#(they are still heavy wip nothing is set in stone yet)

[kindheartedgummybears]

random lore/scene drops from my SMG werewolf aus but I don't specify which ones they're from.

mmmmmmmm self-cannibalism

this thing is a little shit omg they do NOT want to talk about how good a deer tastes or remember its body leave them alone

it gets worse as time goes on

poor man wet his pants

nuuuuu don't eat your girlfriend!!!!!

✨werewolf zoomies✨

this is NOT how I expected to meet your parents.

"nuuuuuuuuuuuu u can't be with me while I'm like that I'll hurt u🥺🥺" *has done nothing but protected them while like that*

DO NOT EAT UR SIBLING!!!!

awkward family bbq

*stares intensely at mirror* "I look like shit" (that could go for like all of them spoiler alert💀)

*lurks over ur S/O's shoulder while they cook stake*

"hey do u mind giving me one of those eggs u just washed-" *crunch* "😨"

*spits out a whole ass dead rabbit* "...thanks..." *awkwardly puts it in a bag*

✨good girl✨

*literally a pin cushion at this point* "I'm hungry :/"

"I don't feel good :((" *spits out their teeth*

"you're rather lively today. What happened?" "Oh, you know! I just- ......I Don't know...." (they just had the most traumatizing night of their life.)

what if we ate a man together and shared his heart🥺👉👈

What if I died but didn't.

[beepersteeper]

I Will Always Find You -- Part 2

-- Astarion x Tav -- The First Day

Astarion and F!Tav live happily together for the remaining years she has, she refuses to be turned into a vampire because her faith says that her soul isn’t finished with its work yet. Tav dies of old age and leaves Astarion to put together the pieces of his broken heart. AN: Lord of Light lore taken and changed to fit the story's means. Not canonically accurate. TLDR story line stuff. This is an AU where Astarion ascends but isn't a power hungry bastard and Tav is able to help him continue healing. Wyll is immortal and the Duke. Karlach in my mind, if given a new engine would be able to live a lot longer than the usual tiefling. Another AN: idk if anyone wants tagged in this WIP but let me know. 

For the first time in years. That heavy ache in his chest returns. He sits in a high-backed chair next to the door, unwilling to lay in the bed. Rest finds him at some point through the long night and he slumps in the chair until he's awoken by a gentle knock on the door 

“Lord Ancunín?"

He mumbles a half-hearted response 

“Do you require anything my Lord?" 

"Breakfast will do nicely. Thank you.” he says through the closed door.

He hears an affirmative answer and stands to stretch his poor spine. He opens the old oak wardrobe and sighs as he carefully passes his hand over the dresses that Tav hadn't worn in years, even before she passed. I am too old for such pagentries. He heard her voice in his mind save those dresses for when I come back to you, she'll wear them better than I can anyway. Tell her I want her to wear them if she is too polite to wear my old clothes. I bet she likes the green one. He would have rolled his eyes at her then, just like he did now. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He walked over and cracked the door open to retrieve the gold goblet from the tray.

“It’s still warm my lord." The man nods a bow to Astarion.

Astarion nods in response and closes the door before raising the goblet to his lips. He sucks the blood from his teeth grimacing slightly. He hasn't tasted animal blood in years, having met many villains in his wanderings, but it is nice drinking from a goblet again so he will take it as a win, making a note to himself to get new alliances for willing donors. That's the way Tav preferred him to feed if it wasn't from her.

He returns to the wardrobe and pulls out a dark outfit, one of his less regal ones. He walks into the washroom attached to their room, stopping to smell the bottles of perfume and oils. The ache in his chest tightens when he opens a pale oil with a heart on the label around a T. Peaches and champagne. He sighs as he breathes in her scent. Like a nice summer day she would laugh as he closed his eyes and breathed the scent from her skin just in case you ever miss the sun before he had chosen to ascend.

He shakes his head as he closes the vial and dresses himself and hurriedly leaves the room walking through these still familiar halls. He stops in to let Wyll know he's leaving for the day but will be back by evening should he be needed. Wyll happily waves Astarion away to enjoy his day “Nothing major happening today, signing budgets. Enjoy your day Astarion."

Astarion taps twice on the doorframe before leaving to walk through the Alley ways to make his way to the cemetery. Wanting to feel close to Tav again. He set himself on the earth, leaning his back on his own headstone crossing his arms over his chest and his ankles across each other as he reclined into the stone, rocking his head back facing the sky with his eyes closed feeling the warm sun in his always fair skin. He tries to seek a feeling of connection with his love. He hears a light voice whispering to themselves, he assumes. He listens attentively, surprised to hear talking.

“What am I?" the voice mutters a question he had heard Tav recite, looking into the reflection of a strange shaped item. A beacon she called it. It's the last question I need to answer before I spend eternity with you love. “What are you?!” The voice said more harshly “and what more do I need? What do you want from me!?”

Astarion heard soft footsteps approaching his direction. Hoping for a coincidence he didn't move his body at all. When the steps continued closer and stopped too close for his comfort he opened his eyes and turned his head seeing the woman from last night tracing her fingers over the engraving on Tav’s headstone. Now more able to see her features, about as tall as him, slender, deep black hair with pointed elven ears peaking through. 

“Maybe you would have been able to tell me." She sighs “Tavilline"

Astarion chuckles mostly to himself before saying quietly “she preferred to just be called Tav.” not moving his body.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to intrude.” the woman says, taking her hand from the stone quickly and taking a step back.

He waves his hand gesturing that there was no harm done “Not at all. Just haven't been able to visit in a while. You've been keeping her company though it seems?" He looks at her face meeting her green eyes, feeling his breath catch in his throat. Tav's eyes. No. He thinks to himself, blinking away the idea. 

The woman laughs uncomfortably “I guess so. When I first moved here this was the only place outside of my own home I saw the Lord of Light imagery and have just kind of been drawn to her. And it's just strange that the day she started over was the same as mine” she shrugs the last sentence. 

“She was very attached to her faith." He sighs “even had one of those beacons she would study every night." he points to he object in her hand

“She had a beacon too?!" The woman all but jumps from herself. “That's impossible, what are the odds of so many being in the same city."

He smiles a half hearted smile. “If I come across it I can bring it here. You'll do more with it than I will." He shrugs, expecting to feel guilty at offering Tav's belongings away, but instead he feels excited to share something of hers with someone she's oddly connected to. 

“Sir if you really mean that I will be forever in your debt. I work at the bookstore" she gestures to the holy books book store that shares a sidewalk with the cemetery.

“Astarion." He shakes his head “I'll see what I can do darling." He feels bile form in his throat as he calls her Tav's pet name. 

She bends at her knees crouching as if trying to contain excitement and looks him in his eyes. “Thank you so much sir- Astarion. I am needed in the shop but thank you so much.” She turns to walk away stopped by Astarion speaking

“I didn't catch your name." He states implying a question

"Ta’Vira." She smiles “but my friends call me Vira."

“And what should I call you?" He was shocked by hearing his honeyed voice flowing freely from his lips.

"I haven't decided yet.” She jokes pushing her hair behind her shoulder. “I'll see you around Astarion."

He nods his head down to her, motioning his hand as if tipping an invisible hat “til next time." Before leaning back onto his own headstone. "I'm sorry my love." He sighs quietly to himself wanting for something, but knowing that there aren't such things as signs. After spending a little more time with her plot and his thoughts he stands and takes the long way back to the palace to look for Tav's beacon. Humoring himself as he walks he thinks about what if.

What if she was right and she would be back for another life? 

What if she was right and they would be able to find one another? 

What if this Ta’vira was his Tav?

He stops himself at the last thought. There's no way. He thought. There will never be another like my love. He walks quietly through the halls to their room and sits in the tall backed chair again. He sits with his knees crossed and he tries to remember where her beacon would have been put away. He squints toward their bed and slowly stands walking to stand at her side of the bed. He runs his hand over the soft blanket leaving trails from his touch on it. Astarion kneels down and pulls a wooden crate across the floor with a screech and pries open the dusty top.

In the box he finds several of Tav's favorite things. Her journal, some jewelry, a painting she commissioned of the old crew from the 6 month reunion with withers. Karlach was holding the adamantine longsword to harken back to a funny and unspoken day of adventure, her beacon, her emerald ring she wore every day from the day he gave it to her on their wedding day. Odds and ends, little trinkets she picked up throughout her life and the last thing he pulled from the box was a blood stained handkerchief with his and her initials embroidered onto the corner. He sat cross legged on the floor surrounded by the things that she treasured, feeling a smile creep across his lips. 

He turned the handkerchief over in his hands, chuckling remembering how hard she tried to remove the stains from the cloth that she used each time he fed from her. Why did it have to be white she would whine scrubbing it in the sink. He would remind her she could have a new one or a different one at any moment but you made this one for me. He had embroidered his own handkerchief with their initials as a gift after she was willing to stay with him, even after he confessed his initial motives for courting her. A new one wouldn't be the same she’d whine again. He brought the cloth to his face hoping to still find her scent locked away in this crate. It was there. It was faint and stale, but it was there. A scent that he would be able to pick up anywhere. He sighed and replaced all of her belongings back into the crate folding the cloth delicately and placing it on top of her journal. Sealing the lid as tightly as possible.

He held the cumbersome beacon in his hands. Turning it over and over in his palms looking at all of its angles and almost without really thinking he whispered to it “what are you?" Reciting the question like he had seen Tav do millions of times. Like he had heard Ta’vira do today. His mind was flooded with white light, the warm feeling of light seems to emanate from the tips of his ears to the souls of his feet. Uncomfortable with the sudden feeling he dropped it in his lap. “What are you?!" He said more harshly. “What in the sweet hells was that?!" Asking the beacon out loud scowling at it. He lifts it again, holding it without speaking, feeling an energy pulse between his hands. 

“Who are you?" He changes the verse. Nothing happened. “Who am I?" Again nothing. “What am I?" Nothing still. “What are you?" The warmth of the light returns less off-putting than before. He sat in that space for a long time, trying to feel or see the answer many before him had asked. Not seeing or feeling anything more than a comfortable warm light he dropped the beacon back in his lap. He tucks it into a bag and carries it over his shoulder. He spends the remainder of the day looking through his library for any books on the Lord of Light. He finds several and he loses himself in his studies, only interrupted by Wyll knocking on the door.

“Everything okay Astarion?"

He shrugs and pushes the book away from himself "Will you humor me for a moment?” 

Wyll nods and sits next to Astarion

"Hold this bloody thing and ask “what are you?" And tell me if you notice anything.” Astarion urges digging the beacon from his bag.

With a confused turn of his face Wyll obliges asking the question. Wylls eyes meet Astarions before he says “I don't notice anything…”

Astarion nods and purses his lips and thanks Wyll for his time.

“Should I have your dinner brought here for you?” Wyll asks passing the beacon back to him carefully “What are you looking for?”

Astarion nods about dinner "Tav. I'm looking for Tav. I might be crazy but I think she's closer to me here than she was on any of my travels.”

“If you need any help you will let me know.” Wyll says implying his concern

Astarion nods in return to his book. The night turns to dawn from the library. He sits, stands, paces and leans in all different places within the stacks. At some point he wakes up laying on a sofa with a book in one hand and the beacon in the other with soft morning light shining through a stained glass window. He closes the book and stands to stretch. His curiosity wins out over his exhaustion as he looks to the beacon again. "What are you?” The warm light returns this time  and image of hands being held flashes quickly before the blinding light returns

“That's even less helpful.” He scolds the shining metal. “And now I'm talking to you.” He chuckles at his own mania. He packs it and several books into his pack. He quickly changes into clean and simple clothes with a jacket and rushes out the door to head to the cemetery. He arrives and quickly unloads his bag and talks out loud to Tav like she was there.

