word processing changed story-telling for me because spell check caught most of my abysmal spellings. Before this, I wrote stories primarily in Dutch in notebooks. There's a cut out picture of me around 10 years old leaning on a polaroid style image of my bedroom desk when I was around 15. It's a blast from the past, around the turn of the millennium, with an old powermac on the desk, a huge scanner, a cd player and speakers, and a stack of CDs. Unusually tidy that day—not sure why. The label reads: ancient historical artefact: a teen writer's sanctum at the turn of the millennium. The final polaroid is of my childhood diary. It's over 30cm tall, with more than a dozen notebooks all stuck together with a cover made from collaged magazine clippings (look close and you'll see some 90s icons). The labels read: My entire childhood in one diary... and ...and so many stories. The main text reads: Telling stories is how I process the world. Before I could write, I recorded stories on a dictaphone. Then came notebooks (lots of notebooks), until my dad gave me his old pizza box Mac when I was 10. Word processing changed everything. I have thousands of stories on my hard drive, spanning 30 years. Including the very first.
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Nothing remotely troll word-shaped in my WIP, so I've gone with vibes. Outsized, grizzled, intimidating character that talks in grunts? Yup, got one of those. Meet Bollard.

Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo.

#WIPSnips
The shadow stalked towards Ess, revealing a woman who had more in common with a bollard than a person. Every part of her was outsized, from her strapping arms to her square head. She thumped across the stone floor, her boots more like boats than footwear. And over one meaty shoulder, the unmistakable tip of a musket barrel bobbed in time with her stride. “Morning.” Ess stuck out her hands. Didn’t feel like much compared to the siege engine bearing down on her, but it was all she had. Oh, and her false smile. She was good at those. “Lovely day out there. I’m… assuming? Bit hard to tell from—well, from here.” The bollard grunted and took another step. Ess shrank back into the damp wall, knowing she should shut up, but her tongue refused silence, the traitor. “Not that I’m complaining. This cell? Top-notch. Honestly, you should’ve seen where they stuck me when I nicked a sack of rice.” She laughed. A thin, useless thing, punctuated by each clomp on stone. “I had to share a room half this size with nine full-grown women. I was only eleven. One of them thought I’d make a good a cushion. I, um… didn’t.” The woman stopped less than a yard away, looming over Ess like the end of the world. One hand went to her waist; no doubt a concealed weapon beneath her coat. A sabre, or a flintlock maybe. Gods, what did it matter? Even cursed hands couldn’t stop real weapons.
January 20, 2026 at 9:44 AM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
gunsmile.bsky.social
MY AUTHOR COPIES ARRIVED!!! 🤩
Paperback books with red and black covers are packed in three stacks in a cardboard box and padded with thick brown paper. The books are identical: THE DEVOURING by A. M. Shilling. Several copies of THE DEVOURING by A. M. Shilling on a black bookshelf. Most are stored vertically while one is lying horizontally on top of them, and another is propped up against the others, its cover facing out.
January 19, 2026 at 11:24 PM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo. Having just been captured, she tries to get to know the woman assigned as her personal servant. A woman she falsely believes to be a prisoner like herself.

#WIPSnips
She fell into step beside Talissa, resisting the giddy urge to skip. Just because the flintlock was out of sight, didn’t mean it wasn’t still aimed at her head. “So,” she said, slipping on her best bravado, “what’s your excuse? Did he threaten you too? Or do you just have a thing for sadistic bastards with thin lips?” Talissa laughed under her breath, but she didn’t break stride. She walked with her head tall, comfortable in the silence, as if she owned it. Ess refused to let her keep it. “You know, if you don’t answer, I get to make up the most scandalous reason for you being here. And I’m exceptionally good at scandal.” Talissa shot her a sidelong glance. “By all means. Let’s hear it.” “Illegitimate daughter?” “Oh, you can do better than that.” “Love affair?” “Hmm. A little pedestrian.” “Did you lose a bet?” “Lacks ambition, Essian.” Ess swallowed. “Did you kill someone?” “Do I seem the type?” Best not answer that. “It’s worse, isn’t it?” Ess flexed her fingers in front of herself. “You’re like me, aren’t you?” Talissa slowed, the amusement draining from her face. “Unfortunately not. I don’t have your gifts. If I did, we wouldn’t need you.” She ducked into a stairwell without a backwards glance, leaving Ess standing alone in the peristyle. She frowned, turning Talissa’s words over in her head. We wouldn’t need you…? Interesting.
January 19, 2026 at 10:33 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo. During an interrogation, she plays a dangerous game with the suspicious son of her mark, who sees through her lies. The plan is to discomfit him. It backfires.

