#I like the drawing itself but I feel like it needs more finesse with the color

[jessdrawz]

[whetstonefires]

10 and 29 for the ask game?

10. Is there a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

I try not to have expectations, so I'm sure it's happened a lot and I didn't remark upon it enough to remember.

I do recall that All the Roofs of Uncertainty was originally a one-shot that was much better-liked than I expected, so I wrote into the what-happens-next and changed the original open ending into a whole plotline, that consisted almost entirely of Jason Todd talking to people in a hospital.

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

Oh gosh I have so many fics that lie unfinished because the work necessary to complete them exceeded my interest in the premise. I could do this for weeks and not run out. Let's see.

Okay, the funniest fic that I will never ever finish is the one that was me trying to draw up a plausible background scenario for an AU (which I couldn't decide if it ought to be modern or not) where Su She was dating Wei Wuxian.

(This in turn was inspired by the fact that I kept reading modern AUs where various canon villains were cast as wwx's shitty boyfriend or ex and it was never Su She, aka the bargain bin version of Lan Wangji, who seemed to me to be the least improbable option on offer. Like if you feel the need to lampshade repeatedly within your fic that it's incomprehensible that Wei Wuxian would ever voluntarily date Jin Zixun, maybe that's a sign you should change that bit.)

The plot of the story that Su-She-uses-his-words-and-pulls-wwx embedded itself in would have revolved around Lan Wangji subsequently agreeing to a date with ten-years-younger Mo Xuanyu, presumably in an attempt to move on, and Su She picking up on his hopeless pining when both couples happened to be in the same room, as dates to the same function or something, and then following a characteristically self-destructive course where he got so wrapped up in rubbing it in Lan Wangji's face that he finally had something the Lan scion wanted and couldn't get that he wound up entirely destroying his own relationship.

Wei Wuxian is a very good judge of people who also attracts strong personal loyalty once people get attached to him in the first place, and notably something that simply never happens to him is someone betraying him who he trusted not to do that. (Jiang Cheng does not count; Wei Wuxian maneuvered him into most of it, he wasn't taken by surprise.) So it could be really neat to finesse the character work of him understanding Su She's basic character flaws, but not expecting them to manifest or affect him quite the way they end up doing.

In the same way he mostly gets Lan Wangji as a person from the start but, lacking insight into certain things he's hiding, is unable to reliably reconstruct his perspective. To an increasingly noticeable degree, as lwj acts on that aspect of his motivations more openly.

I am never going to write that though, because I just don't care enough about that kind of story, although concept free to a good home.

I did write out a little of the backstory to how Su She could have wound up in a position of wanting to date Wei Wuxian on his own merits, which was a fun bit of character study because Su She is basically Jin Guangyao's Wen Ning, you know? Evil Wen Ning.

His understanding of Jin Guangyao as someone who respects and values him earned an insane amount of personal loyalty from a basically very selfish guy--like sure, it's clear he got a steady stream of favors out of the bargain, but he also puts himself on the line way in excess of the practical value Jin Guangyao has provided and is likely to provide; the real inducement was the validation.

So, if Wei Wuxian had happened to be carelessly kind and supportive to Su She the way he was to Wen Ning, having met him in a weak moment before Su She had had a chance to make an impression as a petty asshole rather than just a bit of a dumbass (not that he actually in canon managed to make any personal impression even by shooting him in the arm) you could probably arrange for him to glom onto Wei Wuxian instead, as someone like him, who didn't get the respect he deserved because of his birth station.

And Wei Wuxian would be perfectly willing to reciprocate that friendship, even though (as with Wen Ning) if Su She didn't reach out promptly he'd have totally forgotten he existed until prompted lmao. Su She would never forgive that insult.

You can see in the passage here where I still kind of wanted it to be a modern AU so they're texting, but the setup I'd written previously worked as a clean canon divergence because that's my usual preference, and I really wasn't interested enough in a plot that's entirely about romantic relationships to figure that out and write the rest.

But I did enjoy doing this study of how Su She could have gotten stuck on Wei Wuxian, only to later go on to fuck himself over with his Lan Wangji complex.

It was nice to have someone to complain to who got it. When Su Minshan talked about having no family to turn to, about owing everything to the Sect that had raised him when, to the Lan, everything came down to the clan and he would never have a chance to truly distinguish himself— Sometimes I think about just leaving, Su Minshan wrote, because Wei Wuxian wouldn’t scold him for being ungrateful. You can, if you want, Wei Wuxian wrote, as if it was that easy. Only if you came too, Su Minshan had written back, shaken by his own daring. Of course, Wei Wuxian refused. Jiang Cheng would never forgive me if I ran off. Because he’s counting on you to run his Sect for him. He absolutely is not. Jiang Cheng will work himself into the ground before he lets me do his job for him. He didn’t admit that of course the Sect Heir was counting on him, but he didn’t disagree, which was basically the same thing. Wei Wuxian worked very hard and was rewarded for it, but Su Minshan knew that even in Jiang the equal opportunity only went so far—he was the Sect Leader’s pet for personal reasons, not just on merit, and even so he could never rise to be the equal of the blood heir. It was infuriating sometimes how that didn’t bother him. Have more ambition! You’re so lucky, Su Minshan wrote, because he was jealous, he was so so jealous. I am! <3 But let’s see, outside the main family how important can a person get in Lan Sect? You can make a plan. Weeks of effort did not produce any particularly good plans. The most realistic one took forty years to show results. Maybe I should just kill Lan Wangji and use a spell to disguise myself and take his place, Su Minshan joked. Haha! Minshan-xiong, I’m sorry, you couldn’t pull off being Lan Zhan. That hurt, an unexpected cold dagger to the ribs. Wei Wuxian was his friend! Why not! he typed angrily. Was his playing too weak, his swordsmanship, his deportment? Would even Wei Wuxian tell him he was just not good enough? Because you could never resist saying something bitchy when you had the chance, and he keeps all the bitching inside his head. Su Minshan put his head down and laughed until he thought he might cry.

I have the sneaking suspicion I already shared this one for one of these games, because it really is by far the funniest thing I'm definitely never going to finish, so I'll reblog this post later with another offering.

[astrxlfinale]

🛡️ - for [Dan Heng] to protect [Caelus] from harm .

Once again did the ante find itself stationed at familiar highs. In many ways, fate did have it that before them, opposition of increasingly finer caliber would often appear. Whereas Dan Heng's gaze remained a pinnacle of conscious focus, Caelus held a different front, prideful eyes narrowed towards the sweeping storm of electrical currents that shuddered like a tumultuous hall around their foe. Singers of Imaginary desolation would revolve in harmless in that turbulent strength, seemingly empowered.

"Say. They're all just barking up a tree for charge time." Caelus begins, a shift of understanding edged within his gazes. A friendly swat upon the shoulder, harmless and light would be made on his friend's shoulder, a fine confidence bolstered within his tone. "Think you can get me there while I concentrate on this new card I've been cookin' up? I got a move in mind, and we can wire some techniques to shatter this whole domain."

A taste for fresher air was heavily overdue.

The demand was for their movements to once more transcend the scales of lightning, one as heavily and heightened as the distorted standard of the Fragmentum. The solemn nod was all he needed to hear, and as their forms braced to begin a sudden advance, the opposing foes sung their hymns and allowed the tremors of thunder to growl in the surroundings, allowing a symphonic light show to glimmer up ahead.

"Time to show 'em what hell looks like, Dan Heng."

Their own forms would immediately jolt with speed so profound that the actual shockwave lagged for a second before erupting. In a funneled stir of wind pressure, a special zone of pure agility that only heightened fighters are privy to, their advance was seamless as they made their charge to the thunderous behemoth. Allowing for faith to be his calm and his guide, he keeps true to the plan, allowing the essence of Destruction to gradually be harnessed as a new form found itself realized. The power in itself aimed to gnaw at his flesh, his foes, his friends, the very space all around him, yet it remains controlled.

It'd be the heavenly spearwork made by his companion that allows such concentration to be possible. Similar to a zephyrous fang repeatedly finding its mark, whether it was lightning unbound, or the calamitous golden fury that rained from above, all of it would find it countered. For them to effortlessly reach a state of deflecting all of these attacks, Caelus was aware of Dan Heng operating at a pace five times as fast as his own lethal speed.

Decisive counterattacks, blow backs of power, it wasn't simply a dance made in deflecting away all harm. No, it was a blur of precision and finesse that allowed a swarm of self-made attacks and brutal counters to eliminate all obstruction. Multiple foes found themselves with their heads gouged as they dissolved, elemental birds were eradicated body first before the crystallized wings could even realize. It allows a simple thought to strengthen the smile on the Trailblazer's lips.

He's damn glad a guy like this is on his side.

All of this was being performed while keeping an intentionally set pace surrounding him no less!

Once they found themselves eclipsed by the beast's massive frame, one of those legs encased in violet armor had raised for a stomp, a frightening focus on high voltage seized as a second layer around their frame.