“What does this all mean?" He gestures to the open books “why does this thing make my brain light up like the sun? Is that the question you need to answer?" He sighs holding the beacon again. “What are you?” The feeling and light are even stronger than before. He hisses and drops the object in the grass. “Bloody hell!” He rubs his eyes trying to ease the pain from the light he saw. Interrupted when he heard his name from behind him.

“Astarion?”

He jumped, startled only to relax when he saw it was Ta’vira. “Oh hello,” he waves “I just wanted to bring this to Tav before handing it over to you.” He shrugs and tries to play it cool. “Probably sounds silly but…” He trails off when ta’vira knelt next to him.

“Not silly. Not at all" she reassures “it's respectful if anything. Do you think she'd be okay with that?” she adds looking from him to Tav’s headstone.

He nods “I do. But can you first tell me what you see or feel when you talk to this blasted thing?”

She looks at the metal in his hands “When I hold any of mine they're each different. One is low hums that reverberate through my bones. One is the darkest dark I've ever witnessed. Total nothingness. One shows me red, wet bloody red. But it's not as scary as it sounds” she laughs “what does that one do?” She asks, tilting her head to the side.

“Different things for different people I think.” He shakes his head, handing it to her carefully and speaking in a bit of a ramble. “Tav would say it was a bright flickering candle light, my friend said he didn't feel anything change. But when I ask it it's a blinding light that's so bright and warm it almost hurts. And I've seen hands holding each other.”

[bigfootsmom]

sentence sunday

I was tagged by the lovely and talented @devirnis, @honestlydarkprincess, @alyxmastershipper, @disasterbuckdiaz, @try-set-me-on-fire <3 <3 <3

here is some more from elevator fic because this wip has sunk its claws in deep to my brain. you can find what else i've posted from the wip here!

“So is that the problem? Is he why you’re playing so hard to get?” The venom in his voice drips off his tongue and splatters over Buck’s skin, making him flinch back against the floor.  “N–no, no! He’s— he’s not a problem!” Buck nearly chokes on his tongue, rushing to get his words out. “He’s nothing! H—he’s nothing to me.” The words taste bitter on his tongue, the lie settling heavy in his stomach like a stone. But he swallows it down. The last thing he wants is for Eddie to become a target. “You don’t have to worry about him—” Buck draws in a shaky breath, preparing himself. “Y–you, you have me. I'm not going anywhere. I prom–promise, he’s not a problem.”

i think pretty much everyone has been tagged and it's also late. if you're still awake and haven't been tagged yet consider yourself tagged!

[mightymizora]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by the fabulous @anderstrevelyan and sneaking in here!

Tagging @smoreofbabylon @plethomacademia @lamortwrites @gale-sized-hole and anybody else who is still able to sneak in!

Her afternoon appointment is in the richest streets of the Upper City, in the second-highest mansion in the best street. The stone is the highest quality white, and is blinding in the heavy summer sun.

“Your Grace, I am afraid,” Afua tells her, shaking in her fine velvet dress. Manva smooths out her servant’s doublet and smiles tightly at her.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” she tells her. “You come from this world. All you have to do is be yourself.”

“Wisteria was at my mother’s side when I was born,” she says solemnly. “I have known her all of my life.”

“Then she will receive you as her kin, Slaying Hand.” She tries to bite off the edge of her annoyance, and smiles at her as softly as she can manage. “You are who you have always been, and so is she. And yet now, you are also more. You are His, and he will guide you if you let him.”

The silly girl smiles down at her. “You always know what to say, Primistress.”

“Please. Up here, you are Mistress, and I am but your humble servant. They will be expecting you. Do not make them wait.”

The Dowager Estate is not the grandest of the Jannath’s many holdings in the city, but it is, to her eye at least, the finest, with a beautiful view across the best streets of the Manorborn, with a pleasant vantage over the temple district, though perhaps that was not the fashion for these kind of people. They are greeted as expected, the butler taking them straight through the well-appointed hall with its winding stairs into a small withdrawing room, neatly set out for tea, and there on the couch in a fine silk gown is the lady of the house.

[delyth88]

Fic rec time!

This is a lovely WIP by @indelen called Borrowed Time set after Ragnarok but in a timeline where Thanos has not yet come after Loki or the Infinity Stones. It has a strong focus on Loki and Thor's relationship so far, and the opening few chapters are a really quite beautiful exploration of Finland's wilderness and folklore and how Loki and Thor might fit in to this on Earth. It quickly gets going though and we spend time with some of the Avengers and in New Asgard while trying to solve the mystery of what is going on.

I've very much enjoyed how Loki and Thor are written, and the premise is intriguing.

Still very much a WIP, but worth a read even just this far.

Author's summary:

The Statesman never encountered Thanos between the destroyed Asgard and Earth. Thor, Loki and the remaining survivors settled on Earth and formed New Asgard. A year later and the Odinson brothers struggle to preserve the life, culture and history they lost. For Thor kingship is a heavy burden and he had to sacrifice much to preserve his relationship with his people and his prickly brother. And for Loki New Asgard brings nothing but old grudges and old troubles and old prejudices.

And then monsters fall from the sky and Earth's magic wielders begin to disappear and things really start to get complicated. Magic, mystery and monsters, Gods and humans and everything in between ...

... and all the while Loki, his pockets still quite heavy from the jaunt to Odin's Vault, can't shake the feeling that someone is watching him.

[fractured-shield]

wip excerpt tag

coming here from the open tag by @coffeewritesfiction and bringing back a bit of my short piece "Crimson Stone and Aureate Scales" which is technically a wip because it still needs to be adapted into my actual book in a few more chapters. and i'll be leaving this as an open tag as well, since I don't really have much of a writing social circle yet

They’ll look to us for protection. What reassurance do they find in a hired vanguard, whose only purpose is to die first, and have them follow?

The wooden back of the bench was worn smooth from use, worm-eaten and dry rotted in places. Still, it was mostly protected from the elements despite the window panes broken from their arched frames, opening the serene hall to the chill wind and the years of fallen leaves blown in and slowly turning to dust. The once-polished stone interior, muted fawn and ivory, painted the lone occupant in stark relief: a somber and straight-backed figure, pallid and dark-clad, wearing a few pieces of plate armor over black cloth and leather. He folded his hands in his lap, eyes unfocused somewhere in the middle distance.

Another gust of wind set the leaves in motion again, swirling into eddies and shallow drifts. The joints of his armor clicked together softly as he leaned forward, elbows braced against the pale and time-worn wood—birch, like the dancing leaves, and just as much a ghost of former life. The rigid set of his shoulders, achingly tight, seemed odd for a man sitting alone in the sun-dappled serenity of an abandoned sanctuary.

A few strands of hair—worn long and untied, brown shot through with faint silver—caught in the wind as well and slipped across armored shoulders to flutter against his face. He couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed at the sensation, or hardly to notice it at all. He bowed his head further towards his arms, brow furrowed, still deep in wounding contemplation.

If there was anything to be done, we would have done it two hundred years ago or more. What strength are we supposed to find now, to prevent another city turned to ruin—

His eyes fell on an ornament of stone at the front of the room: a muted, rust-tinted red. It was a stand designed to hold a book, but its angled surface was empty and its heavy chain hung loose and broken, the tome it last held long since stolen.

—or great strongholds abandoned…if there were any left to forsake.

He adjusted his posture slightly. The armor had never been comfortable, and his knee had begun to twinge again, an old injury acting up after hours in the saddle.

No, that isn’t fair. It isn’t so hopeless as that. I promised her I’d have more faith than that.

“It hardly feels fair to call it faith, does it?” He spoke the last part aloud before he’d realized it.

“What was that?”

He started at the unexpected voice, clear and childlike, cutting through the near-silence like the timid footsteps that accompanied it.

“Nothing,” he answered, trying to temper his expression into something less gloomy as the girl approached. She slid along the bench to sit next to him, putting one foot up and then immediately changing her mind after a quick glance around. It was a holy place, forgotten though it was, and maybe that mattered to her. She sat on her hands awkwardly.

“I never thought you prayed to the gods much, papa. …Or did that change, while I was away? I mean, I guess five years is longer for me than for you but—I don’t mean anything by it, I just thought I’d ask if, I don’t know—”

He leaned lightly against her shoulder, interrupting her nervous rambling. “No, I…it didn’t change. I don’t.”

[sunflowerharrington]

stwg daily prompt: coffee break monday!

i chose to do the prompt “i couldn’t lose you” but switched it to “i can’t lose her!”

wc: 1053

pov: jason carver (in which vecna may or may not be following him)(so it’s slightly diverging from canon)

i took a scene from an abandoned wip and switched it up a little to fit the prompt 🖤

This can’t be happening. No, this cannot be happening. Chrissy’s… Jason’s mouth opens and closes, he can’t even begin to form words or even remember how to. And then, all of a sudden, he can’t open his mouth anymore.

He can’t blink, can’t move, can’t breathe. Everything’s going so fast and yet moving in slow motion at the same time. His knees buckle in unison with one another, but he can’t fall.

Powell knocks his knuckles against the wooden table, the sound crawling through Jason’s skin, down his spine and his legs. Callahan’s lips are moving but he can’t hear a thing. Ocean waves crash against his eardrums and his head plunges underwater.

“S- so you’re saying she’s gone?” He asks, his own voice making his stomach turn. It comes out more like a strangled sob than coherent words. “No! I- I can’t lose her!”

He braces himself against the table, one hand on each side of it, trying to keep himself still.

The crawling on his skin doesn’t stop, pricking at him, but maybe the crawling isn’t even crawling. It’s the slight sparkle in Phil Callahan’s eye burning Jason’s skin. His loud, clear voice sends Jason’s heart into overdrive. Even though Phil’s calmer than he should be, there’s something else, something unspoken, that’s making Jason want to run for the hills.

“What do I do now?” He whispers to himself, his voice shaking more than a broken roller coaster. Jason doesn’t know what to do.

Without Chrissy, he is nothing.

As much as he wants to, he can’t escape from this. His safety blanket is too far away to crawl into, it’s at home, and his other safety net, Chrissy, is gone. He has nothing to protect himself from this.

“I need to get some air. Can I, please?” He asks Callahan, who lets the shattered boy leave the room for a moment.

He’s definitely lightheaded, his heart roaring at him to run and never look back. If he keeps running, her death won’t catch up to him, meaning it’ll never sink in. That’s good, right? Right?

And so he does, he runs and runs until he’s oustide another familiar spot in Hawkins.

He’s home now, well, in his house. He’s not at home. Home is in Chrissy’s embrace…

“Why the fuck are you getting so upset over this?” Andy shouts after him, running towards him to catch up as Jason gets to his front porch. “I thought you didn’t even care about her!”

Jason slams the door in Andy’s face just as they met in the doorway. A gust of wind awakening goosebumps on his arms. He kicks stones with his trainer as he turns to walk back into the living room, but his feet stop, even as he tries to move. Almost immediately, salt attacks his eyes, breaking through the dam so the floodgates can open. He reaches out to find his confidence, but his hands are trembling so much he can’t keep a hold of it.

The faint tick, tick, tick of a clock rings in his ears, disrupting the silence, each tick louder than the last, almost like a warning, almost as loud as his heart pounding in his head. He wants to reach up and cover his ears, but his arms stay rigid by his sides, and his fingers all but twitch. He looks down, only with his eyes, as his head stays put. Jason’s breath shakes, slowing down before shooting back up, so heavy his attempt at breathing is louder than the ticking clock.

He coughs loud, forcing his mouth open so it can be easier to breathe. But it’s not. If anything, he’s only made it worse. He’s screaming, but no sound comes out. He can’t wake up from the nightmare.