#WIPSnips
He held her stare until she let her hand fall back to the lacquered surface. “And why is that?” “You’re asking me to unravel centuries of Xarothian cultural leniency versus our own more modest sensibilities? I hope you have no plans for the rest of the day, praetor.” He inhaled slowly. “A summary, then. Surely your quick tongue can distil the essentials.” “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps our ties to Spardhan tradition run deep?” She shrugged idly. “Or maybe it’s just colder in the east. We’re less inclined to get our skin out.” Caladon’s gaze flicked to her bare hand again, the one she absolutely hadn’t just arched on purpose, fingers splaying across the lacquered wood. His face continued to lie for him, but his body flailed. Pulse much too fast. Muscles primed. Heat building in every sinew. His voice, though, remained impressively calm. “It can’t be that much colder in Ilyos.” “You’d be surprised.” “Tell me the latitude.” “When at’s a latitude?” “A game praetessas play when they think they’re being clever.” She rested her chin on her clean palm, her smile sly. “I am clever.” “Prove it.” “Forty-one degrees south.” “Longitude?” “Hmm.” Ess pretended to think. “East, a hundred and… something?” Caladon tracked her finger as she drew it along her open lower lip, and this time, he struggled to recover, his breath turning shallow. The tiny stutter in his composure sent sparks shooting through Ess’s belly, thrilling, alarming. And wholly her own. Shit.
January 18, 2026 at 9:43 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
My life coach just cut me off. That stare is unequivocal: “It’s past 1am, and you have a busy day tomorrow. Stop writing and go to bed, you mad woman.” Good call, Pax.
Fluffy tabby cat Pax has flopped down on the edge of my laptop, paws sprawled across the keyboard.
January 18, 2026 at 1:18 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Does anyone else struggle to DNF a book even when they hate it? I'm reading a book I hate to admit I utterly loathe—a bestseller by a famous author I used to love. Very slow going because I can only handle small doses at a time. But the completionist in me can't let it go. Anyone else like this?
January 17, 2026 at 10:59 PM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo. Forced into a plot to infiltrate the forum, she's disgusted by the way the elites live.

So much gold in this snip.

@kayleighdiaz.com 👀

#WIPSnips
Ess approached a gilded table in the middle of the room, awash with gold, silver, precious stones. The heap shimmered like sunlight on a restless ocean. Jewels meant to imprison a person in a life of obligation, not set them free. Except, if she was careful, if she was quick… A single fistful would be enough. She would never have to steal again. Book passage on a ship, a cabin of her own, sail to a place far from Theras. One of those lands beyond the Aegid Sea. Pappa said there was a whole world out there. Places where people didn’t cover their skin, where people weren’t afraid of touch. Where people were free. One evening of pretending? She laughed. “Something amuses you?” Galen’s voice carried a note of warning. But Ess ignored him, ambling to the nearest rack of gowns to brush her fingers across the vibrant fabrics, naming each one in turn. “Predictable. Ridiculous. Obscene.” And then… gold? Not fabric, not really. This looked molten, metal spun into silk. Ess plucked the hanger off the rail and raised it to the light, marvelling at the way it slithered across her wrist like a living thing. “How can you not laugh? A palace built on excess by people who pretend the Mythos are bedtime stories. They should know better.” She held the dress up against herself and turned. “Tell me, Galen. Do you know what happened to Greed?” He stared at her for a long moment, his silence unreadable, until a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “He drowned in gold.” “Drowned in gold,” she whispered to herself, returning the dress to its place.
January 17, 2026 at 9:56 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Not many instances of brain. This random moment is the most standalone.

Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo. When Ess's escape attempt is interrupted by Cal and his clingy fiancée Lysa, underhand insults fly.