"Caelus!" The decisive call was made, time found itself all wrapped up! In truth? It was more than enough, the warning instead eliciting that fiendish grin upon the Trailblazer's face. Oh oh oh did it feel good to fight alongside his allies.

"Let's tear 'em to shreds!" A decisive vault would draw them directly towards that incoming attack!

Entropic Retribution!

The sweltering culmination of Destruction found itself compressed with the force of a blazing star, locked underneath the damnable dominion of this bastard it ached to be free from. The highly focused attack would find itself locked into his gilded grip, spear and fist united for that chaotic moment of impact. Lightning, gale and destruction, the following meet within the dimensional zone's epicenter had caused its falsified reality to shake. The ground for miles had stretched into a series of webbed cracks, heated fissures of Destruction seething through the skies as the caster and his companion's forms were safely coated by the power.

The same couldn't be said for the beast above. The wind allowed direction, giving Caelus's Path power a vicious spiral to take advantage of, causing the melting like effect of the Retribution technique to enfeeble both the electricity and its body.

In the end, that gargantuan body was forced to the heavens, the bodies of the Nameless tearing decisively through its entire frame, bisecting their foe and destroying the pivotal nail that allowed this corrosive zone to persist. They were akin to a glimmering star streaking towards the heaven's, the remnant visceral of electrical plasma being their twisted wings as an explosion erupts from underneath.

Another job done!

@etherealguard

[justmissart]

I'm really enjoying seeing folks sharing the first art they made of their OCs and the most recent. Seeing the art progression, character development and how the lives of the characters have impacted their designs has been a real treat.

And with that, I'd like to share my own characters with you (and you can't stop me so 😝) First up we have my lil punk Ru. She's passionate, fiery, inquisitive and a fiend for hugs. Talk shit about those she cares about and she can and will break your knees. Ru was made originally for a Starfinder campaign. Her life was to be futuristic and sci-fi but I wanted to keep that earthy halfling feel to her. ....at least in the beginning. Now she's feral and does as she pleases.

Next up we have my precious spooky teen, Evie. She's just trying her best, bless her. She sees ghosts and ghouls and other fun spooks, is addicted to caffeine because she's sleep deprived (did I mention she sees spooks?) and is very socially awkward. But she's learning to open up to those around her and is finding her own little safe nook in the world. I remember wanting Evie to appear more mundane than she was. Like a teen trying to blend into the background. She hasn't changed much. Although she has taught me that she looks good dressed in just about anything.

Then there's Rose 🥺 Oh Rose! My son, my lad. He's been through so much already and it's not even the tip of the iceberg. He's got a heart of gold and a lot of love to give. I honestly don't remember what was in my head when I designed Rose. I just knew I wanted to have a tiefling 😅 and I was aiming for a bit Mylo Thatch, a bit Nightcrawler and just an overall soft lad.

And last, but certainly not least, is my lovely Briar. She's confidence, intelligence and finesse itself. She will only allow one person to see her truer side (and that's her brother, Rose) for everyone else you get whatever you need to see from her so that she can get what she wants from you. Originally designed wayyyy back because of a question I got on Instagram, she's had the biggest glow up of any of my characters I feel. Her design of having both horns on the one side of her head (yes they are horns despite how they look in that original drawing 😅) came about because I couldn't draw her other eye that day. So I said fuck it and put her second horn there. She's a delight to draw and write about and I cherish her with my whole heart.

I'd love to see more of these humble oc origins! (that's a hint for you to post yours! Please 😊💛) I think it's great fun to look back and see the beginnings of folks' characters and to see how far they've come!

[untilteddocument]

So I've Been Thinking About: Potion Craft - Alchemist Simulator

Welcome once again to So I've Been Thinking About, a journal series where I talk about things I find interesting or appealing about various pieces of media, often video games. This time, I'll be talking about Potion Craft: Alchemist Simulator from niceplay games, which came out very recently!

They Really Mean Craft

This is going to be pretty low-intensity, in large part because the game itself is much lighter and low-key than, say, Phoenix Point, but this is by no means a sign of any vapidity.

What really draws me to Potion Craft is its command of the sense of place. The music is unobtrusive and pleasant. The art style is of course a nice remix/facsimile of old medieval illustrations, easy to parse while retaining the feel.

It's all pretty calming, even meditative as you craft your potions, and on that front the game really does a bang-up job of giving you a satisfying sense of tactility with its system. The mortar and pestle's sounds are perfect as you grind up the various ingredients and drop them in the cauldron.

The stirring and ladling to set or correct your ingredients' path along the map feels almost perfectly weighted to your mouse movement.

Working the bellows to bring it to a boil to lock in the effect gives you a satisfying foom as the fire comes to life.

Another thing that makes the game so interesting is the granularity of making the potions. Grinding up ingredients, especially the rarer ones, often has them follow a convoluted path, sometimes even doubling back on themselves. However, you're able to grind partially, up until they hit the spot you want them to stop at. Likewise, you can finesse stirring and ladling to get to the perfect spot, or as close as you can manage. It doesn't feel finicky, at least for me, but rather like you're...an alchemist, using a steady hand and keen senses to fine-tune your brew.

Side Note

Being that they're both games centered around making potions, I feel like comparisons almost have to be drawn between this game and Potionomics, which released earlier this year, though honestly the two games couldn't be further apart given their shared premise. I don't have it, but I've watched Potionomics gameplay, at least enough to get a sense of the loop, and the distinction is this:

Potion Craft is a game where you make potions. Potionomics is a game where you run a store.

The latter game focuses more on the haggling and sales pitch, with the potions almost shoved into the background in favor of how you can make those potions appeal to your customers. The appeal lies in the emotions expressed by your character and the people she interacts with. The former, meantime, is very much about the actual creation of the potions, which each one being the answer to its own puzzle, while the haggling is pretty abstracted. Neither game is the worse for it, of course; they each follow their respective styles, and are good examples of each.

Spicing It Up

If there's one thing I feel Potion Craft is lacking (aside from an in-game Potion Seller joke; one of the achievements does deliver, though), it's a specific type of sensory feedback that would really contribute to the game's sense of place.

Smell.

Imagine if grinding up terraria root punctuated that woody rustling and the clink of stone against stone with a shot of earthy bitterness. Imagine the scents of a firebell-heavy concoction shifting from dry and papery to sharp peppery heat as you stir. Imagine the acrid cocktail that gets released when you need to turn to the stink mushrooms. There's so much the game already does to give you the sense that You Are Making Potions, and I feel like that would complete the picture in a marvelous way.

...Aside from...y'know...how impractical it is to have some kind of proprietary computer-coordinated odor profile peripheral with your digital distribution game.

Still, you could probably get enough out of lighting some incense while you play.

My Potions Can Do Anything That You Can

Like I said, kind of light, and certainly less meaty than some, but the game is a treat, and I love how it's chosen to try and draw the player in.

Oh yeah also Geralt's in the game, sort of?

[glknight]

ARNEA OF THE MYSTIC CANNONS from TWILIGHT’S DAUGHTER

“While I may not have magic or godly strength or the aid of the dead, what I do have is skill and an eye for detail.

And for when craft is less than what is required, I will always goes for overkill. Because overkill is a statement. And when you have a cannon that formed itself out of the ground pointed at you, you have no choice but to listen or suffer the consequences.”

- - - - - - - -

One of five heroes from Twilight’s Daughter, Arnea is something known as a Synthet. A reason of people whose souls are consensually bound into inanimate materials like stone and precious jewels, they gain the ability to manipulate inanimate materials with greater finesse and detail as their skills increase. This transformation, however, comes with some serious drawbacks. For while their pseudo-flesh responds like it were their own skin with warmth and give, their senses are diminished. Dulled by the unnatural creation process. Many find themselves haunted by the things they can no longer partake in, like food. Their sense of smell is a fraction of what they once could. They do not sleep, more akin to blinking and finding that hours have passed without any notice.

But Arnea does not mind her lot in life. For her, there are only three things she cares for.

The first is her cannons, honing her craft until she is able to create a weapon that will end all wars in a single blow that she hopes will never come.

The second is the ability to guide future Craftspeople in their endeavors, serving as a mentor to all who seek her teachings and tutelage.

And the third is the love of one of her own party members. A friend she had fallen for on sight four years prior. Unable to confess her feelings, worried that her heart has become as cold as the stones and metal she is made of at the frightening prospect of a kinship that she may never know is there.

But terror and madness is coming. And she knows that her friends will need her calm focus, just like she needs their power and love.

- - - - - - - -

A thank you once again to @kimstramat for drawing my cannon obsessed craftswoman for me.

[scarletooyoroi]

"Welcome to Fanmu Carpenter's, one of the oldest carpentry workshops in Qingce Village!! You must be the young man that accepted my commission?" Master Lu greets Thoma as soon as he steps into the shop.