The ticking fills every inch, every groove and every cell in his brain, echoing in his ears, protruding through his eyes with a sharp sting. Burning creeps up his spine, around his neck and into his mouth, travelling down his throat to set his heart on fire. He tries to scream again, but as before, no sound comes out. There’s something caught in his throat, and yet… there’s nothing physically there.

Jason’s breath falters as he gasps, the ticking and his desperate attempt at breathing getting louder and louder, threatening to rupture his eardrums. Blood soars through his veins at lightning speed, and his tear-soaked skin stings along with his eyes as he tries to force his eyelids down so he can blink. His eyes are heavy, wanting to close, but they can’t. And nothing happens. His brain is simply refusing to work.

Invisible hands run from the sides of his knees up to his hips, leaving a trail of that nightmare up them, leading to his stomach, and it drops as his heart leaps into her throat.

The hallway expands, stretching for eternity, the paintings on the walls ripping apart, the family portraits now in shreds. Jason’s throat squeaks and his chest heaves as he watches his own face in the family portrait expand and rip, unable to move to make it stop. Why won’t it stop? Is this the satanic game playing games with him?!

Make it stop!

His wide eyes stare into the distance, straining them to watch the door handle, waiting for someone to come save him. Too paralyzed to save himself, only able to touch the darkness and fear.

Is this because Chrissy…? But she can’t be gone. Without knowing if she’s dead or not he can’t be sure if she’s gone until he sees her. But she should be fine. He prayed every night for Chrissy, pleaded with God to keep her safer than he ever could. It’s a scary world out there, and even though he’s done everything in his power to keep her away from danger… something got her, and she’s injured, on death’s doorstep as far as he’s aware.

God didn’t keep her safe like he said he would, like Jason had asked him to… Meaning, Gods are not real, and he spent his entire life worshipping something that was never there. But that doesn’t mean the Devil doesn’t exist. He does. He took Chrissy. And Jason will do everything in his power to find Satan and break his fucking neck for killing his girlfriend.

[mickeymagpie]

find the word!

@marypsue tagged me, and gave me the words sharp, take, moon, pile, and dream. I have to see if they show up in any of my WIPs, and then post the snippet they appear in if they do.

1 million 'ctrl+F's later... doing just my two main fic WIPs here because i didn't want to search every document lmao.

From ouroboros, ever hungry, the Rise of the TMNT longfic:

Donatello wakes with a violent jolt, gasping for air that doesn’t come fast enough. He reaches up, presses his palms flat over his tympana, closing his eyes again, shuddering in relief when what greets him is silent and dark. His heart beats a solid reassurance in his chest, as he gets his breathing under control. He’s still here. He’s alive. He’s alive. And, perhaps more importantly, he’s alone. Not in the room, of course, but there’s nothing in his head except for his own abating panic, and the fading remnants of the dream.

2:

“Listen, Case, I know you said it’s’all good, but I’m jus’ saying, if you want us to help you beat the shit outta someone, we will,” Leo slurs, because of course his response to the good news was to throw a party, and if there's one thing the resistance is never short on, it's alcohol. “I, for one, wouldn’t ask any questions.” “Your loyalty is noted,” Cassandra says seriously, patting Leo on the shoulder with one hand, and—with grace befitting her ninja training—using the other to slide his tin cup of moonshine out of his grip, smoothly replacing it with one full of water. When she twists her arm back, Donnie follows through with the hand-off. He takes the alcohol further away, out of Leo’s line of sight, before downing it himself.

And the rest from the Gravity Falls triplets fic:

“Bill!” Hands on his shoulders and Bill is shaking, staring at his hands, flesh and bone and skin and fingers and joints and unchanging dimensions too much and too little and he’s bound like this, stuck. He laughs, hysterical, and “Bill, calm down! You’re having a panic attack.” Is he? Is this what panic is? Huh. Funny. Horrible. He hates it! He doesn’t want it anymore! Take it away, folks! Bill realizes he’s still laughing, hyperventilating, words and questions and curses entering his mind but none of them reaching his mouth because he can't get enough air-- “Just breathe with me, Bill,” Mabel instructs. “Listen. In and out.” Seething, he snaps his mouth shut with the dull click of equally dull teeth, and does as told, matching her exaggerated inhales and exhales second-for-second until the room stops spinning and the heavy thump-thump-thump of his heart against his ribs doesn’t feel so much like a death sentence.

2:

“Why do you care?” Bill demands. “Because--” Ford starts, and then… realizes he doesn’t know. There’s no reason to. No reason he should care what happens to Bill anymore, no reason he wouldn’t be within his rights to leave Bill out in the woods alone. But he can’t do that. Not-- not now. “...I’m not just going to let you get yourself killed out here.” Bill laughs a little, half-hysterical, and steps right up to Ford, lip curling with disdain and anger when he has to crane his neck back to meet Ford’s eyes. “Why not, Sixer? Huh? Why do you care what happens to me? Why haven’t you cut the shit and killed me yet?!” He shoves Stanford backward with both hands. Ford stumbles, almost falling back over a stone. He has to look down to find his footing again, and when he looks back up, Bill’s staring at him sharply, as if anticipating retaliation.

3:

“Ooooh,” Mabel exclaims in one store, beelining for a rack of different colored corduroy overalls. She looks through the sizes, pulling down a set in bright yellow to hold up to Bill. He doesn’t immediately reject them, and the legs look the right length, so she nods, slinging them over her arm with the rest of the current to-be-tried-on pile. She then grabs two more sets in the same size: one pink, and one blue. “Oh no,” Dipper says, already knowing what’s coming as Mabel turns to him with a gleam in her eye. “Dipper, do you know what this means?” “We’re gonna become those kids that teachers can only tell apart when they’re color-coded?” And wow, Bill going back to school with them in September is a super weird and terrible concept to think about.

[darkfeyfanatic]

Anyway here's a WIP of the fic ive been trying to write but keep losing motivation and time for.

I've posted the first half already but I've changed a bit of it.

   ----------------------------------------------------

Feeling herself die was a funny thing. 

   She had seen death so many times before, helping commit elders to fly with the ancestors, watching as they became one with the earth. 

   But this was different. 

   Riza knew that there were going to be casualties. No battle went without them. But she didn't expect to die on the outskirts of the fight, bleeding out on a stony ground, surrounded by crumpling buildings, wounded guards, and distant screams.

   It felt wrong somehow. As if she were betraying her own by daring to fade away slowly, instead of dying in battle for the hope of a better future. 

   Riza couldn't even move if she wanted to, to at least return to the battlefield of the Ulstead castle. Her wings couldn't carry her, one had been shot through with dozens of iron bolts, and the other was broken, having snapped under her weight when she fell to the hard ground.

   The stone beneath her had grown warm and damp with her blood, its thick scent mixing with the dust filled air. The pain of her injuries had all but faded, numbness setting in as the sound of the world began to slip away. 

   This was truly it. She would die. 

   No family by her side, no lover, no friends. Just a barren street and the sounds of a fading war. Not even her magic could save her. The dozens of iron bolts still lodged in her stomach were slowly sapping it away, killing her just as it had killed Conall. 

   Oh, if he could see her now. The healer he had always had such hope for, slowly dying, all because she wanted to help save the humans who had no part in the fight. Choosing to evacuate the crowded streets in the name of hopeful peace, only to suffer the same as he had.

   Letting her tired eyes slip closed, Riza simply waited for her end to come. It wouldn't be long, just a few more moments.

   It felt like falling asleep.

   A loud but distant yell caught her attention however, distorted and warbled. It sounded like a woman, desperately screaming for something.

   The sensation of hands on her all but snapped the jungle fey into focus. The pain of her broken wing almost pulling a scream from her throat as she felt herself being lifted.

   What was happening?

   Her wings were limp and dragged across the ground, being nothing but dead weight as she was laid on a hard wooden surface. 

   Humans. She could smell them. Even if her eyelids felt too heavy to lift, her nose had never failed her. What did the humans want from her? She had tried to help them.

   Some sort of cloth was harshley pressed to her stomach, with more voices shouting for things Riza couldn't understand. She could feel her wings being moved, her head being gently lifted.

   The fey must have lost consciousness for a moment, as she suddenly heard her sister's voice. She sounded devastated, as if she were pleading to Riza. Shrike had never sounded like that. At least not surrounded by others. By humans no less.

   A hand took hers, warm and shaking. All Riza could do was weakly squeeze back.

   There was another on her left. Even at her weakest, Riza could feel the warmth of their magic, they were strong. An elder perhaps? Or at least another spiritual fey come to help send her off? 

   How lucky she was, she would get a proper goodbye.

   A feeling of spreading warmth surrounded the fey. Calm yet mighty. It swirled around her chest and attached itself to her fading core, pouring energy into it, and gently guiding it to her entire being. 

   Riza could feel the iron still stuck within her be pulled out, one by one in a quick succession. And she felt the wounds it left behind close as quickly as they could.

   Even the sensation of the bones of her wings melding back together, righting themselves as if they were never broken.

   But she was still weak. 

   So tired. 

   Her conscience slipped away once again.

   And all was silent.

—--------------------------

   There were moments when Riza was aware of the world around her. Faint sounds of voices, the sensation of someone holding her hand, the chill of a light breeze, the warmth of something being poured down her throat. All reminders that her heart still beat.

   But her eyes never wanted to open, she couldn't force her body to move. 

   It was torture. 

   The fey couldn't tell how fast or slow time was moving, if it was day or night. Only the short sensations of a world she could not see were any hint. Whoever her visitors were more than likely visited during the day, the light warm breeze seeming to accompany them. During what she assumed was night, only the occasional sound of footsteps or perhaps a woman humming. 

   Where even was she? She wasn't in her nest, or anywhere near her people. Maybe the human kingdom? But they were at war, why would they let her live? Care for her?

   Her thoughts faded away again. They always seemed to do that now. A few minutes of awareness, and then silence. 

   Whenever her awareness returned, there was someone with her again. Their hand was cold, not the familiar warming sensation that normally greeted her. Whoever they were, their voice was muddled, like she was underwater and they above. A tundra fey maybe? They always ran colder than the others. Maybe Udo? He would survive the war, who else would tend to the fledgling fey that had all but imprinted on him?

   The hand in hers squeezed tightly for a moment, the voice attached to it going silent. Were they waiting for something? 

   Another squeeze and then nothing. The cold hand in hers disappearing. 

   Without her anchor, the darkness won over her again. Time slipping away.

—--------------------------

   At first she wasn’t even aware that her eyes were open. At first there was just an empty void of white, and slowly the colors of the world faded in, taking the shape of an obviously human room, though slowly being taken by nature. Floors of smooth stone were covered with vines of fresh flowers that bled from stone columns around the room, each leading towards the bed she layed on. A fey did this, that was certain.

   Her limbs felt heavy, and she herself still felt half asleep, but she forced herself to sit up. Using her arms and wings, Riza was able to keep herself upright, doing her best to ignore the strain in her muscles. She hadn’t even stood and yet she already felt tired. She wanted to stand, to figure out where she was, to leave. She needed to find her sister.

   A door she hadn’t noticed opened just then, through it came an older woman. A human. In her hands she carried a bowl of some sort, which she promptly dropped the second she laid eyes on Riza. For a moment neither spoke, the woman in shock, and Riza because her throat felt as course as sand. 

   “Oh thank goodness,” The woman spoke, her voice confirming her older age. “You’re awake dear.”. 

   The bowl was forgotten on the floor as the woman came close, taking a wooden pitcher from a small table near the bed and pouring its contents into a smaller wooden cup. The cup was gently pushed to Riza’s lips, who drank without question, as the dryness of her throat became more apparent. It was three cups later before the old woman spoke again.

