#excerpt is from the first chapter

[sabraeal]

For those interested in putting this into their eyeballs, you may find it here on AO3!

“A single set.” Her touch travels to his wrist, rubbing over the delicate nub at its waist. “That is all I am asking."

“Your father.” The words are little more than a breath. His body stills beneath her, save for the frantic pulse beneath her fingertips. “He will not approve of it.”

A weak parry. It would take a sterner father than her own to deny a single dance. “Then let us dance out of sight. We will not be missed.”

“My lady–”

What he means to say is lost; her fingers smooth along the vein, and what words he has elide into something softer than a moan.

“Lowen.” She teases the edge of his cuff, a nail slipping just beneath. “Do you not trust yourself alone with a lady?”

“A lady? Yes.” His breath rattles out of his chest. “With you…?”

—x—

Finally finished! My very first work for kiss art february, bodyguard au hakizana co op with @sabraeal :D based on ‘Il bacio’ by Francesco Hayes

[theorist-fox]

Touch starved as he may be, there is still deep-rooted discomfort whenever his hunger is fundamentally fed. Sex he can endure. It’s a physical need: your hands on him when he’s practically buried in your guts are a natural necessity for your balance.

But when your touch isn’t inherently sexual, that’s where he struggles. 

When you linger nearby, fingers in his hair or cheek on his shoulder, he can’t fathom why. You have so many possibilities, so many spotlights ready to point your way, that he fails to understand why you would want to wander in the dark instead. 

Why you, unbelievably patient, put up with a path so brutal, with a wall so thick and bricks much too heavy to bear.

He shuts that voice. Stabs it ruthlessly, using the gentleness of your head resting against him as the sharpest weapon. He shows it off, flaunts it around—look at this.

Look at what I can have.

[witless-winion1]

“The blood on your hands is something you won’t lose,” Zeus scolded. “All you can choose is whose.”

The blood of the child…or the blood of my family…

The presence of the god lingered, before slowly dissipating. The small bolts of lighting and the ominous roll of thunder in the background faded off.

Odysseus looked down at the child. So small, so helpless. To ensure his family’s safety would be only too easy; he wouldn’t even need to draw his sword. He only needed to extend his arms, over the stone wall, and let go, watch him fall-

The infant in his arms stirred. Odysseus’ eyes opened, widened.

The baby cooed, squirming enough to free an arm and reach up to him. He looked so trusting. Odysseus couldn’t help but think back to Telemachus. They looked so similar, the innocent wide eyes and pale skin.

This child was fated to destroy him if he chose mercy. His son, his wife.

Odysseus closed his eyes as he slowly stood up. How could anyone but a monster follow the command of the gods?

How could a monster choose the child of an enemy over his family?

His mind conjured up the image of Penelope. Of Telemachus. He couldn’t put them at risk…

It’s just one life to take. And when I kill him, then our journey’s over.

He drew in a shuddering breath, his arms shaking as he slowly extended his arms out inch by inch over the bloody courtyard, preparing to add more.

“HEY! CAPTAIN!” A familiar, confused voice startled him from the strange, dazed blankness of his mind. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

Odysseus felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head as the babe whined, squirming- he pulled it back into his chest before the child could fall from his hands. A light tremble of horror shaking him as he realized what he’d been about to do. He looked slowly over the edge of the wall, seeing a few of his men, done with razing the city and having come to find him. It appeared that Polites had been the one to call to him.

“Nothing!” He called back, wincing asked his voice suffered the worst voice crack he’d had since he was the sixteen and trying to woo Penelope.

His cheeks flamed like Troy when he saw his friends’ eyebrows raise. Eurylochus, standing beside Polites and still holding his massive, bloody sword, cupped a hand around his mouth. “Bring that down here! Let’s see what you got.”

Judging by the expressions on their faces, mostly confusion, they didn’t know what was in his arms, what had been precariously close to being dropped.

He slowly readjusted his hands to hold the child of his enemy closer, turning to make his way off of the wall and join them. “…yes, alright.”