"As Katheryne should have already mentioned, my apprentice, Dayu, has been drowning in the rush of summer orders so we need some help gathering materials for a special order placed by a high-profile client. Could you lend an old man a hand and collect some sandbearer wood? Just a few logs will do... shouldn't be a problem for a strapping young man such as yourself!" The carpenter gives Thoma a jolly pat on the back. "Well, then. I won't keep you much longer. Just make sure you bring the sturdiest, most high quality lumber you can find! Lady Keqing, the Yuheng herself, requires a new chair and deserves nothing but the best!"

He pauses, brows suddenly knit in concern. "I made her last piece myself several years ago. It was some of my best work. Why, I was so certain it would have lasted for the rest of her lifetime! What happened to it, I wonder?"

”That would be me, yes! It’s good to make your formal acquaintance.” Thoma squeezes in to the elder carpenter. Amidst the more lax atmosphere of what borders a retirement town, he easily found himself enjoying being within this crest of stone peaks and fluid, glistening water ways. To think a village that peacefully nests at such a location almost tempts him to explore, to get the lay of a land that feels almost far removed from the greater spiral of circumstances that the hearts of Liyue and Inazuma would draw him into. Somehow, with the fire that burns like lively cinder underneath his skin..

Even circumstances like that could be handled with grace and resolve due to his most recent days.

A light, glimmering sensation rests well within his heart, allowing a more jovial spark to become near infectious to any and all who happen to flock around his presence. Arms crossed and eyes attentive, it still doesn’t change his penultimate goal of ensuring these commissions find themselves completed with due diligence. At the said request, it was due to the high-profile that he made the journey, clocking in at record times as his apt style of travel allows what looks like impossible grounds of entry to become less hard fact and more of gentle suggestion. “Which leads to our current stance of matters. I-- ha, hey!” Oh he’s not as use to this as he imagines, that sway of the back, a homely gesture of camaraderie that Inazuma itself barely indulged in.

It succeeds in stirring forth those sillier days spent around his original home. Slinging arms around shoulders and a host of merry music. “Correct, in that case I’ll find myself gleaning the woodlands in order to procure the prime cuts-- ?!?! AH!?..” Oh, by the Seven o h.

Keqing.

Keqing.

K e q i n g.

Whatever professional prestige demonstrated at the glimmering beginnings of their meeting instantly POPPED with the finesse of a Anemo slime making one with Celestia. His body freezes, there’s a moment of slackened jaw as his jade eyes drift towards the carpenter as it all crashes into his mind. How a night that invoked the stirred flames of loving passion, to the crisp, sharp finality of said passionate decisions leading to an experience that Thoma himself would never forget. It’s so potent in fact, that the oddest instance of steam beginning it’s crescendo into the skies above began to transpire in plain sight.

“Y.. You said..“ As the man’s natural concern bled into the conversation at hand. From Thoma’s perspective, the clear, crisp view of his impatient hands biting and burning away at a sacrifice had never left his mind. It was amidst a dance of elegantly woven silks and the dance of violet, glittering against the stars while the mind melting intention found itself concentrated all on him.

“Sonny? Are you doing well? I know the ‘high-profile front can be a bit daunting..”

”No no!” Why could he nearly feel the weighted presence of her eyes reflecting upon him in this moment. As he stumbles forward, face drawn into a fair crimson shade as a hand also raises up, Thoma knew that reclaiming the pace of this tide was paramount!

“Just.. The heat! Today’s journey here had its fervent case of Pyro slimes due to the conditions.. At least until Qingce’s waters offered its hand in quelling the thermal spike. Please, allow for me to just quickly gather up the required!” He manages to croak before making his hasty ‘retreat.’  Thoma’s certain that the man was left baffled, just wondering what was going on in this new age of young people.

As for the Fixer of Inazuma himself? Allowing his spear to become the exhaustive reprieve of this charge of emotion through passion enriched slashes, that question danced in his mind with the fluttering rush of impatient wings.

From the Commission to the matter at hand that fate guided him towards, just how much of this was intentional?

@starwardsword

[fantastic-wizards]

( con't from here. ) || @fallencrowns

Godric shook his head. "And still ever the one to take insult too quickly." He clicked his tongue. "I never said you lacked finesse. Merlin's beard your hand flicks put some of the women's to shame." And it was something of a compliment. Far be it for him to praise the other too much. Neither needed much by the way of more compliments inflating their egos.

Godric nodded in understanding though that hardly stopped the smirk from forming about his features. He sympathized with Sal --- truly he did, but he also knew some of this was merely Sal's unwillingness to accept the idea of being wrong about magic for once. Magic was older than time itself. Long before any of the founders came along, magic was likely hidden within all of nature waiting to be cultivated.

Many witches and warlocks learned to draw from that very nature and wield power in the palm of their hands while some found the knowledge to harness that raw power within a single, ordinary ( at the time ) stick. Those who were out in the open with their heresy were burned at the stake while others folded into the shadows practicing in secret. Not until decisions were made and precautions taken that they were able to come out into the open --- among their own kind of course --- and be the wizards they were born to be. There were still many restrictions, particularly as it pertained to practicing magic in front of Muggles. But all in all, they were much better off than they were centuries ago and it allowed them to thrive, even if in secret.

"You know, I do not pretend to understand all of the wand lore. The man could be right or he could be wrong in your case. However, I feel the need to point out that the rest of us have had no trouble pushing our wands to limits. None of ours have splintered thus far." He paused. "I have a theory, brother… about your problem."

On that note, Godric quickly stood, his tea being forgotten for the time being as his wand produced itself again. "The man said to think of the wand as an extension of ourselves." Godric extended his arm and by doing so, the wand itself. "If we think of the object as apart of us, the magic flows quite freely. You brother, have yet to embrace the idea of using a wand let alone seeing it as a part of you or your equal. Until you embrace it, you'll probably keep breaking them because your very nature is in direct conflict with the object."

Godric gave the wand a little wave producing a small bouquet of flowers. He'd give those to Helga later as a peace offering but for now, he plopped back down into his seat, reaching for his tea. He knew words had probably fallen on deaf ears, but he felt the need to speak up all the same. He wasn't the type of person to insist that he was right all the time, but in the case of this wand lore stuff, he had a feeling it truly ran as deep as the man claimed. Magic had been around long before himself and Salazar which meant they couldn't possibly know ALL of its secrets. It would take lifetimes to learn everything there is to know about magic and so he was certain the Ollivander family's words held some truth to them.

"I do not expect you to take my advice about the wand, brother. You do what you want. As for our other disagreements…" And he let his thought end there because he did not come here for a rehash over the morning's venture. It would have been all too easy to let himself get swept away in another passionate defense of Muggles, but no. Not now. This was about Sal missing dinner. Not what Hogwarts needed or didn't need for the billionth time.

There was a growing silence between them and on that note, he let himself sip his tea in thought. Things were changing between himself and the other founders, particularly where it concerned the man seated across from him. For the most part, everyone agreed that the school was necessary so children could learn magic from proper wizards ( themselves of course ). However, the longer they ventured on this journey, the more Godric realized differences between them ideally could fracture the very foundation they built in the worst way. He didn't want it to. Only he himself knew just how much this venture meant to him, but… he couldn't change the others and their thinking. Salazar's indifference as of late was not something new --- a point he often made to the other founders.

However, they seemed to think that his indifference was borderline out of line these days and often stressed to Godric that it needed to be capped. Whenever he refused to address certain issues, they often looked at it as Godric refusing to see what was right in front of him. Rowena could 'read the tea leaves' so to speak and often challenged Godric on his friendship with Salazar. 'Men see what they want to see until it is too late…' Ominous words coming from the Lady of Ravenclaw, but he chose to ignore them. He was not giving up on Salazar --- not yet, if ever. There was plenty of time for him to see just how wrong he was about Muggles ( among other things ). Was it a slim chance? Well, sure, but Godric was choosing to see the glass half full for now.

"I'm sure Helga would like that very much. At the very least, it'll keep her from sending me to chastise you. Let's just keep them happy, aye? Work's always more fun when they aren't side eyeing us all day."

He went back to sipping his tea but Sal's slight change in demeanor did not go unnoticed. The tapping of fingers against the arm's rest had the wheels turning in Godric's head. Was…something wrong? Well, more than usual. Something was always wrong these days given their disagreements, but it seemed something else was on Sal's mind. Godric thought to inquire, but Sal did him the kindness of speaking up first.

Tea now finished, Godric straightened his casual posture, giving Sal his undivided attention. An owl huh? Contents brought to the founders often ranged from the most high of praises to conspiracies about what was really happening behind those highly protected walls. Some people even believed they were preparing to take over the wizarding world. As preposterous as it had initially sounded, Rowena pointed out that it wasn't every century that four elite wizards used their power for humble means as opposed to something terrible. Perhaps people's fears were warranted but they couldn't have been more wrong.

Nevertheless, Godric waited as Sal finally volunteered the information pertaining to the owl. He wasn't going to scold Sal for keeping it to himself although the other two might very well had. However, Godric firmly believed that he had no reason to distrust Sal and so such a lie was easy to brush off. But what he thought was merely another letter criticizing their efforts turned out to be something much more meaningful. That is to say, it was exactly what he had thought but the source of the content hit home a bit different, especially for Salazar.