   “I’ve been wondering when you would finally wake up again dear. It’s been nearly two weeks now, your kin’s been so worried about you.” It took a moment for the fey to process what the woman had said. Two weeks? She had been asleep for two weeks? Her face must have conveyed her confusion, as the woman gained a look of pity.

   “Aye, it’s a lot to take in, but you’re in good health dear. Your body was healed the day of the battle, but your elders said it was your spirit that needed rest. But don’t you worry, you’ll be back with them in no time.” 

   Riza tried to speak, but the only noise to leave her was a dry croaking sound, which she tried to force into something resembling a word. “W-who?” She asked, as she made a half hearted point towards the older woman. 

   The woman was kind enough to not laugh at her struggle, instead she gave a warm smile. “My name is Mariand dear, and from what I’ve been told, your name is Riza correct? A skilled healer and a savior who helped the people of Ulstead?”. Mariand had begun to pour another cup of water, pressing it into Riza’s hands as she stood. “Word’s spread about how you and that white haired fellow chose to help the villagers during the fight. Us common folk favor you to the queen at the moment.”.

   Mariand smirked, her wrinkled face seeming younger for a moment. “Or, former queen. A farm animal can hardly be a queen.”. 

   “Wh-at?” 

   “Lady Maleficent turned the Queen Mother into a goat. King Philip will hold trial for her eventually, probably after the wedding.”. Mariand busied herself as she spoke, holding back a giggle as she opened the window curtains farther, before picking up the bowl she had dropped. 

   “Wh-ere am I? Where's my sist-er?”.

[grandpasauce]

@arlathvhenan tagged me for some WIP goodness so here, have this unfinished WIP that’s been sitting in my notes app for an undetermined amount of time.

This is set a few years after Trespasser.

Solas/f!Lavellan obvs

-

This is something that dawns on her one grueling evening, when the hairs on her neck stand on-end. She’s in an abandoned temple—ancient and degraded enough to be mistaken for any of the Evanuris’—where vines entrench the crippled mosaics, uproot long-standing pillars and make home between the rubble. And that’s all it really is: Rubble. That Solas values it more than the lives of every living creature doesn’t make it anything more.

The thought lurches her stomach, perseveres despite the dread that braces her body the moment she senses someone nearby. Venatori, most likely. She’s barely evaded them three days now. Comparable to ants, typically, but three days of brisk and sleepless travel make even her muscles weary. Not only that—her mana is nearly sapped. And she’s never been one for hand to hand combat, lyrium-laden prosthetic aside.

“You must leave.”

That’s when she realizes it’s probably not Venatori. Turns out, she would have preferred Venatori.

He’s indistinct—shaded by the backdrop of that blasted, blistering northern sun—but his voice is unmistakeable. Solas stands under the archway of a glimmering ruin, obstructing her only exit from the shrine. Figures she would have sought refuge in the one fully enclosed space this wreckage offered.

“The Venatori make to surround you.” Solas continues, evenly. Sunlight glares off the point of his golden shoulder plate. “They will not wait much longer.”

She scoffs, “You don’t say.”

“I will not ask why you were out here alone.”

“Alright.”

“Nevertheless, you must leave. There is nothing for you—“

“—what are you doing here?” She cocks her head, “How did you find me?”

He’s quiet then, moves out of the walkway until she’s able to make out his features entirely. There’s a heaviness under his eyes, something hard in the crease of his brow she’s not comfortable seeing. The air fluxes, pressing against her—a split moment of contortion as though reality were flickering around him. And yet, it is all so familiar to her. The makings of him are seared into her memory even still, like his face were as commonplace as the back of her hand. She hasn’t seen it in years. She sometimes wonders if she’d even recognize her own hand, were it to reappear by some miracle. Now she knows. She would.

She would.

“They are my doing.” Solas says evenly. “And, as such, I will deal with them. I’d prefer it were you gone before that happens.”

Danyla nods, thoughtfully.

When she doesn’t move, Solas inclines his head ever so. “You will leave, then?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Where do you suggest I go, Solas?” She shrugs, “You’ve said as much—they’ve surrounded me.”

“If you make haste, you may—“

“—and why would I do that?” Danyla snaps. “I’ve been running for days. I’m exhausted. If you’re going to kill them anyways, I’ll just wait until then.”

Solas’ jaw flexes, gaze hovering over her shoulder while he deliberates. Or fumes. It’s reasonable to assume there’s a factor beyond Danyla’s Safety that begs her absence. She can’t begin to theorize what, but it’s causing him enough strife to make her curious.

Solas nods after a few moments. “I may have a solution.”

There is an eluvian nearby, apparently. Solas shows her to it, only a few minutes walk from the ruined temple, through an illusory tangle of verdant shrubbery. His steps fall uncannily silent as they walk. She follows in his shadow, paying close mind to keep him decidedly ahead of her.

Once they arrive, his eyes flash—the mirage dispelled—and he motions for her to enter the unveiled eluvian.

“You first,” She insists.

They emerge somewhere in the crossroads—at least, that is what she deduces. The room is dilapidated, stone ceiling crumbling into a crude skylight, and the kaleidoscope of colors that filters in is recognizable—in an unnerving and otherworldly sort of way. Otherwise, she might have mistaken their surroundings for an old, elvhen room somewhere in Thedas. There’s no windows, just stone walls smothered with tattered bookcases and veilfire sconces. If not for the four poster bed in the center, she’d equate the space to the Vir Dirthara.

It’s certainly derelict enough to compare. She nearly falls flat over something the moment she walks forward.

“What is this place?” Danyla asks, squinting into the darkness—the aperture in the ceiling only lending so much aid. “It’s a mess.”

“I have not used this refuge for some time,” Solas stands beside her, hands clasped behind his back. “You will not remain here long, I assure you—and we have limited options, as you seem fit to remind me.”

“Oh—it’s ‘we’ now, is it?” Danyla bites back, if a little lackluster considering her preoccupation with the skylight. Or rather, the writing desk hovering precariously over the skylight. At first, she thinks it merely crossroad debris—but it fails to drift along with the rest after a time.

Solas sighs, a sound both exasperated and resigning. Her chest aches.

She looks at him, the corner of her mouth twitching at the unimpressed quirk of his brow.

“Well, go on.” She waves him off. He blinks, igniting the room’s veilfire. It washes the bookshelves blue and flutters across Solas’ pensive demeanor. He leaves her, then, with the halfhearted request to not touch anything, though he doubtlessly knows she will.

She is tired, though, and figures if there were anything damning to be found, Solas wouldn’t have left her here to begin with. So her snooping is more cursory than inquisitive, picking at the plethora of books that have managed surprisingly well through the ages. Most of them are not new to her, recommended once upon a time by Solas himself. He apparently has favorites.

When her reading grows stale, she checks on the writing desk from before, finding it tempting only for the fact that it eludes her. The eluvian’s reflection allows her to cantrip the muck of the past three days from her gear, her face, and her gnarled knot-of-a-braid.

Then, she sleeps—too exhausted to bother with sitting up worried for the safety of a figure from legend. If there is mercy to be spared, let it be granted to the Venatori. Solas had a way of terrorizing even hardened Ben-Hassrath before their deaths. Maybe wariness would be the wiser reaction under the care of such a man—if she could even call him one anymore. But she’s also wise enough to understand if Solas wanted her dead, she would be. That he even cared to warn her of the Venatori shows he is not entirely lost. Not yet.

She will be gone from him soon, regardless.

She wakes to a shift in light. It flits against her eyelids, lulling her from slumber until she notices him. His feet settle near the foot of the bed, like he were touching ground from the air. And then she realizes, perhaps that is exactly what he was doing. The implications of flight magic are too exhaustive for her to ponder so soon after waking up, though, so she files the thought away for another time.

His back is to her, but he knows she’s awake. The shadowy drape of his robe drifts to a stillness against his knees, and she considers how she misses his old attire. Homely as it might have been to some, at least it would be familiar.

“How long have I been asleep?” She utters, rolling her neck in a stretch. The bed is massive. The ancient elves were not gargantuan in stature, but the furniture certainly gave that impression.

“Not long. You are free to go.” Solas says, still turned from her. He strides to the eluvian, activating it wordlessly before finally regaling her with, at least, the side of his face. He’s expectant, and strangely eager to be rid of her.

She decides not to comment that only prisoners go free.

-

Thanks for tagging me!!!!

[forabeatofadrum]

Not-Weekend WIP - Ask Game

Rules: List your WIPs below (if you only write one fic at a time, feel free to include future WIPs/ideas!) then answer the following questions. Then, tag as many people as you have WIPs (or more).

*******

I was tagged weeks ago by @bitbybitwrites!

*****

1. WIP List

I have too many WIPs to count, but I am using the ones that I am """actively""" working on right now, which are

Just Some Guy (the Matty Chris D. story)

The Klaine Secret Santa story

A fic where Bitty pranks Jack by pretending he can't skate

This fleeting idea for my Klaine Advent fic which isn't set in stone at all.

The good ole "racism fic", aka Dancin' on this bamboo ceiling, which is about me exploring how Asian-American identity was handled on Glee.

2. Which of your WIPs is currently the longest?

Probably Just Some Guy. I've been working on it for a while. It already has multiple finished chapters, so I have considered posting what I already have, also to hopefully motivate to continue. But I am just too stuck on it. The whole point is that MCD is the most bland person ever, and yes, I notice. He has nothing going for him.

3. Which WIP do you expect will end up the longest?

If my idea for the Advent fic will work out, then I think that one, because I am planning a multichapter fic. It's just... not working out and it's almost December. Oh boy.

4. Which WIP is your favourite to write/the most enjoyable to write? Why?

Right now? The Klaine Secret Santa fic, but I will not go into why, because ya know, the whole secret thing.

5. Which WIP do you find the most intimidating to write? Why?

Dancin' on this bamboo ceiling. It's a heavy subject and I am only one (1) person and I don't want to sound like I am writing a fic for the whole Asian Gleek community or anything, but it is... something.

6. Which WIP do you experience the most self-doubt about. Why?

Dancin' on this bamboo ceiling, for the reason mentioned above.

7. Which of your WIPs will you seek out a beta/sensitivity reader for? Why?

I have mentioned that the stuff that I am writing about for Dancin' on this bamboo ceiling is based on my own experiences, but also on experiences of other Asian people, Gleeks and non-Gleek. Does that count? And yet I am still afraid I will make it too me-centric.

8. Have any of your WIPs been struck by the curse of writer's block?

MATT

CHRISTOPHER

DAVID

HAS BEEN IN THE WIP HOSPITAL THE LONGEST OF THESE.

9. Which WIP has your favourite OC? Tell us about them?

All my fave OCs have published stories, hehehe, so guess it's once again Matty Chris D. Really, he has nothing going for him. He's the most basic person ever. He's besties with Check, Please!'s John Johnson. He's part of chess club.

10. Which WIP is the sexiest?

None.

11. Which WIP is the angstiest?

Dancin' on this bamboo ceiling, cause, you know, racism. And if my Advent fic works out, then there will be some internalised homophobia in there.

12. Which WIP has the best characterisation (in your humble opinion)?

Maybe not the best, but the idea of Just Some Guy is that it's the canon Snowbaz story from an outsider POV so I am very interested in showing how Matt sees these two fuckers.

13. Which WIP has the best scene setting (in your humble opinion)?

Honestly, none. It's just basic New York, Samwell, Ohio, Watford, etc.

14. Which WIP have you worked the hardest on?

I've been working on Dancin' on this bamboo ceiling on and off since 2017, so that one.

15. Which WIP do you have the highest expectations for? Why?

The Klaine Secret Santa fic, because I hope the giftee will like it.

16. Do you dream about any of your WIPs?

Yes... which... oh dang... does "unreleased Paradiso stuff" count as a WIP then?