#WIPSnips
“The grounds?” Caladon gestured down the corridor. “Straight on, then right. Turn left at the end of the corridor. You’ll find a postern door at the end of the passage.” Ess followed the direction of his hand, deliberately avoiding Lysa’s thin-lipped glower. She dared to breathe, the stone beneath her feet solid again. She might still live to see another sunrise. After what she’d done to Talissa, there could be no going back. “Right, left, postern door,” she whispered, nodding to herself, then: “Thank you. You’re most kind.” Caladon raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to explore the gardens again? You won’t find any unsuspecting widowers out there this time.” That hurt. More so when Lysa let out a breathy laugh. Ess was already speaking before her brain caught up. “How about sea creatures?” “Pardon?” “Any barnacles?” Caladon hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “Barnacles?” “You know, those little shells that attach themselves to stationary objects. Rocks. Ships.” She flicked him a glance, up and down. “Other large, oblivious things. Persistent little blighters. Rather sad, actually. What sort of a life is that? Desperately clinging to something that doesn’t even notice you.” She held a straight face; all the more difficult with Lysa huffing over by the archway.
January 16, 2026 at 9:58 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
I think I'm always trying to evolve with my writing. Each book takes on its own challenges, whether that's adopting an unfamiliar narrative voice register, a POV experiment (current WIP), a different genre (other current WIP—hard sci-fi, not my usual wheelhouse), etc. Core processes remain, though.
hiriadunning.com Hiria Dunning @hiriadunning.com · 4d
#pretendpanel, tell me...

January 16th: Where are you now with the writing process? How has that changed?
e.g. keeping it fun / currently learning processes / adherence to learned processes / breaking out of outgrown processes / something else?

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #WritingPrompts
#pretendpanel a daily prompt tag hosted by @hiriadunning.bsky.social January 16th: Where are you right now with the writing process, and how has that changed? e.g. keeping it loose and fun / currently learning processes / adherence to learned processes / breaking free from processes you have outgrown / something else? Please support your fellow #pretentpanel posters with replies, likes and reposts New #pretendpanel questions every Friday and Saturday. Hop in any time!
January 16, 2026 at 8:10 AM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
woodenvelt.bsky.social
I had to branch out a bit for this one! This is the intro to a new WIP called Demon in a Bottle.

In a world that runs on the magic of bottled demons, Millie is a freelance demon trapper, until she takes a risk that turns her life upside down.

#WipSnips #DemoninaBottle #WritingCommunity
“I’ll give you three cogs for each of the waters and two cogs for the wind.” Jun leaned against the counter, his palms on either side of the wooden crate. Hair, dark and straight as an iron shaft, fell into his eyes as he inspected the rows of clay jars nestled inside. “What about the dirt demons?” Millie crossed her arms and gave him a shrewd stare from beneath the broad brim of her straw hat. Her haggling face. She still remembered when Jun had been a grease boy, lower than the slag caked on a smelter’s boots. A crisp white shirt and a foreman’s apron wouldn’t intimidate her into taking less than her wares were worth. “Best I can do is a lug a piece.” Jun shrugged like it was out of his hands. “Last time you paid three.” “Yeah.” Jun scoffed, tossing his hair out of his eyes with a shake of his head. “And after you left, the floor manager threatened to dock my pay if I wasted good money on sludgers again.” Millie could tell Jun was dead set on the price by the tense line of his shoulders and the stubborn jut of his chin. She’d have to try a softer approach. “Come on, Jun-Po.” Leaning forward, Millie pushed the brim of her hat up so Jun could see her wide, pleading eyes. “I can’t ride out Stormtide on this.” She didn’t even have to fake the quiver of worry in her voice. Jun’s shoulders slumped on a heavy sigh. He wouldn’t go up to three lugs, not after getting dressed down by the floor manager, but maybe she could pry two out of him by stirring up the ghosts of better days.
January 15, 2026 at 12:24 PM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
karamoonauthor.com
Here's a #snippet from my current revision of A Prayer for the Pirate Queen 🏴‍☠️💜⚓️
Text surrounded by 20 squares of drawings including a parrot, a flower, a nereid, a sphinx, a harpy, a cherub, a hippocampus, an albatross, a cat on a ship, a mermaid, a sperm whale, a serpentine dragon, a satyr, a dryad Text reads: Kallista could not deny her first officer and best friend a taste of what was on her mind, even if she wanted to hold back the full spiral of her worries. "Can we really do this? Resisting the Capital? Living on the sea, not as officers of the Iunian Navy, but as rebels?" Iona nodded, her grin achieving shark-like proportions. "If anyone can, it's us. You're not alone. We're all in, and you know it." But Iona was wrong: Kallista was alone. She was in charge. Whatever followed, it would be all her responsibility.  All her fault.
January 15, 2026 at 5:54 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
No 'manager'. Gone with 'manage'.

Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo. Forced into a plot to infiltrate the forum, her biggest threat is her mark's suspicious son—and her own traitorous body's reaction to him.

#WIPSnips
Reaching the head of the table, Ess drifted past the majestor’s empty seat to study the friezes adorning the marble arches. Not at all an excuse to gather herself, to remember Talissa’s teachings, to reinforce every mental barricade against the praetor’s relentless existence. One last deep breath. Ready. She pivoted towards her seat— An unholy screech shattered the silence, wood against tile. Ess flinched, eyes flicking up. Caladon stood opposite, his chair shoved back, eyes like a pair of lodestones. Damn him; he’d stumbled into a bath since this afternoon. And a wardrobe. And somehow, impossibly, had managed to improve on perfection. Still dishevelled, his wavy hair refused to lie flat, the stubble dusting his jaw an affront to both grooming and decency alike. And those top three shirt buttons, defiantly undone? The treacherous things guided Ess’s gaze past the raised collar of his coat to a waistcoat that clung to his sculpted physique as if stitched onto him— “Praetessa?” His low voice snapped her out of her daze. Oh, gods, she was staring. How long had she been standing here like a lemon, eyes travelling him up and down? Ess cleared her throat. First point to him; she wouldn’t give any more away. He held no leverage over her. A praetessa was equal to a praetor. And while she wore this disguise, she wouldn’t let either of them forget it. Not breaking eye contact, she lowered into a curtsy, the sort of slow dip that used to send Bryn’s blood rushing. If there was any justice in the world, it would have the same effect here. “Praetor,” she said, more purr than pronunciation.
January 15, 2026 at 9:33 AM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
kayleighdiaz.com
#WIPSnips | current

⛴️

From my post-apocalyptic #WIP featuring a misfit trio of kids.

#WritingCommunity #WriteSky #amwriting
Writing snippet: “Watch the current,” Amos muttered while Maeve maneuvered to the port side and killed the engine. The sun hit the meridian, and Lennie put a hand up to shield her eyes as the faces of those above disappeared in a rush of blinding light.
January 14, 2026 at 8:48 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo. Forced into a plot to infiltrate the forum, her biggest obstacle (quite literally in this snippet) is her mark's suspicious (and infuriatingly handsome) son.

#WIPSnips
Ess took a deep breath, trying to gather herself. Etiquette demanded she stand closest to the majestor to complete her introduction. Only one problem: that spot was currently occupied by a man who looked like he’d rather launch her into the sun than step aside. She edged forward, trying to summon her training. Become grace, just as Talissa had taught her. Careful steps, deep breaths, the tilt of her chin a not-at-all contradictory balance between submission and strength. Judging by the murmurs rustling through the crowd, she wasn’t succeeding. Caladon didn’t budge when she reached his side, his height and broad shoulders as immovable as a mountain. Heat rolled off him, thick with something more volatile than anger. Something that crackled at her senses, stirring her Touch. Something she absolutely, under no circumstances, should be noticing. Oh, gods, why was she noticing? She clenched her hands in front of her bodice, her thumb rubbing a frantic rhythm against her palm. Focus. Couldn’t let this man ruin everything; not another one. Not when she was still bleeding from the last one. All she had to do was survive long enough to escape the palace, perhaps steal something gold and ridiculous on her way out. She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, bringing to mind the words drilled into her like a battle strategy. She opened her mouth. And utter gibberish came out.
January 14, 2026 at 9:40 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Isaac is hyper aware of his flaws to the point he's an unreliable narrator. He hides behind a mask of humour, but everything is distorted through a lens of self-loathing, which affects every relationship in his life. Mainly, he doesn't feel worthy of love of any kind.