"My brother, you must know not to believe a word of it," he frowned. "What better way to use our talents than influencing young minds for the future? I just… do not understand why he does not see what the world sees. You are… an incredible wizard, Salazar. He may not wish to acknowledge your strength, but it is too late for the world. They already know of your greatness."

He nodded. "Take all the time you need, Salazar. I will make certain you are given the leniency and privacy deserved and speaking of… should I take my leave now? I do apologize for… allowing myself to be persuaded into jumping to conclusions. We all tend to forget that before we were headmasters, we had real lives outside of it first. And families."

[serendipitous-magic]

What is your writing advice for young people who want to write fanfiction and original stories in the near future?

If this is just Way Too Much, skip to the end (#16). My most important piece of advice is there. I also happen to think #5 is pretty good.

-_-_-_-

1) Literally just write. Write whatever you want, and do a lot of it.

_-_

2) You don’t have to post everything. In fact you don’t have to post anything. You can, don’t get me wrong, but it can be intimidating to sit down and think “I will now write something that other people will see and read and judge with their eyeballs.” Because that’s probably gonna lead to nerves and writer's block. Just write down the ideas that you have, the things you want to write, whatever’s in your brain that you want to explore and expand upon and make into something. And then if you want to, share it. Or don’t share it. I have plenty of half-baked ideas and documents and random story chapters and shit hidden away on my Google Drive that will never see the light of day, for a whole number of reasons. I wanted to write it but it wasn’t ~Spicy~ enough to warrant posting, or it’s only like an eighth of a good idea, or it’s like one scene with no story around it, or it’s just something incredibly self-indulgent I just wanted to write for my own enjoyment.

Point being, don’t write for other people. Don’t write so that other people can read it; write what you want, write for yourself, and then if you want to share it, do.

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3) You can pretty much ignore any and all of these for fanfiction. In fact, you can ignore pretty much any rules or guidelines you want for fanfiction. Fanfic is a sandbox. You don’t have to be a “professional writer” to post fic. No one expects you to be Stephen King or Margaret Atwood. Fanfic is just for playing in a fandom and having fun. If you wanna write a 50 chapter slow burn with very little plot aside from the OTP slowly getting to know each other, and no real stakes or central conflict, I guarantee people would read that. Really, fanfiction is the Old West of writing: lawless, wild, unpredictable, and free.

However, here are the rules you must follow:

-Separate your paragraphs. (I’m sure you know this already, but I’m gonna say it anyway just in case.) Do not post one big block of text. Make a paragraph break when someone new is talking, when the characters are in a new place, when a new event occurs that changes the scene, when a chunk of time has passed, and when there’s a major change in subject.

-I know it’s obvious, but... grammar, punctuation, and capitalization. They exist to make writing easy for readers to read, and more people will read your stuff if they don’t have to stop and try to figure out what you meant.

-Use tags and labels, as is possible with whatever site you’re using. Especially if you include possibly triggering content in your story. Again, I know it’s obvious, but it’s common courtesy. Bonus: tagging the themes and content of your story helps readers find it and read it :)

-If possible, limit the use of all-caps and exclamation marks / question marks. 99% of the time, one ! or one ? will do. If you overload the page with a lot of all-caps and long rows of exclamation marks or question marks, it hampers readability.

... That’s literally all I can think of. And, like I said, it’s all pretty basic stuff. You were probably rolling your eyes like, “Uh, yeah, Gwen, I know.” But that’s literally it. You can pretty much do whatever you want in fanfic.

That being said, here’s my advice for both fanfiction and original work...

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4) A quick and dirty rule for coming up with a plot, starting a story, keeping up pacing, or maintaining tension: figure out what dreams, desires, and goals are nearest and dearest to your main character’s heart (see #16). Then set up the main conflict to be directly in opposition to that goal. It doesn’t have to be in a tangible way, though it could be. But, if your main character wants more than anything to reach the ships on the southern coast of your world and sail to a new life, make sure the main conflict immediately prevents them from doing that - in fact, make sure to send them north. If your main character just wants to keep their loved ones safe, kidnap the loved ones. If your main character just wants to date their best-friend-turned-crush, make sure they think they have no chance - or, make them cocky about it, and make sure it makes Person B determined not to ever like them. You get it. Figure out what your character most wants, and then keep them from having that. Boom - your conflict now ties in with your character's motivation. It's like instant yeast for plots.

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5) If you’re anything like me, you want your first draft to be Good, despite all that advice about how the first draft doesn’t have to be good and it’s just to get words on the page, yadda yadda. And if you’re somewhat of a perfectionist (like myself), it’s easy to get stuck looking at a blank page because you don’t have The Perfect Words, and you want what you write to be Good the first time.

Here’s how I cheat that:

Instead of trying to write a Good First Draft from a blank page, hit the enter key a few times, skip a little down on the page, change your ink to red (or blue, or whatever - just something immediately identifiable as Not Black) and just thought vomit. Write whatever the hell you’re thinking, exactly as you think it. Don’t worry about it being readable, don’t worry about narrative flow for now, don’t worry about covering all the details, don’t worry about anything except either a) getting all the details of your idea out onto the page, whether that’s a lot or whether it’s just a sentence or two, or b) if you don’t have an idea yet, finding your way there.

Because this method is also very good for finding your way to ideas when you’re stuck in writer’s block.

Because of how human brains work, getting this stuff out onto the page - in all its messy, stream-of-consciousness glory - will likely spark more thoughts. As you write your original idea about the scene, it’ll likely spark more ideas. Creation begets creation. If you just start thought-vomiting your ideas onto the page, chances are you’ll think of more things as you go, and you’ll start filling out description or dialogue or tone or action or whatever, and pretty soon the scene starts writing itself.

Not sure where you’re going with the scene or which ideas you wanna use? Use a lot of ambivalent language in your “thought-vomit draft.” My pre-writing notes are chock-full of the words “maybe,” “perhaps,” and the phrases, “At some point...” and “...or something like that.” In this way, I don’t tie myself down to one idea; it’s just an idea, and I’m keeping it on the page in case I use it, but I might chuck it in the trash or change it or whatever.

And then, once your ideas for the scene (or story, or chapter, or whatever) are on the page, then go back to the top and start translating them into a “real” first draft. Use black ink, and start copy-pasting chunks of the thought-vomit up into the top part of the document and translating them into Draft 1. Separate out paragraphs where paragraph breaks should be. Add the correct punctuation and whatnot. Change “describe the lobby here - include potted plants, fancy carpet, blood stain, etc.” into an actual description of the lobby. Flesh it out, or condense, or whatever it needs. And if you’re still stuck, change back to red ink and ramble some more until you find a path that feels right, then plug that in. This keeps you from looking at a blank page, and it allows you to generate a kind of Draft 0.5, somewhere between a plan and a first draft.

You don’t have to use every idea. Like I said, jot down whatever comes to mind, put a “maybe” before or after it, and keep working. If the idea grabs you and you wanna keep expanding on it and exploring it, cool. If you just wanna jot it down so you don’t forget it and then move on, also cool. Red-ink draft / “thought-vomit draft” is your time to jump around in the timeline, add or finesse details at whatever point your brain moves to, etc. Don’t try to do it exactly in story order, because you will get tangential thoughts and ideas, and you will not remember to write them down five pages later when you finally get to taking notes on that scene. Trust me. On that note...

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6) Write everything down the moment you think of it. Seriously.

“I’ll remember it when I get around to writing that scene in a couple days / weeks / months (/years).”

You won’t.

Write it down.

Phone, journal, google docs - hell, my family regularly laughs at me for grabbing a napkin during dinner and scribbling thoughts down alongside pasta sauce stains.

And then, once you have it written down somewhere...

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7) Consolidate your writing ideas in one place.

Maybe this isn’t really your style, and that’s totally chill.

Buuuut, if you’re Type-A like me - or if you tend to be somewhat unorganized and you know you’ll lose track of your writing notes if they’re scattered across multiple notebooks, journals, napkins, phone notes, etc. - having one consolidated document of notes is a life saver. I keep mine on Google Docs so I can access it, add to it, and look through it for inspiration anywhere at any time. When I have one of those Shower Thoughts that I jot down on my phone or on a napkin during dinner, I set myself a reminder on my phone to type it up in my Story Ideas document later.

(Or, if the idea I had was for a story of mine that I’ve already started planning / drafting / whatever, I put it in the document for that story instead of the Big Random Story Ideas doc. You get it.)

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8) Have other ways to collect and save writing ideas, besides just writing stuff down. If you like Pinterest, make pinterest boards of your characters or stories or settings or whatever. If you’re big into playlists, make a playlist for your character / setting / story / etc. Or both. Or something else. I’m not good at drawing, but maybe you are, and maybe you like to draw your ideas. Whatever form it takes, having another way to save ideas and think about your stories is invaluable.