17. Do any of your WIPs have particular complexities that your other fics don't?

Everyone is (mostly) cutesy and fluffy........ and then there's Dancin' on that bamboo ceiling.

18. Which WIP is the funniest or has the most humour?

I think the whole idea of Just Some Guy is just very funny. Like... John Johnson is here. Why is he here?

19. Do any of your WIPs contain outside POVs or a deep dive on a character other than the main ship? How are you finding that process?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH MATTY CHRIS D!!!!! I am enjoying it a lot, but again, giving MCD a story for himself is just hard because he's not an interesting person.

20. Tell us one thing we don't know about one or more of your WIPs.

The Advent fic idea is a sequel.

[anxtheroliveinthehouse]

A quick snippet of what’s going on in my brain (wip)

Kaz didn’t say anything as he fiddled with a rectangular, velvet-covered box. He opened it and for a few seconds only stared at the contents inside. Inej squirmed while waiting for him to finish her make over. She wasn’t phased by the impromptu dress-up for this mission. They had done it countless times together. Normally it involved dressing as the indentures or grunts, not so much . . . this. The satin gown was heavier than she expected and it weighed on her like a winter’s comforter. She wouldn’t be able to fight in it, she thought doing much of her own fiddling. The delicate rings and bracelets, all gold and all Suli in design, were just as much of a hinderance. She could be quiet wearing them, but she wasn’t about to throw a punch only for the jewelry to fly off or break in the process.

It was worse that she could see herself in the mirror, all dolled up, collar bones bare, and hair curled in careful waves around her face. It reminded her too much of the Menagerie, but it also wasn’t anything like she used to wear. She was nothing but a mercher’s arm piece who happened to be Suli. That’s who Kaz had told her to play. She only donned small reminders of her heritage. In the greater scheme of things, she was dressed in typical Kerch garb. An evening gown that was simple enough while demonstrating wealth in the gold stitching and bead-work around the hem. Lace poked up from the edges around her shoulders and breasts. Inej looked ridiculous. It was hideous and heavy and cumbersome, yet she’d do it for Kaz.

At last, he turned with a necklace in hand. Inej bit off the frustrated groan that was close to escaping. More and more layers of this ugly outfit that had to be peeled off later. In the mirror, she could see Kaz approach her from behind, only the minimal gold chain showed between his long, careful fingers. Inej had seen enough wealthy Kerch women at extravagant events to know that if the chain wasn’t large or decorative then the pendant was absolutely atrocious.

Kaz swept his arms around her after finding her eye in the mirror. His face was unreadable. The necklace was stretched between his gloveless hands in front of her, and he brought it to her skin slowly. At first, she didn’t want to look. She closed her eyes and only let out a small gasp as the cold metal found the skin just above the dress line.

Inej looked when she felt a curious amount of movement on the back of her neck, tickling the short, soft strands there. To her horror- and delight- the pendant was atrocious and it was beautiful. It was a large, dark-red Ruby centered between two golden crows. The crows’ wings were outstretched to set the stone from the top. Their heads were bent down with knives in beak, crossing over to frame the bottom.

Her eyes sought Kaz’s once more. They were glued to her skin where he clasped the necklace. She realized he had already secured the chain, yet his fingertips still danced along the skin there. Goose flesh spread across her body.

“Kaz.” Her voice was surprisingly soft and steady despite how lightheaded she felt.

He looked up. His dark eyes glinted as his head cocked to one side, not unlike a crow when they found something interesting. But pointedly— stubbornly— they locked onto her shoulder in the mirror.

“Where did you get this?”

A sharp grin passed over his lips. “I didn’t buy it.”

Inej’s eyebrow raised, “you had it made?”

“Do you dislike it?”

Inej glanced back to the pendant. It was too gaudy for her own taste, what little she cared for jewelry. Suli women didn’t dress up unless it was for a show, and even then it was rarely anything long or loose that would interfere with a performance. Ear piercings and nose piercings were the most commonly worn in day-to-day wear. After her time at the Menagerie, she really loathed the idea of wearing anything flashy. Pretending to be a Suli bride in a poor mimicry of what was no longer worn in contemporary settings had been the final nail in the coffin.

Now that she was looking, something else crossed her mind.

“Is this a gift?”

Kaz all but choked at the question. She closed her hands into fists waiting for the scathing response. It didn’t come.

“Only if you like it.” Kaz murmured, “I had it made for you. To keep.”

Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. A stray hand came up to touch the necklace. She had half the mind to laugh.

“It’s gorgeous. It’s too much.”

Kaz nodded. He finally looked her in the eye, albeit through the mirror.

“Perhaps,” his voice grating like stone on stone, “but it suits you. You will be the most powerful woman at the gala. It’s befitting to wear your power, your courage.” He paused, then finished, “This is your armor tonight. Dare to face the light, don’t melt into the shadows.”

Inej could have fooled herself into thinking that what he said was an order. Dare to face the light, don’t melt into the shadows. However, his expression was smoldering, his voice dark. There was tremor threatening to wrack through her. She hated the stupid dress and everything it stood for. The necklace on the surface was just as horrid, but to see Kaz’s dark irises lost to black as he held her gaze. To feel the weight of the gold and ruby, to feel the symbols he had made even as obvious as the symbols were . . . It was too much.

“It’s lovely,” she swallowed.

There was a heartbeat as he breathed, in and out then back in. He carefully touched the ruby, just brushing the hand that she still held there.

“I stole all of it.” He explained. “The ruby, the gold. I had rings melted down and remade by a well-learned Fabrikator.”

This time Inej laughed. “Of course.”

[you-are-my-neverland]

hey! are akane and arete both girls?

(i'd love to read all your books! pls let us know when and if you publish them! in the mean time, can we get snippets from both pirates and post-chosen one if at all feasible?)

yes, akane and arete are both girls! also you are so kind!!! i would love to one day be published, but as of right now writing is just my passion/hobby (full time student and part time worker, so it's what i do in my spare time, but an integral part of my life all the time). writeblr will definitely be the first to know when something changes though. or when i actually finish something.

you can indeed get a snippet from the post-chosen one wip (i really need a name for it haha). here's an excerpt from chapter two: bonesetter.

(for context purposes, alice is currently employed as a sentinel in the govt. jamie is her 'handler.' she just lost the magician once again and had to go to the hospital)

“Has anyone told you that you would have been great at politics?” Jamie replied ruefully. “You and I both know I’d be terrible at politics,” Alice told him. “I’m just well versed in how to use power.” She yawned, readjusting herself. Exhaustion was beginning to set into her bones, the lull of unconsciousness a heavy burden to fight off. “You did learn from the best, after all,” Jamie finished, looking down at his hands. Alice smiled faintly.  “Didn’t serve anyone that well in the end, though.” Look at where power and politics had gotten her sister. Look at where Alice herself had ended up, still a pawn in the political system, no matter how hard she fought. The Revolution might have won, but Alice had always known she wasn’t the true winner. She never would have been, no matter the outcome.  “We helped create this world,” Jamie said.  “Don’t forget about the cost,” Alice reminded him bitterly.  Nothing, no Commonwealth, no peace, no future, nothing had ever been worth Helena. Too bad Alice had had no say in the matter.

as i mentioned, i haven't started actually drafting the pirate story quite yet, so no snippet on that end. however, i will share a little more sustenance on the world/plot!

magic wise, the world is sort of infused with magic all around. magic interacts differently with different people, and not everyone gets a 'gift.' there are three broad categories for people who do have some sort of magical ability. miracles, who are the gifted, and usually have small, subtle abilities. they are largely considered 'good.' the second are witches, whose power usually does not differentiate between good and bad (perhaps it depends on the user). they're feared, and not well liked, but at least they're still human. the third level is monsters. usually this refers to actual monsters, such as sea beasts and ghosts and all that, but also to those who were once human, but became corrupted. (the term has been applied liberally, and not always in correct parallelisms with the actual definition).

the seas are ruled/overseen by the all seas assembly (asa), which is a religious organization and political power. it is an independent authority that outlines universal rules individual nations are beholden to (think intergovernmental organizations like the un for similar authorities). they currently have two out of four pieces of the Stone Heart (which is the heart of one of the great gods). they had a third piece, but arete's mom stole it, and it is now lost to the seas. legend has it that once the stone heart is unified as one again, it will be a beacon to nisa's heart, the Star Heart (working on that name idk if i like it). legend also has it that arete's mom found the star heart, so after her fiery death (which arete escaped), piracy surged.

& that's a little of the foundation for the present timeline i'm trying to figure out!!

help me decide my nanowrimo

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

Guess what, guys? IT’S WEDNESDAY! >:D You know what that means~!

TIME TO SHARE!

I’m excited because I finally, finally found the inspiration and motivation to write chapter 13 of my main fic! And I used the good old, ‘And he returned...’ technique! X’D

Time to talk about mages and templars everybody!

“Ma halla,” Cyfrin’s voice came forward, laced with tiredness and unusually serious as his eyes fell upon his sister, “the Chantry has not had control over either side for years. If they had, the Chantry in Kirkwall wouldn't have met the fate that it did.” He picked up the stick they had been using to tend the fire, giving the logs a gentle poke and sending sizzling embers upwards, “Now, it is merely a war of endurance; who can last the longest and who can end it with the most spite, the most damage. Blood will run for many moons as it has for several years now. Except this time, light is being shone on those crimson puddles rather than being mopped up with a," A finger rose to slender lips, a pantomime of silence and secrecy.

Fane sighed, grimacing a bit when Mhairi shifted against his side and watching those embers rise and then blink out of existence. Cyfrin was right. This was a war without end, and each side was merely swinging at whatever happened to move now. Power corrupted, and it had done so in this instance; mages overwhelmed by the taste of air, magic responding with giddy excitement; templars breaking the chains that held their hands and feet in place, as well as their swords. Both had never known what it meant to be free, and now that they had it in aces, they couldn’t cope with it.  All the common folk, them included, could do was wait it out, like a parent waiting for their child, who refused to listen, to settle down. That was all there was to it.

Fane slowly rubbed his palms together, wringing his fingers a bit as he spoke, “Whatever it is now, it doesn’t matter. It’s a mess made for a different rag,” With a tired movement, he let his head roll to the side a bit to rest atop his sister’s, relishing in its silkiness. To think, he had almost abandoned that comfort for fear. He continued with another sigh, “All that matters is staying away from it. It isn’t our fight; it never has been.”

Silence passed between them all after his words had fallen, the crackling of the fire and the drone of crickets and cicadas the only sounds to fill the air. Cyfrin only gave him a nod that said, 'I agree' before going back to idly poking at the fire. However, Fane could feel something like a tense ripple from Mhairi, her body suddenly rigid where it rested against him.

Shit, Fane thought, growling a bit as he recognized this rolling wave exuding off Mhairi. He should have kept his mouth shut.

A few more moments of silence passed before the words he had been dreadfully waiting for passed lips gingerly being bitten into.

"Is it really not our fight, though?," Mhairi asked in a sheepish whisper. Fane watched from over his nose as delicate hands appeared from under fur and cotton, pink with Fereldan chill and palms up, "Or at least, my fight? I mean, I'm a mage, so really--"

"Mhairi," Fane cut off his sister's words, voice dropping low in warning, "Whatever's going through your head right now, end it."

Fane caught the flicker of amber from across the way, their owner knowing where this was going as much as he did, but he was more focused on ice as it hardened before him. He was not going to entertain this ridiculous train of thought! Was his sister mad!?

"But, brother--!"

"Enough," Fane snapped with a harshness he rarely used with her, "Do you want a templar on your heels!? Do you want to be silenced again!?"