#AwesomeCharacters
charliedeltawrites.bsky.social ❄️Charlie (Chelizabeth) Delta ☃️ @charliedeltawrites.bsky.social · 7d
Tell me more about your #AwesomeCharacters

Let's talk self-reflection. How good is your character at assessing their flaws?

Do they usually have a good sense of how they are coming across to others?

If not, which way are they usually wrong?

#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts
January 14, 2026 at 6:48 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Sitting here, minding my own business, and three cracking book ideas strike in quick succession. A nonsense jumble of genres (including a tennis-focused contemporary fiction idea—where the hell did that come from?) and no time to write them. But they're going in my future novels folder nonetheless!
January 13, 2026 at 9:32 PM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
professoremily.bsky.social
TENEMENT

House of Leaves x The Giver

Inside, the Tenement is an infinite maze of halls.

Outside, there is... Nothing.

When Noah Walker's mom mysteriously goes missing, he vows to learn the secrets of his strange world. Even if it means tearing the whole thing down.

#Bluepit #Bluepit📖 #YA #M #D
A dimly lit frame with the first four Rules of the Tenement: RULE ONE Under no circumstances shall anyone leave the Tenement. RULE TWO The Front Door is to remain shut and locked at all times. RULE THREE Any windows that appear are to remain closed, with the curtains drawn, and should be avoided until they disappear again. Tenants are forbidden from looking upon the outside. RULE FOUR These Rules, being given to us by our Landlord and passed down unchanged from the founding of the Tenement, shall be inscribed into the heart and mind of every tenant for the wellbeing of all A mysterious photo of a woman in a dark hall and a scrap of paper are tucked into the bottom corner. The paper reads "Where is she?"
January 13, 2026 at 3:17 PM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
alexfromawen.bsky.social
AN EDUCATION IN MALICE x PETER PAN

A cranky immortal & a smug pirate are forced to work together in order to save their loved ones from their common enemy: Peter Pan.

⚔️Enemies to Lovers
💀Dark Reimaginings
👩‍❤️‍👩Bi FMC × Lesbian FMC
🫂Found family
🌶️Spicy Sapphics
🩸Pan-pires
#BluePit📖 #A #W #F #H #LGBT
FOREVER IS A VERY LONG TIME The Pitch When Gwen was a girl called Wendy Darling, she met someone who promised her freedom and love, and all it cost her was her humanity and everyone she ever loved. A century later, she’s trying to claw some of it back thanks to a 15yo named Mona, who’s awakened a long lost sense of family. When Capt Hook was a girl called Rosie, she met someone who promised her adventure, and all it cost her was her family and sense of security. After twenty years of fighting monsters shaped like children, this pirate captain is running out of steam, until her long-time nemesis gives her an ultimatum she can’t refuse. Forced to work together, the cranky immortal and smug pirate will have to put aside their animosity and work together to save a family neither knew they needed. Along the way, they might find the love of a lifetime…if they don’t kill each other first. Artwork from Peter & Wendy (1911 ed.) by J.M. Barrie, illustrated by F.D. Bedford FOREVER IS A VERY LONG TIME Comps & Tropes The cover image of the 1911 edition of Peter and Wendy by J.M. Barrie X The cover for An Education in Malice by ST Gibson *Wendy Darling (but not like you remember her) *Captain Hook (but she's a masc lesbian) *Non-binary Peter Pan *What happened after... *Pirate Disaster Gays! *Dark Reimaginings *Spicy Sapphics *Dual POV *Enemies to Lovers *Vampire (Pan-Pires?) *Hurt & Comfort *Generational Trauma *Found Family Artwork from Peter & Wendy (1911 ed.) by J.M. Barrie, illustrated by F.D. Bedford
January 13, 2026 at 4:06 PM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
nushdeco.bsky.social
Hello #PortfolioDay !! Im Nush and I like to do character art (and the occasional shtpost :D)

#art
Two girls with light in front of city Two people dancing Two people walking with lynx and bird Four people looking up at camera
January 13, 2026 at 1:32 PM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
professoremily.bsky.social
CHARAGMA

In a world where all people are marked saved or damned from birth, twins Clara & Mem Blake find themselves on opposite sides of an escalating war between the chosen Elect & the oppressed Reprobates - a war ultimately for the soul of humanity.