[not-poignant]

Daily excerpt from chapter 1 of Second Star to the Right (A Falling Falling Stars follow-on, featuring the development of Kadek and Efnisien's kink relationship - launches tomorrow!):

‘Did Arden send you my contract thingo?’ Efnisien said. ‘I don’t know, the form with all the limits I have?’  Kadek sat on the same couch facing Efnisien, and instead of a tablet like Arden used, he had a notebook. When Kadek opened it, Efnisien caught his own name in black capital letters, written out in a decisive style in fountain pen. It made him feel more nervous than he expected. Especially now Kadek was staring at him.  ‘Ha, babe, no,’ Kadek said. ‘You reset this every time for a new play partner, especially when it’s a serious scene. Your limits with Arden aren’t your limits with me. The endearments you’re comfortable with aren’t the same as with me. My wants and needs aren’t the same as his and my limits aren’t the same as his. We start fresh. We go through it all from the beginning because I need to know you can talk about this stuff with me. Because if you can’t talk about it, we can’t do it.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, I seem to remember Arden saying the same thing a hundred years ago.’ ‘You look pretty scared shitless for someone pretending they’re old-hat at BDSM.’  Efnisien felt a flash of annoyance and looked away, and Kadek nodded to himself.  ‘So!’ Kadek said. ‘I think of myself as a rigger and a dominant, but they’re two separate things. Sometimes, as a dominant, I’m also a rigger. But when I’m a rigger, I’m not a dominant in the same way. I have a structured and formal domming style, and what I’m looking for is obedience with zero bratting. Like, absolutely no tolerance for bratting. No talking back, no intentional silliness, no looking to make me laugh. I’m not saying you can’t feel upset or challenged, or that you can’t baulk or resist something, but if we do any scenes together like that, it’s...’ He paused, sticking the cap end of the fountain pen into his mouth. ‘You want me to respect the spirit of the scene,’ Efnisien said quietly. 

[skulls-and-wishbones]

Platonic sophfitz is so much fun to write because they’re just these two really dumb kids aren’t they. Before the weight of the world was put on their shoulders, they were just stupid.

Just like oh they’re my babies

[fadedsweater]

WIP Word Game

Rules: Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of the given word.

Thank you @queenaeducan for the tag! 💛

I was given the word PANIC:

P - "Papae," Adhlea said. Solas knew this tone well, and knew then that he had already lost. "Can you put ribbons in my hair?"

A - At night sometimes he could not sleep and it felt then as if she pressed upon his chest with all the weight of fallen Elvhenan. 

N - No mortal, not even a mage, could possess his magic and live. It would consume their very spirit. It would render them worse than dead. It would destroy them. 

I - In the deepest fog of the deepest forest so very long ago, there was a tower swathed in bramble and thorn, and every kingdom in all the land knew to never dare draw close, for an ancient power slumbered there. 

C - Curled beside him in her bedroll, she listened to the low whisper of his voice as he told her a story.

--

I'll tag @broodwoof, @luzial, @darethshirl, @dragon--sage, and @mel-hath-no-fury. No pressure as always, and you don't have to use dragon age fic! 💛 Your word is SLANT

[boleynqueenes]

nowe thus in chronological order (so far)...IF anyone cares <3

December 1518

October 1521 + October 1521

December 1521

February 1522

July 1525

December 1525

1526 (short excerpt), 2

January 1526 (short excerpt)

February 1526 (short excerpt) + short excerpt

February 1526 (Shrovetide)

March 1526 (1)

March 1526 (2)

March 1526 (3)

March 1526 (4)

August 1526

December 1526

1527 (short excerpt)

May 1527

March 1528 + March 1528

June + July 1528 + June 1528

October 1528

December 1528

December 1528 (2)

Late 1530 (short excerpt)

Late 1530 (short excerpt, 2)

October 1530

February 1531

November 1532

February 1533

April 1533

September 1533 (short excerpt)

October 1533 (short excerpt)

December 1533

February 1534 (short excerpt, before 'read more')

Summer 1534 + short excerpt (reblog, 2nd one)

September 1534 + September 1534 + September 1534 + September 1534

December 1534

January 1535

January 1535 (2)

July 1535 (short excerpt)

November 1535

And then the 1535 scenes (thus far) are the only ones which are traditionally linear, so I'll leave those be for now...