Nostrils flared as he brandished a glare downwards, but his irritation cooled as Mhairi's icy gaze melted and turned downwards, guilt and pain in turquoise. Fane frowned deeply at that. Shit, he hadn't meant to…! Damn it all! This was why he should have left on his own! All he did was pull down, down, down! He could never find the right words!

"Of course I don't want those things, brother. You know that," Mhairi said with tightness, voice like a taut cord before letting out a tiny sigh, down-turned eyes staring pointedly at her hands--the tools for which another tool could be wielded in, "It just...feels wrong to turn away and let not only the mages and templars suffer, but innocent people, too. The people on farms and in villages didn't ask to be involved, but they are." A gentle blue glow enshrouded slender fingers and smooth palms, making Fane's nose twitch in irritation and his stomach roll uncomfortably, but he watched it same as her, "I guess I just want to help them, to show them that it doesn't have to end in flames. Magic is beautiful, and it hurts to know no one but the Dalish recognize that."

Fane listened, rapt and attentive even though he knew his face showed otherwise. Mhairi had vocalized these thoughts before to him, and while he understood where she was coming from, that still didn't mean this was their fight. What was there to gain from throwing themselves into the pan? Nothing but an early grave, that's what. Or worse yet, tranquility. The very idea of that happening to his sister made him sick. How such a practice came to be was beyond him, and yet, it made his mind prickle and pull with those odd feelings of ‘wrongness’. Obviously, stripping a person of their emotions was vile and grotesque and disgusting, but it felt like something more to him. It always felt like more with so little.

Fane let out a long sigh through his nose at himself and his sister, the air condensing in front of him, "It's not your job to present that to the world, Mhairi." He shifted a bit, the fur lining of his cloak brushing against the bottom of his cheeks as he did so. He was starting to get warm, uncomfortably warm.

"Isn't it?," his sister forwarded, pressed, pushed, sparkling eyes slowly rolling upwards to look at him; the glow of her hands fading away to let firelight take center stage again, "I’m a--”

Fane growled, his chest rattling from the depth of it. “Yes, you’re a mage, My, but that’s more likely to get you killed, or worse, made tranquil than understood,” He met her slowly narrowing gaze unflinchingly before sighing tiredly, shoulders slumping and voice softening at the look of hurt in icy blue, “Listen: stop chasing after trouble. No good can come from involving yourself in this mess,” His tired eyes shifted to the fire once more, watching it dance and consume both air and forest wood, “This continent is engulfed in war, and it’s not your job to fix the mistakes of others just because of what you are. That type of blind thinking is exactly why all that’s happened, happened.”

He felt his fists ball up against where his hands were resting between his thighs from anxiety and frustration, the skin along his arms pinching to where he could finally feel his scars start to act up. Great. Just what he needed alongside all this ridiculousness. Why did his sister always have to play this card? Yes, she was a mage, but there were a thousand more who could, but wouldn’t do what his sister wished to. And why? Because they knew it was pointless as narrow perspectives were set in the stone of ages.

Time and time again mages had tried and failed to show the world the intended use for magic. Time and time again restrictions were set ever tighter because of those harmless displays, the Chantry crying, ‘Demon, demon! Blood magic, blood magic!’, and a single, single show of defense against such accusations was treated as a literal felony. Now, the Fade touched were doing the only thing they could think to do after so many disappointments; fight. A caged animal was bound to break the door holding it back, and that was exactly what had happened to every Circle; they broke.

They went silent, voices stolen straight from their throats, emotions ripped away so as to be unable to defend themselves any longer, and the beauty his sister desperately wished to show no longer relevant as it had no place in war, in a world where beauty was a stranger. Fane didn’t have much allegiance to either side, both were foolish and pathetic and tiring, and despite his personal experience with magic, he didn’t detest it. It had its uses, just not on him and that was because he didn’t relish getting uncontrollably ill. He was open minded enough to know magic hadn’t been the true culprit, it had only been like the innocents in this pointless war; used against its will. It had been the blade that carved the stone of his body, but it hadn’t been the hand to wield it.

So, he would admit he felt sorry for the endlessly warring factions, even the templars despite his personal feelings regarding them. To be played like a fiddle by a bunch of tottering zealots, zealots that used ‘faith’ as their bargaining chip to garner influence and power while declaring, ‘It is the Maker’s will’. Sadly, despite how thin the veil of deceit was, the people fell for it like raindrops during a heavy downpour, fast and hard. Was it the humans’ ‘god’s’ will to rip away independent thought? To sunder the minds of those who broke the leash long having held them back?

To indiscriminately kill another on the basis of ‘you’re a mage’ or ‘you’re a templar’ or ‘you’re a threat to our power’? Apparently so. Tragic, but there was nothing to be done about it now and Mhairi needed to understand that.

She needed to understand there was no ‘beauty’ in war.

Mhairi let out a disgruntled huff before her form shifted away from him to sit up. Fane squeezed his already tight fists tighter, the leather of his gloves creaking from the force as he watched his sister rise up from the log, her action calm, but her eyes and face held frustration in delicate edges and firelit ice. He felt his expression go hard as he sat up straight, silently mourning the loss of momentary comfort. Again, he should have kept his mouth shut. Why did he even try using words?

“I think I can see perfectly well, brother. I saw the corpses mutilated beyond recognition, the burnt buildings and the sacked ones, the people crying over what they lost, children wailing as their parents wouldn’t wake up. I saw,” Mhairi said, lilt strained and lips twitching with the urge to bend downwards as a forlorn mutter came after, “I wish you would stop treating me like I don’t, like a child.”

With that, Fane watched his sister quickly stride away towards where they had pitched tents, darkened cloak fluttering behind her and kicking up the dusting of snow with her partially bare feet. It was only when Mhairi completely disappeared from his sight, safely burrowing into her tent, did he let out a sigh, the exhalation hard and long.

“Damn it all,” Fane cursed out under his breath, bringing hand out and up from his cloak to rub at his face. He felt ten years older all of a sudden. Scratch that, a thousand years older. How much older could he potentially feel at this rate?

“Tactful as always, ma falon.”

----

Fane can be incredibly harsh, and a downright jerk sometimes. He doesn’t mince words or give platitudes. He says it how he sees it. 

Tagging: @noire-pandora @oxygenforthewicked @varric-tethras-editor @dreadfutures @the-dreadful-canine @drag-on-age @a-drama-addict @little-lightning-lavellan @whataboutbugs @blueheaded @aymayzing @rosella-writes @1000generations and anyone else that’d like to share! (no pressure! <3)

[katytheinspiredworkaholic]

Wip Wednesday

Untitled Fic (Correspondence)

Summary/Story so far: HotchReid, slow burn, AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together – until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. This goes on for months, their tentative friendship turning to flirtatious virtual dates, and now that Hotch knows how old Spencer actually is the barriers just continue to break down one by one. The next escalation? Stepping up from text messages... to a phone call. But it isn’t planned, or how either imagined it would be. In fact, it all begins because of a case...

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)

(Set in late season 6/early season 7, unbeta’d, first draft)

(Without getting into spoilers I’m going to skim over the how and the why of Hotch knowing Spencer’s age now, just know it happens. It had to at some point, right? But they both still don’t know what the other looks like, or even heard each other speak... until now.)

-

Spencer doesn’t even see the caller ID flash across his phone screen. He's too busy with the security work he’s been buried in all morning. A project that the Attorney General sent to their department, specifically, and yet Spencer always gets roped into completing it on his own. Because ‘you can finish it faster than all of us combined, have at it tiger’, and while he may have the Ph.D.’s and titles to back up his academic positions, he’s still the newest and youngest member on the board. Seniority trumps intellect, yet again. He hates bureaucracy with a passion. But Spencer doesn’t even bother to look down at his phone when it rings, just reaches over for it blindly with a half-suffering sigh. Phone calls are always consultations, or requests from other universities, or students and faculty calling in for favors, or something else that isn’t as important to him whatsoever.

Not like Hotch is.

But Hotch is always a text. Spencer knows that text tone, his heart skips when it chimes, his ear is trained for it now. This morning, however, that’s not what happens. His phone rings, and he answers like he always does during office hours. Not even looking up from his work as he puts his phone to his ear.

“This is Dr. Reid.” 

There’s a heavy pause on the line, and Spencer is in the middle of writing out an equation that takes up half a page of his notebook. Too busy to notice it right away.

“... Dr. Reid, this is SSA Hot--” the man stops, clears his throat, voice pitching even lower in an attempt to quiet the conversation. Wherever he is at. “... it’s Hotch.” 

Spencer’s heart literally stops in his chest.

The deep bass, reverberating tones, ring in his ears like church bells and he doesn’t quite comprehend what is happening even as his mind whirls. Stalled, like a car engine that is being revved uselessly, to no avail. 

There’s no way…

“H-Hotch?” 

If he was in his right mind whatsoever, instead of stunned speechless, Spencer would have winced at the breathless sound he just let out.

“I didn’t -- I’m sorry, this wasn’t how I wanted our first phone conversation to go,” Hotch says, his voice clear and concise and smooth as water flowing over river stones. Just as cool, somehow, and yet there’s warmth in the layers underneath. They weave their way in after he apologizes, earnestly, like a small dam breaking in his cadence. He truly was sorry that he had sprung himself on Spencer like this, bringing them into a new light. Another barrier broken between them. “But I need your help.”

That shakes Spencer out of his mild panic. His irrational worry about how he sounds on the phone -- how young he sounds on the phone, because it’s far too late to do anything about that, now -- or how his voice cracks when he answers the older man. Still partially in shock, mind racing to righten itself, somehow.

“R-Right. Yes, of course. You’re still on your case, in Wyoming?” It all comes out in a rush as Spencer closes his notebook and stands up from his desk in a shot, immediately pacing along one of his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in his office. Free hand raking through his hair to ground himself.

“Yes, the geographical profile is too complex for us to decipher and we don’t have time to cycle it through digitally. There’s a snow storm up here, we have next to no service. I can’t even get text messages or email out… just phone calls. Emergency phone calls.” There’s an authority to Hotch’s voice that just feels like it fits him, and his job, and how Spencer remembers their first emails sounding -- it’s nothing like how they text, how they message each other at all hours of the night and make each other laugh on different sides of the country. He finds he likes it, though, finds it soothing in a way that calms his rattled nerves the more he speaks, and gets Spencer to focus on the task at hand. Hotch’s team is on a case, people are dead, a killer is on the loose. Hotch needs his help. “It also means we can’t access anything from the home office at Quantico, so we’re stuck up a creek at the moment.”

“I’m faster than a computer, anyway, have Ms. Garcia send it all over to me as soon as she can,” Spencer tells him, putting his phone between his ear and shoulder as he scoops up his laptop and races out of his office. Making a beeline towards the conference room where he’ll have more room to work. Spencer is already logging into his email and closing the door with his foot for privacy when he juggles his phone to his hand. “I’m putting you on speaker, but it’s just me in here. I can start when I have everything.” He drops his cell to the table and leans over it as he sets up, clearing off the work space as quick as his frantic hands allow. 

But something stops him. Spencer pauses in his shuffling of papers left over from that morning’s meetings as a thought sticks in the forefront of his mind. Entirely inappropriate, considering the circumstances, but… face flushed red and eyes darting to the phone -- Hotch’s name there above the call time duration -- Spencer licks his lips nervously and asks, anyway. 

“... am I on speaker there?”

“Not yet, I was about to switch you over.”

“Wait! I just --” he pauses, flushing further at his outburst, and he knows his words have gone a little breathless and high and he’s embarrassed by it all but... he has to say it. The development is too shocking, too out of their realm of influence. If and when they had planned on moving up from texts to phone calls, it wouldn’t have gone like this, or have had this much urgency. It’s still the first time Spencer has ever heard Hotch speak, and he can’t ignore how groundbreaking that is. What it’s changing between them, even as they work on a case that requires all their attention.