#Bluepit #Bluepit📖 #W #A #SFF
Moodboard for ARX LUCIS: CITY OF THE BLESSED, featuring an epic angel with a lot of wings, a forehead with a glowing mark like a cross, a sci fi light bike, a hot guy in a hood holding a knife, a stained glass window, a busy night street with old buildings and colorful glowing lights, a profile of a beautiful young woman, an overview of a flying city in the clouds with a huge angel statue in the middle Moodboard for TERRA TENEBRAE: LAND OF THE DAMNED, featuring a beautiful young woman holding a sword, a dark ramshackle hallway, a badass demon with a flaming head and sword, a devastated burnt landscape, a massive complex of crowded apartments, a lightning bolt striking the ground from a dramatic cloud, a gray apocalyptic landscape of beautiful ruins, two young women in love happily dancing with their foreheads together under some lights
January 13, 2026 at 4:22 PM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
professoremily.bsky.social
THE GODS OF ATALANTIS

ATLA x The Selection

When Mireia is chosen as the newest incarnation of the Sea Mother, her simple life is upended. Now she & her counterpart, the Sun Father, must navigate their feelings for each other amid rising religious & political turmoil.

#Bluepit #Bluepit📖 #YA #F
Atlantis Moodboard featuring: Ancient board games, temples with waterfalls pouring into pools, neat ancient fantasy cities, forehead kisses, frolicking in canals amid a palace, beautiful island coastlines, more ancient cities, and cool statues of strange gods. Center Quote: “From the day you left this village, you became more than merely yourself. You are the Sea Mother. This is the role fate has placed upon you. I told you when you left that I believed this path has opened up to you for a reason. I still believe that. You’ve been given a chance that few others ever have—the chance to change the world for the better. I’d even dare say it’s your duty to do so, now that you have the means.”
January 13, 2026 at 1:00 PM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo. Forced into a plot to infiltrate the forum, she tries to escape, only to find herself in an unwelcome rivalry and an even more unwelcome attraction to her mark's son.

#WIPSnips
Caladon dragged in a long breath and folded his arms, more a commander dressing down his troops than a praetor conversing with two primas of the forum. “I trust you both understand exactly where you are. Unless you swore fealty to the state over dinner, neither of you has any business here. So, I ask again: what are you doing in my barracks?” Lysa clasped her trembling hands together in her skirts. “Forgive me, Cal. I was readying for bed when my ancilla informed me she found the praetessa wandering the barracks. I only followed out of concern.” Ess bit back a reckless response, opting instead for an innocent smile. “Yes, how lucky I am for your concern, Lysa. Truly, you and your ancilla must have wings. One moment I’m speaking with her and the next you’re here. In your nightgown. At this hour. Deep inside the barracks.” Alright, perhaps ‘like fuck you did’ would have been more dignified. A scowl twisted onto Lysa’s face, but before she could launch into scathing riposte, Caladon’s hand shot up. He ground his teeth, muscles twitching under his skin. Turning from Lysa, he fixed the full weight of his attention on Ess. It was astonishing, really, how one man could fill a corridor, how the simple fact of his presence could drive the breath from her lungs. She took a step back, thumping into the wall. Then hated herself because that wasn’t part of her act. Yes, it fit perfectly with the praetessa in distress role, but the reflex was real. Damn it, why him? She’d encountered beauty before, charm so slick it slipped into places she thought were impenetrable. But Caladon was different. He wasn’t charming; he was dangerous. Like hunger, like war, like the sort of wanting she couldn’t afford.
January 13, 2026 at 9:31 AM
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
Not so much a decision as a reckless compulsion, Isaac changes the course of his life when he uses his criminal employer's funds to save a mute child from human trafficking in Chapter 1.
cometkins.bsky.social Ian Haramaki 🏳️‍⚧️✨ @FurCon @cometkins.bsky.social · 8d
What’s a decision your MC makes that significantly alters the course of their journey? #WritingPrompt
January 13, 2026 at 7:10 AM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
gunsmile.bsky.social
JOHN WICK x THE COLOR OUT OF SPACE