January 1536 (recollection: May/June 1535)

[potatobugz]

my reaction to the return of the gay sex book

[rivenantiqnerd]

Runaway Un-Royal Sneak Peek

I hope to be posting more content about this WIP soon, so have a sample chapter! Below the cut because it got long.

Boredom. A memory. Her shy grin. An idea - visit her. What if she was busy?

Night. Not busy. She’d be home. Grab shoes and sword. Head out the door now.

Streets. Empty, dark. Quiet during twilight. His footsteps, echoing loudly. A movement - a stranger walking.

Here. The palace. What to do? He’ll find her room. Will she let him in?

Pebble. Tossed up. Hit her window. He did it again. And again until she responded.

“Hey! Stop it - Oh, it’s you! Why are you here? Let me let you up.”

“Rope? It’s yours? You’re a princess - Why have a rope?” “Just for this, my love.”

Up. Climb in. They talk softly. Just for a moment. Why did he come, really?

Awkward. Silent pair. What to say? Her smile is pretty. His eyes sparkle so sweetly.

Sound. A footstep. See a movement. Moonlight glinting off blade. Raised above the princess’s head.

“Thalia!” He dove. Drew his sword. Hit metal with metal. Shoved princess away from fight.

“Laurens!” A shriek. He pushed assassin Further away from her. He ducked, swung his sword.

Precise. He tried. Hit as taught. What to do next? Lessons only went so far.

Shove. He fell. Onto the bed. Next to the girl. Actually, on top of her.

Slam. Doors - open. A dark figure. Tall, commanding - the king. Witnessing what had been happening.

“Sir!” Jumped up. And glanced around. The assassin had disappeared. The king saw him and Thalia.

Together. He roared. “Who are you?” “I’m a st-student, sir. I go to your school.”

“Really? Then why. Were you with. My daughter - in bed?” It wasn’t what it seemed.

Please tell me if it’s awkward or if the 1/2/3/4/5 word pattern makes it exhausting to read. I will accept feedback of any sort. Please let me know if you want more of the story and I will try to deliver it. Thanks for reading!

[nonwal]

Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast

14: explaining the whole not-dead thing

Beau shrugs. “He cut me off when I tried to bring it up when he dropped Eadwulf off, right before TravelerCon.”

“TravelerCon?”

“Long story,” Wulf grumbles. “They’re all insane.”

[pochapal]

one more chapter to go before the deadline gf

[shurisneakers]

[pierrottheclownsworld]

day 64 of ficwriting

OH MY GOOOSH Chapter 14 was monstrous - 9778 words. So glad it's finally over and im actually satisfied with the way things evolve. the trace of events goes according to plan 👀👀👀

that was a significant brick. my babes had a fine dialogue for the first time. from now on it becomes clear how levi can reject and thank atst aaaawwww i love this complex man

[not-poignant]

Constellations, a Falling Falling Stars multi-chapter Gwyn + Efnisien reconciliation epilogue coming to the $10+ tiers on Patreon September 10th.

[connormoving]

having a midlife crisis atm i think i might start reading [redacted] this is rly scary for me keep me in your thoughts

[bayetea]

for funsies - chapter 1 preview:

Clouds like pillows floated over Rosenbrandt. There was no hope of the sun piercing through such dense overcast, a thick white cotton pad packed tight against the sky. Rain bled from it often and unrepentantly, fog coiled and surfed through the heavy atmosphere, and a durable stillness mastered the air--a permanent state of unchallenged normalcy. It was the way that Rosenbrandt always was, the way its people presumed life would always be. And the sun thus remained a lost artifact, for it had not been seen in over one hundred years.

Dozens of spires perched on the rooftops below--skinny fingers with talons for nails stabbing towards the sky. Stone masonry buildings sat uniformly on cobblestone roads where streetlamps shone through layered darkness. Curfew soon. Noctivagants were not tolerated without good reason, and the people of Rosenbrandt in their drab, wool cloaks were scrambling to put themselves in a place where they belonged: home, a workplace, or anywhere else, so long as they were indoors and the doors were closed shut.

As for Luke, he wasn’t in such a rush. Someone like him really didn’t have to be.