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9) Some writers can just start writing with no idea where the story is going, and they just kind of figure it out as they go. I envy those writers. And I do that sometimes for fanfiction, where the stakes are somewhat lower and the audience is reading more for scene-to-scene enjoyment (and to see their OTP kiss) than for a Driving And Compelling Narrative.

But here’s the thing: especially if you’re just kind of starting out, writing without some sort of plan is really, really hard, and will likely lead you into a slow, meandering narrative that will likely frustrate you.

Even if you think you’re someone that just can’t write with a plan (and again, I have the highest respect for pansters out there - I don’t know how you do it, you crazy bastards, but you keep doing you) - even if you think “I can’t work with plans, they’re too prescriptive, I just want to write and see what happens -”

Try at least making the most skeletal of plans.

Even if you have no clue what 90% of the story is, yet. That’s fine. But you need to have some idea of what you’re building to, even if that’s nothing more specific than a feeling, or a turning point for your character. Even if your entire plan for everything beyond Chapter 1 is, “At some point, Charlie needs to realize that Ed was lying to her.”

This is where those Draft 0.5 notes come in handy. Because, more than likely, working on your current scene that way will spark ideas for later scenes, which you can put down at the bottom of the document and save for when they become relevant. In my experience, the line between planning ahead and making a Draft 0.5 is exceptionally thin. One can quickly turn into the other.

If you’re really, really resistant to the idea of planning ahead, that’s okay. It’s not everybody’s style. But for the love of all that is holy, write down your ideas for future scenes, even if you’re a person that doesn’t like to plan and writes only in story order, because you will not remember that idea once you get to that scene.

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10) You don’t have to write in order.

Here’s the thing: I’m a person that can only do my Draft 1 in story order (meaning, chronological order). I just have to be in that flow; I need to write in story order for me to best channel where the character is at from scene to scene, both narratively and emotionally.

But my Thought Vomit Draft is another thing entirely. By using the brain hack of putting my notes in red (or another color, it doesn’t matter) and going down to the bottom of the document / page and taking notes there, and then integrating them into whatever plan I have, and then translating them into Draft 1 once I get there in the story - by doing that, I can get my good ideas onto the page (and expound upon them and let my muse carry me and ride that momentum while I’m in the moment of inspiration) without writing out of order.

Maybe that’s just me. But if you’re a person who really prefers to write in story order, that could be hugely helpful to you. It is to me.

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11) Emotion and motivation will do more for your story than technicalities of plot.

If your characters really care about something, and their journey through the (shaky or weak) plot is emotionally engaging, it will be a much more compelling story than a story with a “perfect” plot and unrelatable or unmotivated characters.

If your characters care about what they’re doing, and it means something to them, and their goals and actions are driven by dreams or fears or emotions that are integral to who they are, your audience will care too. If you have a perfectly crafted plot that hits all the right beats and has high stakes and fast pacing and drama - but your characters don’t connect with what’s happening in a way that’s deeply meaningful or emotional for them? You’re gonna have a hard time engaging readers.

When in doubt, prioritize character emotion and motivation over plot. Emotion is what drives story.

This power is highly exploitable. (Just look at pulp novels and shitty but entertaining movies.) You can even use it to glaze over plot holes or reinvigorate a limp narrative. Use it that way sparingly, though. It’s a band-aid, not a surgery. 

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12) Evil villains are hard to write - mostly because there are very few truly evil people in the world. (There are a few. Billionaires and several big name politicians come to mind.) But by and large, there aren’t that many evil people. There are plenty of bad people, but bad people have some good in them, somewhere in there. Trying to write an evil villain is hard, because they often turn very cartoony.

Here’s a tip: it’s much easier to write antagonists who aren’t evil. Even if they’re bad people. Of course, there’s no reason you can’t write a villain that’s just truly evil - a serial killer, or an abuser, or a billionaire, or someone who legit just wants to hurt people or blow up the earth or stay in control of an oppressed population, or whatever. But chances are, it’s gonna be really hard to make them feel real, and even harder to create a plot around them that doesn’t feel forced or contrived.

Instead, try writing an antagonist / villain whose motivations and goals directly clash with your protagonist’s - but not because they want to take over the world or see people suffer. Write an antagonist who’s chaotic good, but whose perception of the situation is completely opposite from your hero’s. Write an antagonist whose only desire is to save people, and who will do anything to achieve that goal - anything. Write an antagonist who believes in the letter of the law, and will hinder and oppose the hero’s methods even if they agree with the hero’s motivation. Write an antagonist who got in way over their head and did some things they regret, and now they don’t know how to get out, and they’re doing their best but whatever they set in motion is too powerful for them to stop now.

Write villains who are human. Write a killer who thought they were doing the right thing by taking their victim out of the equation, who vomits at the sight of the body and sobs over the grave they dig. Write a government leader who truly believes she’s doing what’s best for her people in the long-term, even if it might hurt them in the short term, and is willing to endure the hatred and belligerence of the masses if it means securing what she thinks is a better future for her people. Write a teenage bully that thinks they’re the one being picked on by the world, and they’re just fighting back, standing their ground. Write a scientist who will break any code of ethics and hurt anyone he needs to - in order to bring back his baby sister from the grave, because he promised her he’d protect her and he failed. Write an antagonist who is selfish and self-centered and capricious - because in order to survive they had to look out for Number One, and that habit ain’t about to break anytime soon.

Write villains who aren’t even villains. Write antagonists who oppose the hero because of moral differences. Write antagonists who are trying to do the right thing. Write antagonists who treat the heroes with kindness and dignity and respect and gentleness.

They don’t have to be good. They don’t have to be Misunderstood Sweethearts who “deserve” a redemption arc. They can be cruel and nasty and dismissive and callous and violent and etc. etc.

Just hesitate before you make them Evil-with-a-capital-E. Because evil is hard to write, and honestly, boring to read. Flawed human beings with goals and motivations that directly oppose the main characters’ are much easier to write and much more interesting to read.

Ask why. Why is your villain trying to take over the world? What does that even mean? Are they trying to create a Star-Trek-like post-capitalism utopia, but they know that won’t happen in a million lifetimes, so they’re trying to do it by force? Are they actually super in favor of human rights, but they got very impatient waiting for the world to do anything about poverty and war, so they decided to take it into their own hands? Are they determined to fix the world - no matter the cost? Are they terrified and overwhelmed, but committed to see it through to the end? Or - maybe they’re just doing it on a dare. Maybe they don’t really give a shit about world domination, they were just a mediocre rich white guy who decided to fuck around and find out, and now he’s kind of curious how far he can take this thing. And now he’s kind of an internationally-wanted criminal, so he’s kind of stuck living on his hidden private island in his multi-billion dollar secret base, strapping lasers to sharks’ heads for the hell of it. Gross, selfish, uncaring, and dangerous? For sure. Evil? Depends on your definition. See, now we’re getting somewhere.

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13) It’s tempting to let the plot control the characters. It’s easy to drop your characters into a situation and see how they react. But here’s the thing: that doesn’t drive plot. In fact, it bogs down pacing. Instead, try to build you plot off of your characters’ actions and decisions. Let your character build their own situation. Not to say it should go they way they wanted it to go; in fact, usually, their grand plans should go to hell very quickly. But having the characters take action and make decisions, and letting the plot develop based on that, is much easier to make compelling than making a rigid series of events and then trying to herd your characters into them.

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14) Having trouble justifying a character’s actions? Consider having them make the opposite decision, or having them approach the situation in a different way. For example: you need your character to go meet the bad guy, for plot reasons, even though there’s no way it’s not a trap. If the character goes, readers are gonna be groaning with their head in their hands, because c’mon man, that was really fucking stupid. But he’s gotta go, because the plot needs that. Two ways you might handle this: a) He knows it’s probably a trap. He decides not to go. The plot conspires to get him near the villain anyway. Or, b) He knows it’s a trap. But he needs to go, for (insert reasons here). So, he approaches it in an unexpected way. He brings backup, recruiting a side character we met earlier in the story. Or he arrives on the back of a dragon, because ain’t nobody gonna fuck with a dude on a dragon. Or he goes - early, and ambushes the villain. It may work, it may not. He may get himself kidnapped anyway. But it moves the plot along without having Stupid Hero Syndrome.

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15) This is a legit piece of advice: if all of this sounds overwhelming, literally just ignore it and write what you want. For real. Writing should be fun, and every single writer operates differently. If you’re sitting here like “I’m getting stressed just reading this,” just flip me a good-natured bird and get on with your life. I promise I won’t take it personally. Same goes for literally any other writing advice you see. Lots of rules and guidelines can very quickly make anything thoroughly un-fun. Just write. If you’re passionate about it and you do it for long enough, you’ll start figuring out the tips and tricks on your own.

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16) Here’s the best piece of advice I can give you: know your characters. More importantly, know what’s important to them. Build their personality and decisions off of that, and build your plot off of their decisions.

I see a lot of character building sheets that ask a shit-ton of questions like “What’s their most prized possession?” “Do they like their family?” “What’s their favorite food?”