For readers who like:
🩸 dangerous criminal underworlds
🩸 secret occult organizations
🩸 married villain protagonists
🩸 terrifying body horror
🩸 the threat of an Elder God

Preorder today: books2read.com/u/mvDRWX

#BluePit #BluePit📖 #A #H #P
A page from an old book showing a skull drawing and the word MORTEM, a well-dressed couple in shadow staring at you with glowing eyes, two skyscrapers looming overhead in the fog, several pistols lying in a cushioned case, a black hole, two doctors performing surgery, a man with his back turned and a woman's hand cradling his head, a cork board of documents and string, six figures cloaked in black and gathered in a semi-circle.
January 13, 2026 at 5:00 AM
Reposted by Charlotte Francis
isaacxisaac.bsky.social
Gay crimes!
Trans wrongs!
Enemies to enemies!

Back again with my #OV #LGBT #HU #YA(?) #W IP for #BluePit 📖! A romp through a colorful, heightened #HS torical playground.

Can one defeat the patriarchs with the very weapons of masculinity? Well, one angry trans boy can sure try stabbing them a lot.
"L'entrée du prince de Ligne à Londres 1660", painted by François Duchatel in 1660, depicting the arrival of a great procession of ambassadors walking in fine clothes and riding in coaches, watched by a huge crowd of Londoners. Text over it reads: THE DUEL IN 1660: a queer swashbuckling farce. "The arrival of King Charles II of England in Rotterdam, may 24 1660" by Lieve Verschuier, showing many ships with the Flag of Holland/States Flag. The grand ship bearing Charles II has his royal arms carven on the stern. Text over it reads: England, 1660: the restoration of the monarchy. In Charles II's triumphant wake, a Royalist family quietly returns, but not with their single daughter—instead, with their single son. 15-year-old Alexander—vain, hot-tempered, and warm of heart—expects to strut in as an aristocratic peacock. But when his ambitions are frustrated, he's sucked instead into intrigues of questionable honour and forced to reckon with what it really means to be a man. "Man Writing a Letter" by Gabriël Metsu, painted around 1665. A Dutch young man, beautiful and androgynous with long blond hair, wears black doublet, breeches, and stockings and a luxurious white shirt and falling band. His expression is tranquil and far-off as he writes a letter on a table draped with an imported carpet. Text over it reads: Pray enjoy this tempest in a teapot, crafted of the purest tropes and set in the Age of the Rakehells, featuring: glamour and grime of 17th century Westminster. goofy action punctuated by primal screams of rage. problematic characters for miles. petticoat breeches parkour. queer mentorship. romantic friendship (or maybe 'tis just gay, oops). boys who cry. a lot. and somehow, everything turning out all right in the end. Detail of "View from the Mussel Pier in Amsterdam", painted by Ludolf Bakhuizen in 1673, showing a peaceful sky over a ship with two gulls. Text over it reads: Alexander stood at the edge of the deck, one hand clutching the railing, the other fastened tight on the brim of his hat as he leaned out over the waves. He was not much afraid of falling in, though he had never swum anything choppier than a pond. Rather, he was afraid that his Acadian fur hat, the most expensive for sale in the shop on the Kalverstraat, might fly off his small crown and flap with its feathers all the way to water—which, like the sky, could not quite decide between blue and grey. There was no one to see him aside from the sailors and now Klein, climbing up from below. Still, he had meticulously dressed that morning, down to every last ribbon. He’d had a very specific vision of himself when the suit was being ordered: the azure he’d picked was not just brighter than everything around him on the fluyt but even the true sky itself, and he sparkled with silver, when the wind tugged his doublet and loose breeches, and gold, when the little light managed to catch on his sword’s hilt. It was imperative, one must understand, that he look extremely stylish doing battle, should pirates suddenly appear to satisfy his fantasies. And indeed, at fifteen, he thought himself quite the dashing young man—not the boy he was.
January 13, 2026 at 5:17 AM