“-- I really like the sound of your voice,” he admits, his own words quieted because he knows this isn’t the time or the place. “The decibels are soothing, which is so fascinating to me and I’m sure there’s a science behind it, I’ll have to look it up later. And…it’s close to how I pictured you might sound… but better?” God, Spencer never stumbles over words like this and he clears his throat as he tries to righten his composure to something a little less… awestruck. Focus. They have a case. “Will you -- can we talk tonight, too? Please.” 

“Of course,” Hotch says quietly, assuringly, and his voice rumbles through the speaker on the table. Spencer feels it like a shockwave, from shaking breath to numb fingertips. He’s glad he’s leaning against the table, when it happens, because he goes a little lightheaded from it. “You’re… just as I expected.” And there’s a tone there that says it like praise, and Spencer’s heart feels light as air. “We’ll talk more about it later,” Hotch promises, and suddenly Spencer can hear a door opening on the other end of the line and a click of sound as the police station background noise filters through the conference room. “You’re on speaker with my team,” Hotch says, his voice a little bit further away, but not any less stronger for it. “This is Dr. Spencer Reid at CalTech, he’s going to finish the geographical profile for us.”

(tbc...)

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

Hi y'all!

So I realized today that it's been about three months since I started cross-posting my stuff to ao3 (those of y'all who were here for After Each Midnight while it was still a wip will know that I've been writing for longer than that but anyway). With the latest fic I just posted, I now have 30 works published to ao3 within those three months! Which is wild to me!

Since that averages out to ten fics a month and I like round numbers, I decided to celebrate by listing my 10 favorite fics...of my own lol. Narcissistic? Maybe! But it's fun anyway!

This is a really long post as each rec includes a summary, an excerpt (or a few), and some personal notes/anecdotes about the writing process or what inspired me to write the fic, etc. so I'm putting it all under the break. If this doesn't sound like your cup of tea then of course please just skip over this one, but for anyone who wants to revisit some of my older works with me, or if you're curious about which fics I personally like the most, or if you want to talk about your favorite fics of mine in the replies or anything, then that's cool too! I just wanted to find a way to mark this down because it feels like something of an achievement ^_^

Thank you!

1. After Each Midnight Begins A New Day, (54,401 words, Rated E) Ship(s): 3zun, Wangxian Summary: When Lan Xichen wakes up the morning after the fifth anniversary of his life crumbling to rubble around him in Guanyin Temple, he's shocked to find both Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao in his bed, both whole and alive and...married to him?! (A time travel fix-it in which the time traveling and fixing of things has already been done by Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, and Lan Xichen accidentally gets dragged along for the happily ever after.) Excerpt(s):

1. “Poor da-ge,” [Meng Yao] teases again, this time with a bit of an edge, and Lan Xichen cracks one eye open just enough to see him stripping first out of his shoes and socks, then his third layer of robes, then his second, until he’s dressed much as he had been the prior evening - in nothing but a black under-robe so sheer that it actually almost looks gray. It clings to all the petite, lithe curves of him and the sight makes Lan Xichen’s mouth practically water. “What if I want my turn with you now? What if I’m jealous that er-ge got to have you all to himself for hours , while your poor A-Yao had to go have a drink with Xian-didi just to pass the time.” “Oh gods you’re a beast too,” Nie Mingjue groans as Meng Yao slips on top of him gracefully to lean down and pepper kisses up and down his neck and shoulder. “Get off of me, foul creature. Go tempt our husband, I’m temporarily immune to your wiles.” “You’re never immune to my wiles, da-ge, and er-ge is meditating oh so diligently. He’s certainly not smiling and watching us through his lashes as if we’re not well aware of his tricks and what he likes to watch.” - 2. “It took years of practice, you with your painting and I with my answering, but when you were a teenager I finally decided on the best advice I could think to give you: Do not seek for every answer in this life all at once, Xichen,” he instructs with a smile as he returns to painting. “Let them come to you gently and in their season, and trust that all will be as it should in the end.” Lan Xichen takes another breath and returns to his painting with a slightly trembling hand - a trembling that ends up creating a lovely branch on the tree he is painting that, when he turns his head to look, is modeled almost exactly after the one growing in the garden behind the Gentian House, just beyond the window. “I don’t remember ever seeing this tree,” he whispers and Qingheng-Jun hums across from him in clear understanding. “And yet it flows from your brush all the same. Now we can all know that you have nothing to fear, your memories will also come to you in their season. Until then, allow yourself to rest, and remember that you have the support of your family whenever you need it.” “Yes, father,” he replies with a whisper and a tremulous smile, feeling lighter than he has in days. - 3. “I will go into seclusion.” The statement is a stone dropped into the gently rippling water of a spring-fed pool. The stone is jagged and pitted with all that the world has done to chip away at it, to make it rough and painful to the touch. It is sharp in his hands, heavy with all the hurts he still carries in his chest, all the grief he has no more room to hold. He feels lighter with it out of his grasp, the words settling into the ensuing silence with some bittersweet relief.

Notes: I know I've said it before but it bears repeating: this entire fic exists solely because of the smut scene in chapter 1. I thought of the smut first, and then the lead-in to it, and I intentionally left the end of chapter 1 ambiguous - it could have ended right there as an angsty one-shot with Lan Xichen believing that it was all a hallucination, and there's nothing really in the text to say that it's not because Lan Xichen is a very unreliable narrator in this fic. But then I wanted to write the backstory for the smut if, in fact, it wasn't a hallucination - and everything kind of...butterfly-effected out from there to become what it is now, along with all the extras in the series that's now roughly 120k long altogether and still not finished. Oops. Oh and also: this fic that started the ball rolling only exists because for some reason the servers for Omegle went down for months where I live, and prior to that I used to spend hours rp'ing. Without that creative outlet, I filled the vacuum with writing fic instead and now here we are. So if you're grateful for my fics then thank Omegle for sucking for a few months lol --//-- 2. Loving, Loud, Wild, and Theirs (7386 words, Rated T) Ship(s): Xuanli & Gen (kidfic), 3zun (briefly) - an extra for AEM Summary: A brief look at how in this kinder world, Jin Zixuan managed to find and legitimize his three siblings as well as a snapshot of the chaos of love and fun that is his family with his siblings, his beloved wife, and their seven children. Excerpt:

He had listened to [Madam Qin] and her handmaid, and he had believed them, and he had been unsurprised to find himself thinking quite uncharitably of his father following his promise to Madam Qin that he would do everything in his power to make it right, as much as he could. [Jin Zixuan and Meng Yao] return to Jinlintai the day after the next, once their business is concluded. He’s relieved when nothing needs his immediate attention as it means he’s free to retreat into his and Jiang Yanli’s quarters so he can tell her everything that’s weighing on his mind. “No more surprise siblings from now on,” he sighs into the comfort of Jiang Yanli's chest when he’s finished outlining what has happened and his plans to prepare a new suite of rooms in the family wing of the tower. For Qin Su. His sister. Jiang Yanli just laughs her tinkling laugh and kisses him, her hands gentle as she combs his hair back from his face with her fingertips. “You’ve got more siblings now than any of the rest of us,” she teases with a mischievous smile down at him that is a bit too reminiscent of, weirdly, both Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu for comfort. “Two brothers, a sister, and of course we must keep Mianmian in her spot on the list. If you would like to count brothers-in-law as well you’ve also got A-Xian, A-Cheng, Huaisang, Wangji, Xichen, and Mingjue...” He groans and hides his face properly in the soft silk of her robes even as she laughs again over his head.

Notes: This fic is actually a request fill for someone and I had some trouble ending it because there's a lot more I want to write with this wild family, though I did eventually find what felt like a good place to cut it off with 3zun arriving in Jinlintai for the visit they leave for at the end of AEM. There is something of a follow-up floating around my wips that - if it ever gets written - is a direct sequel to AEM that continues where this extra leaves off, with 3zun getting to spend time with their hoard of niblings in Jinlintai. No promises about if/when that will get written though. --//-- 3. Performance Art (8106 words, Rated M) Ships: 3zun, Wangxian (briefly) Summary: A Modern AU inspired by the 'Hysterical Literature' performance art project. Lan Xichen, Nie Mingjue, and Meng Yao take turns doing their best to read aloud from chosen written works as they're filmed. The twist is that they're trying to do so as they're being pleasured with a vibrator controlled by one of their partners off-camera, each of their turns ending when the partner being filmed/played with has an orgasm. Excerpt(s):

1. “Engage people with what they expect; it is..- it…it is what they are able to discern and.. ngh.. confirms their projections. It settles.. ah settles them into predictable-“ He cuts off suddenly to set the book down flat and slap one hand down sharply on the tabletop. Meng Yao simply clicks another button and Nie Mingjue groans as his newly unoccupied hand twitches back to rest on the edge of the table closer to himself, as if about to drop down beneath it. Lan Xichen and Meng Yao both shift forward in their seats but Nie Mingjue catches himself before they have to intervene, returning his hand to the middle of the table and forcing a deep breath into his lungs so he can continue. “-Predictable patterns of..of response, occupying their minds while you w-wait for the ex- extra-“ he huffs out a sharp breath and curls his hand into a fist as he tilts forward and forces out the rest of the sentence in a rush. “Extraordinary moment — that whichtheycannotanticipate. FUCK!” - 2. It’s a few hours of quiet, peaceful work later when Lan Wangji shifts his weight in the way that means he wants Wei Wuxian’s actual attention and not his ‘ I’m sculpting so I’m periodically looking at you ’ sort of attention which he is, of course, quick to grant. He pauses in his muttering half to himself and half to Lan Wangji to say, “Hm? What’s up Zhanzhan?” “From Xiongzhang,” he says by way of explanation, holding his phone out for Wei Wuxian to squint at the screen. It takes him a moment to understand what he’s looking at, his eyes needing a second to adjust to the small black and white video that’s playing after having spent hours looking between Lan Zhan and the clay form taking shape under his hands. “What is this?” he asks as he leans in closer and squints a little harder. He blinks and his eyes go wide in the next moment as he realizes what’s happening on the screen as the woman’s tension climaxes ( literally ) - and then it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to figure out just why he’d been asked to create an eerily similar setup in his own studio the previous afternoon for three men he might as well consider his sort-of brothers at this point. His next exhale is a wheeze as his ears go hot and Lan Wangji is instantly shrugging into a robe to stand from his lounging position and approach, concern written all over his features. “Wei Ying?”

Notes: I don't really have too much to say about this one except that it brought me so much joy and laughter to write and it honestly kind of surprises me that it's one of my less popular fics - it's nothing but a fun, sexy time! But I'm also terrible at guessing trends/what people will want to see so that might be on me haha. Oh! Also - a minor thing but something I'm very mildly proud of: the narrator voice is dependent on who's behind the camera! I wanted a way to make the person filming feel just as involved as the other two and I thought that was a fun way to do it since within the narrative it's technically going to be their perspective used for the video they're recording. Just to give y'all a little insight into my decision-making when it comes to my writing style for this one. --//-- 4. Anything For My Nie-Zongzhu (6411 words, Rated E) Ship: NieYao - pre-canon (just barely) Summary: Meng Yao is Nie Mingjue's trusted right hand, intelligent and valued by his Sect Leader, at least, who has learned lately to appreciate him a hell of a lot in private too - and for much more personal matters than the minutiae of running the Nie Sect. Seeing as Nie Mingjue trusts him so much, he finds it in himself to ask for something new - for Meng Yao to top him. [Technically an extra for AEM but can be read as a standalone] Excerpt:

“Am I to play into this boorish act you’re putting on tonight?” he teases instead as he steps closer until he’s near enough to feel the way the steam from the bath has turned the air sticky and humid. Nie Mingjue finally looks up at him and Meng Yao is internally crowing with triumph as he watches the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth fall away, his expression smoothing into quiet contentment. He did that. His presence alone is enough to help Nie Mingjue relax. It feels nearly as good as the day the man had angrily defended him to his own disciples and promoted him on the spot. “It’s not an act, I’m plenty boorish,” Nie Mingjue gruffs, returning his gaze to the letter, but this close Meng Yao can actually watch his eyes do nothing but try to glare a hole through the center of the page. “Of course you are, Zongzhu,” Meng Yao allows, his tone openly humoring - as is the smile tightening the corners of his mouth. “Therefore I can only suppose that you would prefer it if I returned to my walk and left you to continue your...correspondence in peace.”