And while these are good questions, my problem with this type of character building is that if you start there, with the little stuff, you’re building on nothing. IMO, to make a truly strong character (not strong like Inner Strength, strong like effective), you need a strong foundation.

Here are the things you must know about your character:

a) What are their greatest fears / deepest insecurities? And I don’t mean “wasps” or “heights.” I mean the deep shit. I mean fears like “living a meaningless life,” or “turning out just like their parents,” or “that no one will ever love them,” or “being powerless.” You may say, “But they’re really scared of wasps! They fall into a wasp nest when they were little and got stung so much they almost died!” Great! That’s a fantastic bit of backstory. They should absolutely be afraid of wasps, and that should absolutely be an impediment later in the story. But dig deeper. What about that event actually scarred them? Was it the helplessness? Stumbling around, swatting at the air, not being able to do a single thing to stop what was happening to them? Was it that they were alone, and no matter how loud they screamed, no one was coming? Was it the bodily horror of feeling themself turn into an inhuman creature as they swelled up from the stings, unable to move their fingers or face normally anymore?

And don’t forget insecurities, because those factor in, too. Are they deeply insecure about their identity? Do they believe, deep down, that they’re ugly? Did they grow up poor and they’ve always been really touchy about that? Why? Dig deep. Figure out what really, really bothers them.

b) What are their hopes and dreams? What do they truly want out of life? What do they consider the most valuable to their experience here in this thing called life? Is it the freedom to forge their own path and be independent? Is it the approval of their family or peers? Is it a home? Is it knowledge, or understanding? Spiritual fulfillment? Is it deeply important to them that they contribute to their community, or protect those they love? What do they need in order to feel truly and deeply fulfilled in life?

Figure out those two things (each one encompasses several things, btw, you don’t have to stop at just one for each), and then use that to inform how they behave and the types of decisions they make within the story. 

It also informs character behavior and personality. 

Let’s say we have a character who’s afraid of helplessness. They’re probably gonna be the person that always wants to do something, try something, no matter how hopeless the situation seems. They’d despise just sitting and waiting, probably, because it makes them feel powerless. They might even be the person that makes rash decisions and acts impulsively and puts themself in danger unnecessarily, because in their mind it’s better than being at the mercy of fate. This is one way you could use a character’s personality to inform their decisions, which in turn helps to inform plot.

Or, let’s say we have a character whose greatest fear is being left behind or forgotten. We may have a chatterbox on our hands. They might be obnoxious. They might love the spotlight, constantly vying for attention no matter the situation, because deep down they’re so afraid that they’d be forgotten otherwise. Or, it may go the opposite way. They may be so afraid of people leaving them that they’re terrified of bothering people. They don’t want to do anything that could annoy people, anything that might give people a reason to leave them. They might be exceedingly polite, quiet, accommodating. A push-over, really.

These are two nearly opposite types of personalities, both stemming from the same core fear/insecurity. You can go a lot of different ways with it. But if you build on that strong foundation, you’ll have a strong character, and a stronger plot.

Likewise, the structure of your story can and should inform the design of these character traits. If you need your characters to team up near the end, it may be impactful if you give your main character a deep fear of commitment, an insecurity about being unwanted or left behind, and make them highly value independence and freedom. That could make their team-up for the final battle very meaningful. Conversely, you can use your character’s deepest fears and desires to help design the plot. Is your character deeply insecure about voicing their opinions or taking a stand, because of trauma they faced in the past? Make them face that. Build that into the climactic third act. Give them the big inspirational speech where they stand up and talk about what they believe to be important, what they think the group should do. And then design that character arc to run through the story, giving you more handholds and stepping stones, more pieces of foundation on which to design the plot.

In this way, character should inform story as much as story informs character. It’s a feedback loop.

Bonus: if you build your character and your plot off of each other in this way, it automatically starts to build in the foundations of that emotional investment I mentioned earlier. If your character’s decisions are based on what they most want and do not want in life, you basically have your character motivation and stakes pre-built.

Note: you need to know these things about your villain, too.

-_-_-

I’m genuinely sorry about the length of this, lmao. But you did ask.

Best of luck!

Edit: I forgot an important one:

17) Start when the scene starts and end when the scene ends.

What do I mean by that?

If your notes say “Danny asks Nicole out after school and majorly flubs it,” start the scene when Danny approaches Nicole after school. Better yet, cold-open the scene on “I was wondering if, you know, you’d wanna. You know. Hang out some time?”

Don’t start that morning when Danny goes to school, unless you’re gonna cover the school day in like one or two sentences. Don’t spend whole paragraphs going through the school day, unless it’s to cover other plot points first (in which case apply these same guidelines there), or if the paragraphs are there for a specific reason, like to illustrate how stressed he is and how it seems like every little thing is going wrong. Even then, trim the fat as much as possible. Expounding and describing everything Moment-to-moment is for the meat of the scenes, not the leading-up-to and coming-away-from.

Here’s my rule of thumb: study how and when movies cut from scene to scene. Movies have exceptionally strict, limited time for storytelling; they’re excellent examples of starting a scene when the plot point starts and ending when it’s over. If you can’t picture a movie showing everything you showed, start the scene later and end it earlier.

[kiddokori]

this is just gonna be me rambling about paint for awhile

but before now I’ve really only ever drawn on paper with lead pencils or worked digitally since i got a tablet like a year ago and everyones heard all the “digital’s easier it’s cheating stuff” and I always thought yeah ok sure it has a lot of short cuts I get it traditional mediums take more technical skill but who cares it’s not a competition. And then I took an oil painting class this term and I’ve completely switched. Digital’s fucking hard. Painting is so easy. Not in a like “oh I’m so naturally good at this thing” I’m not it’s most definitely a learning curve but. Ok the best way I can put it is digital makes it easier to do something it’s not easier as a medium. I can do a bunch of super specific random shit with a couple clicks that would either be impossible to do traditionally or would take considerably more time or intention to do it. But that doesn’t mean it looks good. We’ve all seen or made art digitally as kids that was just a shit ton of layer modes and gaussian blur and smudge shadows and it looked bad! It took a very short amount of time to do it but that didn’t make it good! Painting is so easy not that it’s easy to do things, you constantly have to carefully consider what you’re doing, but it’s just so simple. The hardest part is learning how to mix colors, but once you get that, if you have experience drawing, it’s so easy. Like it seems unfair how much I’d gotten it stuck in my head that painting = hard and digital = easy, especially with oil paints. Digital is very forgiving with undoing and layers but that’s also kind of the issue. I’ll sit for hours fucking around with settings and undoing and redoing and undoing and redoing like it’s such a process. Painting is just oh you put a glob of paint there? cool it’s there now. That’s it. No spending ten minutes agonizing over every tiny action you make you just do it. And now it’s there and you have to put up with it. I don’t know if I’m making sense I just had a weird epiphany while thinking about it. Digital is hard. There’s so much and yes that gives you a ton of options to cheat things you can’t traditionally but if you don’t really understand how to finesse those cheats it looks like shit. And there’s SO much to learn it’s almost overwhelming. Painting doesn’t have those cheats but it’s just so straightforward and simple. There’s so much mythology (mystique? you know what I mean) surrounding oil paints. I’ve always had an understanding it was very technical and demanding and simply out of reach if you didn’t dedicate your whole life to it. And yeah my first painting sucked ass because I was just learning to mix colors and how paint interacts with itself and the canvas and how paint thinner affects it and how linseed oil affects it but you get a feel for it. It’s not a million settings you need to memorize it’s like a muscle. And again, if you have drawing experience, if you understand fundamentally how objects function in a 3D space it’s so easy to get a grasp on painting. I’m on my third painting second still life and I’m like holy shit I kinda get it. Not as much as a seasoned painter obviously but I have a hold on it. It is not that complicated. Also I feel like a large part of at least my frustration with digital, but I see a lot of people do this too, is traditional mediums look cool and it’s hard to replicate it in a way that looks natural digitally. Like everything you do is so standardized and calculated there’s very little room for natural variation. Even with a brush that’s meant to be random or sporadic or replicate paint or water colors or charcoals or whatever, it’s a formula. It’s a mathematical line that will always behave based on strict settings. Paint does whatever the fuck it wants, and that’s part of the fun! You get fun textures and layers and interactions between materials you didn’t necessarily expect, and once you figure out why and how that happens, you can manipulate it more. But it’s still going to have some aspect of unpredictability. Oh fuck I hit the character lim

[psalloacappella]

SSM21 Day 2. Festival

Pairing:  SasuSaku  Prompt: Festival  Title:  sparks will fly, they ignite our bones Tags:  AU - Modern Setting; First Dates; Wooing Lips burning against his, mouthing soft words in the detonation din.

(In which Sakura has the better aim.)