He and his fellow soldiers were hunched around the bar of Dakota’s Tavern, a quaint, moody affair with sparse lighting and half-attempted decorations: paintings loosely affixed to the walls, weary rugs older than the wooden floor beneath them, random knick-knacks in place of table centerpieces. The air was stiff with mixed scents of old leather and barley-based beer, which was slightly repugnant to Luke. He never cared for this low-grade bar nor its cheap offerings, but it was what his troops preferred, and he was used to their poorly cultivated tastes.

Rancor and chatter filled up the room. About a dozen of them had gathered here after work and already surrendered to their evening rituals: get stupid drunk, have a laugh with the crew, and then stumble home before the nightwatchers stalked through the streets.

“Nothing for you tonight, General?”

He spared a glance towards his first lieutenant, Nyssa Barrera. A hardened, stoic woman with short, dark hair and labored eyes that seemed permanently exhausted by her circumstances. She didn’t have to be so formal with him during their off-hours, and he had told her so before, but Nyssa wasn’t the type to let her guard down after work. He respected her for that.

“Nothing for me.” Luke confirmed bluntly. “I have places to be after this.”

“Places like the Grace House?” teased Sherman Yang on Nyssa’s left. A faint dash of blush was smeared over his cheeks as his eyes were dazed from the beguiles of his liquor. He was a good lieutenant--the second one after Nyssa--but the man's low tolerance for alcohol was a compelling blight against his credibility. “Places like--like the president’s daughter’s bedroom?”

Luke smirked. “Aren’t you tired of making the same joke?”

“I’m just saying,” he slurred, holding his hands up to deflect from criticism. “Always over there at night. At night. Past curfew. Seems suspicious… is all I'm saying."

Nyssa grimaced. "Yang. He's the general. He reports directly to the Graces. Do you have to make something vulgar out of everything?”

“Ughhhh,” was his signature exaggerated groan. “Lighten up, Barrera. For once in your life.”

“For once in my life,” she echoed. “Not likely. Maybe after I die.”

The two kept speaking about something or other--Nyssa tolerating more meaningless verbiage from Sherman, Sherman trying and failing to get a rise of her. Luke had lost interest in them. He was here to keep an eye on his troops, to ensure the truly drunken ones were taken care of and stalled from becoming too disorderly in public--which was unacceptable, and would reflect on him poorly. But his current boredom had transformed their chatter into muffled and indistinct whirs, had set a thick blur over his tawdry surroundings. There was nothing for him here. He’d rather be somewhere else.

“--Barrera,” Luke intruded suddenly on her talk with Sherman. “I should get going. You can take care of things here, can’t you?”

Nyssa frowned--though she was always frowning one way or another--but still nodded her head dutifully. “You can go. Don’t let us keep you from matters with the president.”

“Or his daughter,” Sherman spoke.

She scowled and chided him again. Maybe it was Nyssa’s distaste for sordid behavior that made her so defensive of Luke’s intentions. Maybe it was her unflinching regard for the chain of command that impelled her to demand respect for his integrity. He wasn’t sure; he didn’t know anything about Nyssa beyond what their line of work necessitated. But it was always her voice that rushed first to dispel suspicion towards his relationship with Thalia Grace, as though the whispers and jibes were of actual consequence or even detriment.

In reality, and no one really knew this, Luke savored the rumors. He liked that others recognized the possibility of something going on between them, that others thought it feasible for the head of the military to be involved with the president’s daughter. He liked the privilege of owning a secret that inquirers tried and failed to uncover--was there a dalliance brewing? Were they kissing in the night? And was he courting her, was he a marriage prospect? And wouldn’t that make sense? Weren’t they a good fit?

They asked him all the time. They floated gossip everywhere. And the pervasiveness of that ongoing narrative was almost enough of a thrill to make up for the fact that the stories were largely fictitious. Almost so. But indulgence in fiction could never sublimate Luke’s urge to seek out more than what he already had.

As for right now, he was inclined to seek out conversation improved from that of drunken soldiers. Luke excused himself respectfully and exited the tavern.

went insane last night and drew a thaluke scene from pillows over rosenbrandt (vampire au) wip out of nowhere (it's not for kids sorry)