Notes: Once again not really many notes on this one! I just love NieYao, I think their dynamic during Meng Yao's Nie Sect days has so much potential and I love exploring it every so often. --//--

5. Bite The Hands That Feed (1590 words, Rated E) Ship: XiYao Summary: After being forced out of the Nie Sect, Meng Yao has to come to grips with the hunger that's been chasing him his whole life, and he finds temporary satisfaction over and over in Lan Xichen, who is always so generous with his time and his body and is willing to help him feel less empty even just for a night. Excerpt:

He would never bite the hands that feed him, that stuff him full enough to make him believe for a moment that he’s no longer starving. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t inflict pains. He bites and he scratches and he plants himself in the bloody furrows until flowering moans reward his violent care, until pleasure bursts sun-warmed and sweet between them, berries ripe for the picking. He stains his mouth red with them, his fingers purple with the bruises he paints so delicately on his devotee’s body. If Meng Yao is being clawed to a slow torturous death from within, then it stands to reason that his other half will be ripped to shreds from without. He keeps his nails sharp and his teeth bared to tear into his flesh and drink sweetly of the vintage he offers - sweat, spend, blood, saliva when their mouths meet for crushing kisses. All of it is his to consume. He puts his mouth to the feast of Lan Xichen’s body and eats until the hunger pangs are satiated, drinks until he feels dizzy with it.

Notes: So I wrote this one when I was getting a little tired of the straight narration style of all my other fics and I wanted to try my hand at something looser, a little more prose-like but also a little darker than my usual fluff. I'm not sure how successful I was - this is actually one of my absolute least popular fics, number-wise! - but it's one of my favorites anyway. --//-- 6. A Figure, A Mouth (2788 words, Rated M) Ship: Wenzhou Summary: A quiet, intimate evening spent in the comfort of the Four Seasons Mountain Manor sometime between their arrival/fixing up of the place and the confrontation with Ye Baiyi. Excerpt:

After a while of warming each other up Wen Kexing urges him back up to push the bed under the window just as he’d said he would. Zhou Zishu takes the opportunity to blow out the candles before he rejoins Wen Kexing in their bed, the sudden darkness leaving them free to admire each other clothed in nothing but broad swathes of cool, sweet blue light bisected by deep black lattices of shadow from the trees out in the yard, the shadows from the contours of the wall and decorations around the window blocking and revealing them in turns. Lao Wen is, of course, as beautiful like this as he has been in every way Zhou Zishu has ever seen him, and he takes the time to savor it, to indulge in the decadence that Wen Kexing presents for each of his remaining senses. He’s a feast for the eyes, all hard muscle and skin glistening with glittering diamonds of sweat along his shoulders and the soft curve of his cheek. He’s a symphony for the ears, breathless desire and tender calls of his name that Zhou Zishu never lets go unanswered when they’re like this. By now Wen Kexing is an expert at drawing pleasure from him in every unlikely way there is to make sure that the effects of the nails don’t keep him from reaching his peak at least once, occasionally more in spite of his fading sense of touch.

Notes: Wenzhou makes me so soft and emotional, y'all. The next one on the list is also a Wenzhou fic and I just can't seem to stop writing them in fluffy/smutty situations because it's what they deserve. I really don't have anything more interesting to say about this fic, I just love them haha. --//-- 7. Tease Him Just Enough (2537 words, Rated M) Ship: Wenzhou Summary: A possible outcome if the conversation post-face reveal in episode 6 had gone differently - i.e. if Zhou Zishu had called Wen Kexing out on all his flirting and challenged him to do something about it - and then he does. Excerpt:

They don’t need words to communicate that at least right here in this particular moment there’s no one else they would rather have in their arms, pressed up against their bodies, no one else’s tongue who would find a new home in each other’s mouths or any other body their hands would rather explore. Wen Kexing has already known that they’re fated, but for the first time it feels like they’re agreeing to be so. Even if it’s just for a night. (Not that he thinks it will be just one night for them, but getting Zhou Xu to agree to anything remotely of the kind is like trying to drag a stray back-alley cat into a bath so he’ll take what he can get.)

Notes: My first fic for Word of Honor! The whole time I was watching the show (read: obsessively binge-watching) I was like 'Okay I like this show a lot but it's not nearly as compelling as The Untamed, idk if I'll be motivated to write anything for it'. Then I got to the end and I was like NEVERMIND YES I AM. I played myself. --//-- 8. You Need Tending (12,108 words, Rated T) Ship(s): Lan Wangji & Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji & Lan Xichen, Lan Qiren & The Jades & Wei Wuxian (this is a kidfic so nothing romantic!) Summary: Wei Wuxian is alone and homeless on the streets of Yunmeng, unaware of the presence of his parents' old friend so nearby. Lan Wangji is a child grieving for the loss of his mother in silence, overwhelmed by the world his uncle keeps dragging him out into. It takes their paths crossing more than once for Lan Qiren to realize just who Wei Wuxian is and that he needs their help, but he gets there eventually. Excerpt:

He watches on as the man comes to a stop next to the boys and squats down to check over the one who had been lost and suddenly he remembers lying on the ground and looking up at a stern-faced man with gentle hands and a ribbon across his forehead. The man who had given him medicine and bandages after a small boy had defended him from dogs, and an older boy had talked to him so kindly and helped him to sit up off the dirt. Wei Ying gasps as the memory hits and he scrambles back down off the roof, landing on the packed dirt of the space between the buildings with an oof, excitement bubbling in his chest. Along with the memory comes a name and it flies from his lips as he scrambles up off the ground to push his way into the crowd again. “Master Lan!” he shouts, his tiny voice lost in the din of the market. He tries to shove closer but the little family is already walking away, their backs to him as he strains against the flow of people much bigger and stronger than him. “Master Lan!” he tries again, desperation lending extra strength and emotion to his cry. Wei Ying stops struggling as he watches the two boys in white walk away, the pair of them flanking Master Lan in his sky blue robes as they move through the market, radiating serenity in the midst of the chaos. His vision blurs and he scrubs his forearm against his eyes angrily to dry them, trying to keep the three of them in his sight for as long as he can just in case they turn around and spot him. Just in case they remember him and maybe want to tell him to come with them.

Notes: Baby Wei Ying T-T He just hits me right in the heart, and so does baby Lan Zhan! And baby Lan Xichen. All the babies. This fic was actually completely inspired by an utterly adorable fanart of Lan Xichen giving a grumpy baby A-Zhan a piggyback ride! I'd been wanting to write a kidfic type fix-it for a while and that art was the spark I needed to come up with something workable. (Edit: here’s my reblog of the art I’m talking about!) --//--

9. Familial Circumstances (5393 words, Rated G)

Ship(s): Lan Qiren & Original Characters, Lan Qiren & Jin Zixuan, Lan Qiren & Qin Su, Lan Qiren & Mo Xuanyu - An extra for AEM

Summary: Another kidfic extra for the horde of children in Jinlintai, this time as seen through the lens of their beloved Great Uncle Lan. It's a simple relationship-study-type look at how all the children love their Great Uncle and how much he loves and treasures them in return.

Excerpt:

An unusual stillness accompanies [Jin Ruhai's] playing. Jin Lu stops fidgeting with her fingers, the twins slip into the perfect stillness of those who are utterly aware of themselves at all times - a trait [Lan Qiren has] noticed in every skilled fighter he’s ever come across - and even Jin Ye relaxes, slumping further and further backwards until she’s slouched down against his stomach, legs dangling over his crossed shins.

The piece isn’t a terribly long one, nor as complex as the next score Lan Qiren intends to teach the boy, but Jin Ruhai’s mastery of it is impressive. Again, Lan Qiren is forcefully reminded of Lan Wangji, always most at peace when behind his instrument to play with and/or for the people he loves.

There’s silence in the room until the last note fades with a shiver into the air and Jin Ruhai pulls his hands back from the instrument. The stillness lasts for one more moment before it’s interrupted by Jin Lu sneezing suddenly and her siblings laugh as the quiet breaks.

“I had to hold that in the whole time !!” Jin Lu laughs as she rubs her sleeve under her nose, one eye screwed shut as she giggles. “I didn’t want to mess up A-Zhuang’s song, it’s so pretty!”

Notes: I'm definitely biased because they're all my oc's except for Jin Ling, but I genuinely love all of the Jin children in the AEM AU. If anyone is ever interested in knowing more about their individual personalities and the like please don't hesitate to ask me, I've actually put quite a bit of thought into all 6 of the kids I created wholecloth and I have a lot of feelings about Jin Ling getting the chaotic siblings and loving parents he was robbed of.

--//--

10. Opportunities To Practice (5710 words, Rated M) (*WIP)

Ship: Xuanli - An extra for AEM

Summary: Jin Zixuan is nervous for his..marital activities with Jiang Yanli - after all, who could he possibly ask for advice? His father? No thank you. Thankfully Jiang Yanli is sweet and patient and knows her husband well - he just needs a bit of time and he'll get it figured out.

Excerpt:

She shivers with an interesting combination of want and intense vulnerability as she stands there, feeling bare in spite of her remaining layer. It’s of a material so sheer as to be practically nonexistent, nothing more than a delicate veil of a red so pale it’s nearly pink that sits on her body like a second skin. Until it falls gently away at the knee to flutter around her ankles, it clings to every curve, every contour, and as she watches Jin Zixuan doesn’t even bother to hang the robe he had just removed on the screen. He lets it drop into a soft pool around her bare feet, his gaze roaming her newly exposed figure - she would perhaps feel strange about it did he not look so devoted , so in awe of seeing her practically naked in front of him.

Yanli gasps softly as he suddenly drops to his knees at her feet and oh - that’s heady. Her body, which she hasn’t really thought of too much in the past beyond the occasional irritation that it’s weaker than she would prefer, has put the man she loves on his knees. He’s looking up at her now, his eyes wide and his hands reverent as he raises them to rest on her thighs, thumbs caressing her too-warm skin through the barely-there robe that bunches up softly under the pressure of his grip.

“You’re right,” he finally breathes, sounding slightly strained. “I’d like this to stay on. If that’s - are you alright?”

“I am,” she reassures.

Notes: This last fic is technically a wip, the only one in the list! However! - it's going to be a collection of one-shots centered around Xuanli and their sexual exploits that lead to their seven children, and possibly also the ones that are just for fun (horny Yanli rights forever). It's not currently high on my list of priorities or anything and the one chapter that's up so far can stand on its own so it's a wip but it's not? I just love Xuanli so much and I want to explore their relationship in my happy fix-it AU whenever the mood strikes, and whenever that happens this is where those one-shots will go.

--//--

And that's it! My personal top 10 favorite fics of my own as of right now. I thought about doing my top 10 according to statistics like hit counts or kudos, but I genuinely love some of these unpopular fics and I wanted to give them some love and attention even if it's just for me. I know there's a lot here to sift through but if any of y'all enjoyed the list or any of the specific fics on it let me know! I liked taking this little pause to take a look at what I've actually been producing these last few months.

Thanks for reading!