Ao3 | twt | full series link | @ssskmonth

“It’sa real date this time.” Each word’s punctuated by Naruto’s fist punching his opposite palm, driving home the importance of this. This being:  Street stall smells rich and piquant, a smoky-savory blend; lights flickering in kaleidoscopic, neurotic brilliance; children wild as free foals escaping their parents, weaving in and out of adults’ legs clutching cheap prizes and sparklers —

and him, Sasuke, on an actual fucking date with a woman with cotton-candy-colored locks who has been besting him every game and measure of skill imaginable, and his dumb plus-one buffer, the best friend, now droning on about how he needs to win her something.

“Anything!” Naruto throws his arms up, dramatic and exasperated, the only gearsetting he seems to have. “Teddy bear, ugly fish, keychain — literally any shitty prize to show her yer not a complete waste of time.”

“Sasuke!” Both men snap to, pretending to have been watching the whole time as Sakura jumps up and down, pumping a fist in the air. “I won again!”

With shiny, wide eyes, she places both her palms out in giddy anticipation to receive a stuffed bear donning a baseball cap of the local (terrible) team from a surly booth operator with a permanent frown.

“She’s comin’ this way!”

“I can see that,” Sasuke hisses. “You useless idiot.”

“Did I hear ‘charming wingman?’ ‘Kay, I’m gonna find some food. Give you two some time—”

“Don’t say it—”

“Alone.” Some strange tone aiming for sensual manifests as choking pigeon, and Naruto skips away as Sakura bounds up to Sasuke, smiling so wide he can see every perfect tooth.

“Did you see?” So proud of herself, arms laden with prizes. Some she’s already given away to cute children passing by, perhaps the sole supplier of noisemakers and soft bears. For a doctor in pediatrics, the urge to make smiles comes second nature. “Where’s he going?”

“Food, or something,” Sasuke murmurs, trying not to look as constipated and irritated as he had ten minutes prior — another gem from Naruto’s unasked-for criticism. “He’s left us alone.”

“Finally.” Definitely slipped out by accident, and Sakura grumbles over her mistake, red prickling her cheeks and chest. “Not that I dislike him, of course—”

“I do,” Sasuke says, absolutely deadpan. It takes her a moment.

“Uchiha Sasuke, did you just make your first joke?”

Ears burning in the cool night air, it’s his turn to smother his embarrassment. In lieu of further slip ups, he awkwardly gathers the items in her arms, a mishmash of unidentified thingamajigs and whatnots that you only find in curio shops or carnivals, and gallantly takes on their burden.

“Walk with me?”

So sure his voicebox just sustained a hairline crack; he hates himself for being nervous.

Eyes, hers, brighter than all the psychedelic frenzy swirling around them both, caught up in the haze; she has the uncanny ability to fade the rest to black, toss the entirety of the world’s existence aside.

Seeking to link her arm with his amid the mess of wares won, she succeeds and presses closer.

“I thought I’d die waiting,” she whispers into his sleeve. “I’ve been wanting you to notice me properly all night.”

Meandering, conjoined, down the main road; carved out for the celebration, buffeted by snack scents and other couples, groups of friends, and plenty of pairs pretending they’re still just and only that. Along the way she unloads her many winnings, surreptitious, in part kindly trying to relieve his burden but also calculating the space in her single occupancy apartment.

She watches people and lights, and he watches her.

Sakura’s gaze snags on a particular booth, more specifically a particular prize. Of the stuffed variety.

“Did . . .  something catch your eye?” he asks. Immediately thinks he sounds like an idiot. You know how to woo ‘em, and why does his inner voice sound like Naruto’s on this date, goddamn it —

Burying her cheek into his shoulder, she giggles and it threads beautiful, stringed tension in his throat and spine, symphonic, testing its own flex to see if she can orchestrate the rest of him. He wishes he could spin her around, lift her high in some filmesque climax, kiss her in the closing credits.

“Don’t laugh,” she says, “but I love slugs. Adore them, really. Gross, I know!” She raises her free hand and points directly at a giant stuffed slug on a high shelf behind the booth’s counter. “And honestly, I’d likely keep it in my office; the kids would love it.”

Sasuke knows, from what she’s disclosed, that these are sick kids, too. This ancient, gendered mating ritual is unavoidable and he’ll have to rise to the challenge. He must provide. Stupid, because she outstrips his earnings and likely will the rest of their life.

Says it like a throwaway, like no big deal:  “I’ll have to win it for you, then.”

The game? Aim. Darts. Doable if he’s sober and with equally (un)talented friends; ranging from Shino the sharpshooter to drunk and stumbling Suigetsu, he’s decidedly somewhere in the middle, but it should be enough raw talent to beat a festival game.

Sakura’s eyes are on him, excited. She dances a little from foot to foot, ready to cheer him on.

Dropping the rest of the prizes on the ground and shoving a fistful of coins at the booth operator, he smirks. Born ready, all those forced childhood sports camps and instrument lessons finessing his hand-eye coordination finally stepping up to the plate.

Imagine failing miserably three rounds in a row, the last one bouncing off the dartboard so violently it narrowly misses the sleepy booth operator. Sasuke grinds his teeth, jaw tight, wishing it’d met its mark.

To Sakura’s credit, she’s completely unperturbed. Almost makes it worse.

She pecks him on the cheek, scoring him through hot and fevered where her lips touch.

“Performance anxiety,” she quips, but her smile isn’t unkind. “Let me give it a try.”

Each dart that lands in the board does so with gusto, embeds itself deep into the sisal cork. As each one hits, Sasuke reflects they might as well be piercing him. The most painful blow is watching her indicate the bluebacked slug, winning it outright without his help, and squeezing it half to death in her arms.

They’re walking again, sans the rest of her prizes — left them for the booth operator, and whatever kids wander his way wanting toys with which to annoy their parents.

“You’ve been so quiet,” she says, shifting her slug under one arm and linking up with him again.  Sasuke shrugs against her. “I’m not sure what’s next with us.”

 He stops, figures it’s better to rip that bandaid off now, give her an out so he can save some face. Of course they’ve stopped on some coquettishly romantic bridge, arched over the still summer pond, a popular viewing spot for the night’s end fireworks.

She watches him expectantly, searching him with her sharp green eyes.

“What do you mean?” Her question is slow, puzzled.

What he means to say is something gentile. Instead he says, “You’re great at darts.”

She seems to sway, a physical manifestation of being caught off guard. Laughs. “Surprised me too! But you gave my arms a rest, so they were ready to win.” Curls her arm to indicate muscle, grinning.

Steps closer, melting through an unseen veil of personal space. Cherry scent; smoke.

“Could be all the shots you administer.”

“I guess we can call jabbing kids with needles a calling.” Mirroring him, she steps in too, and there’s not so much space between them anymore. “Good practice. You could come around sometime, see my work.”

Another tiny shuffle.

It’s time to break this. Sasuke inhales deeply, letting it out in measured beats. “Sakura—”

“If you’re mad you couldn’t win this for me,” she interrupts, “you’re being silly. I don’t care about that, you know.”

He tilts his head, and in spite of himself his hand wanders, brushing a stray strand of pink out of her face. “Hm?”

“I don’t,” she repeats, and sets her slug down on the wooden bridge. Breathes deeply before saying in a low, threaded voice, “What I care about is all the waiting.”

Sasuke feels it all fall into place. Oh. Oh.

“So come on, Sasuke.”

And before she’s even finished saying his name he’s kissing her, the last vibrations of his name caught on their lips, locked, and though the timing is perfect and picturesque, film archetype material as the fireworks charge the air around them, each one set off drawing ripple designs in the water beneath them, this thrill is unmatched, the way she wraps her arm around his neck to taste him deeper, the way he lifts her up to rest him on his hips and there’s nothing, has never been anything, quite like this.

Real fireworks pale in comparison.

Lips burning against his, mouthing soft words in the detonation din.

“The perfect end,” she whispers, “to a festival.”

[sadachmesarthim]

For the sentence starters I need 16 and 34 please!

this has porn in it, so ur all aware. links are sfw, text is not

for you, my dear, anything. sorry it took so long, i'm giving you what i have now. 'm gonna come back to it n do a second part when i can 😘

song for this one is UGH! by the 1975

@longlivestarker some light plug content 4 u! @bluestarker i love u for this one

he’s got peter pinned, yet again overtaking the younger superhero. they’d been training for a few hours at this point, and both were feeling the effects of such an intense workout.

it was tony that insisted they all start rigorous combat training. after stitching the universe back together, a good majority of the avengers realized they weren’t exactly cut out for extraterrestrial hand-to-hand.

peter honestly didn’t see the point. he was stronger than anyone there, faster. he could swing or run away if he really needed to... but tony continued to hound him over it. he caved, finally, after a solid two weeks of pestering from the older man. he only conceded when tony’d promised to leave him alone after one (1) trial session.

one session turned into two, then four, and quickly became several hours every single day. peter really wasn’t complaining at that point, though - it was a great opportunity to get tony shirtless, and he genuinely was getting better at kicking ass unaided. street vigilantism doesn’t really facilitate developing finesse, and he enjoyed sparring without consequences. what could he say, he loved teachable moments.

apparently a bit too much, from the position he found himself in.

tony might have been a “normal” human man - no super strength or enhanced awareness to give him an edge over his coworkers. what he *did* have, though, were eyes, and enough situational awareness to pick up on the kid’s sudden enjoyment of their previously 'useless' training time. his exposed, sweaty form did quite a bit to the young man in front of him, and tony wasn’t upset about it. like, at all. quite the opposite, actually - why else would he have been so adamant about being the person peter trained with?

but now, having pinned peter’s wrists to the floor in an attempt to subdue him, tony was rethinking his motives decision.

the sight of peter below him - drenched in sweat, pink and red embarrassment quickly overtaking his cheeks, his ears, his neck... absolutely helpless and trembling in tony’s grasp...

he found himself hard. this wasn’t the way his tuesday was supposed to go, but jesus, he wasn't complaining.

and peter, christ. the poor kid. tony could feel the piqued interest under his hips, peter visibly trying (and failing, miserably) to restrain himself from pushing up into the presence above him. he whimpered, soft and pathetic, like he was begging for tony to stop and keep going and fuck, do anything, please, all at once.

tony smiled, entertained by his desperation. “come on, kid. i know for a fact you can be louder than that.”

peter groaned. it was overwhelming, so much and not enough all at once, and oh my god tony was on top of him. tony was grinding back down on peter’s dick and enjoying it. his flush deepened, a desperate ‘nggh, oh fuck, god, tony, please’ wrenching itself from peter’s throat before he could think to stop it.

"love the noises you make, pete, fuck. you gotta slow down, though, baby, and tell me what you want." tony continued directing as much smooth pressure he could down toward the writhing figure beneath him, laughing lightly. peter sounded delicious like this, so fucking needy, & tony wasn’t planning on letting him up any time soon.

peter, already way too frustrated and way too turned on, took the opportunity when he saw it - just as tony was shifting his hips backward, peter thrust up, hooking an arm around tony's elbow and using the leverage to flip their positions.

"can't just pin me here & tell me to slow down. don’t start something you can’t finish, old man.” heat flooded through tony at the quip - he wasn’t prepared for the display of power, for the sass. this was so much better than what he’d planned for, so much better than the writhing & submissive boy he'd had just a few seconds ago.

“i know you like this, baby, but i think you’d like it a lot more if we took off our clothes.” and christ, peter did. he liked seeing tony underneath him - liked feeling his ass pressing against tony's cock, clothed or otherwise. but the idea sounded phenomenal - getting tony out of those stupid fucking track pants, being able to feel so much more.

he released tony's hands, allowing him to reach down and undo the tie at his waist. peter did the same, sitting up on his knees and giving them both enough space to strip down.

"jesus fucking christ, you're kidding." of course tony'd be sparring commando. only him, peter thought.

"what, don't say you haven't pictured this before. can you blame me for wanting to show up prepared??"

that's the fucked part of it - he had pictured it before - so many times. even before they made it routine, he'd fantasized about it. tony grabbing him, pinning him down in the suit, metal fingers shredding his million dollar combat suit with little more than a thought. dreamt about it - tony fingering him stupid on the mats, doors unlocked and open for anyone to catch them. imagined webbing them up, riding tony while he was literally stuck to the ceiling. making him completely helpless to peter's wants and needs.

he'd shown up prepared, before, too - even today. he'd worked himself open, stretching enough to take his favorite plug. half of training is mental, anyway. seeing if he could fight with a plug in was both filthy fantasy and a challenge.

"fuck, no, but christ tony... if you don't do something i swear to god i'll do it for you." that earned him another laugh, broken & tinged with lust - confirmation that tony'd been waiting for this just as long.

"you have no idea how good that sounds kid," tony mused, taking the moment to finally get his hands on the poor little spider. every muscle was twitching, so incredibly responsive to the circles tony was rubbing into his ilium. peter jerked into the contact, falling forward onto tony's chest.

the pressure between them mounted, spurred on by the bare contact of their cocks against one another. it was heady, fogging peter's mind with need. he'd wanted this so desperately, and was so not looking forward to it being over.

tony, the gentleman that he was, pushed peter up a bit. he spit excessively into his hand and - oh fuck, tony please, oh god, - began pulling peter off in earnest. he was entirely unprepared for just how good it felt, arching into tony's grasp. peter lurched, grinding his bare ass down tony’s groin & fucking up into his fist.

peter looked down just as something feral flashed through tony’s eyes. suddenly aware of just how wide his legs were spread, he realized: tony felt his plug. there’s no way he missed it.

tony released the hair in his left hand, snaking it down between peter’s twitching cheeks. he toyed with the plug, smirking when peter’s movement stuttered. tony hooked two fingers around the base, damn near *tearing* it out of him.

another feeling - something like pride and lust and jealousy all mixed - surged through him when he saw exactly what he pulled from peter’s ass.

in his hand, he held a custom “iron slut” plug. tony’d seen things like it before - he wasn’t a stranger to weird social media photo replies. this was so much more, though - gold colored metal shining under the fluorescents, little red rhinestones encrusting the flared end. tony’s colors, peter had tony’s colors inside him.

he growled, tossing the plug to the side. he reached back down, excited to feel excess lube still leaking from peter’s hole. he pressed two fingers in, savoring the small stretch he still needed to fully enter peter.

the kid cursed, clawing down tony’s shoulders. he knew he was sensitive but fuck, he’d never experienced anything like it before. he could feel everything, every single ridge of his fingerprints, every press of flared knuckles against his prostate. it was perfect, so balanced on the edge of too much and not enough.

peter was splitting at the seams, close to drawing blood with how deep his nails had dug into tony’s flesh. he keened, whiny moans sprinkled between gasps and cries of "fuck, fuck me tony please, need you so bad”

tony twisted his fingers, forcing peter to feel the ridges of his fingers everywhere. "oh god, nngh tony, fuck, mr. stark please, i'm-"

"don't hold back, baby. you gonna cum from just my fingers in your greedy little hole? tell me just how much you want it, baby." he ended each phrase with the drag of his fingertips along peter's prostate, just enough to push him over.

peter’s whole body shook, entirely not used to being handled the way it just had. he fell forward, pleasure overriding strength.

peter came with tony's name on his lips, breathy little puffs of air just brushing the skin of his shoulder. tony fucked him through it, only letting up and pulling out when peter’s sounds turned painful.

once he’d come down enough, peter sat himself up, blushing at the man under him. “i can’t believe we just did that in the gym, tony!”

“what, was that not how you wanted to spend your morning, petey?” tony smirked, already aware of the answer.

“oh my good shut up!”

[mommymooze]

Blacksmith

So I had my first ask from @sloth-and-gluttony-are-my-sins, so the absolute first thing I had to do is mess it up. Tumbler, you are mean when they ask a question and then  I ask a question and it doesn’t leave the original dohickey in my mail here so I can use it to respond and then I got all confused but...the important part was someone asked and I wrote and here it is. Enjoy.  Especially Sloth&allthat. 

You first meet the students at Garreg Mach in the summer of the last classes ever held there. Your friend Anna requests your services because the regular blacksmith fell ill. You feel the need to expand your horizons. Working for your father for years, perhaps it was time to start setting up a shop of your own. What better chance than to take this job. Everything is here already except for a smith. They have plenty of horses that need shoes, weapons that need repair and new weapons to be forged.

 Getting up with the sun, you load wood and coal into the forge, regularly working the bellows to get the heat high enough to soften the hardest metals. Each blacksmith has their own tried and true methods of working and molding the metal into their desired shapes, resulting in weapons and tools to sell in markets. Your family has a history of great craftmanship, you must carry the torch.

Today you are working on fine pieces of steel that slowly will become beautiful custom daggers. The blades requested by the handsome gentleman were specifically ordered to be perfectly balanced, incredibly sharp, shiny and deadly.

Pumping the bellows a few more times, you check the glow of the metal, it is glowing brighter, soon you will be able to work on flattening the steel into shape. You pull the strap of your thick leather apron over your head, tying it behind you. Thick leather pants also protect your legs, your heavy leather boots protecting your feet from metals shards that constantly fall and cover the ground, a hazard of working with metal. Your naked hands grabbing the metal long handled tongs, reaching into the superheated forge and grabbing the brightly glowing hot steel, placing it on the anvil. You reach for your twenty pound hammer with a muscular arm that few, if any, in the monastery could compare to. Your shirt is sleeveless to allow the 100% freedom of movement necessary for your work, your arms forever glistening with sweat from the heat of the forge and materials you work with. You spend an average of 12-14 hours per day working with the metal, molding it under your power, shaping it into beautiful deadly tools.

You begin hammering the metal in a rhythmic pattern, giving a heartbeat to the marketplace. You switch hands every so often, glad that you are ambidextrous, developing the thick strong muscles on both arms evenly. It makes you chuckle-some smiths you know who have a single heavily muscled arm, the other tiny compared to the first. Not that the rest of you is underdeveloped. Your legs, stomach, back, even your neck is muscular having to constantly lift heavy pieces of metal, armor, logs, you name it.  You pick up the glowing metal with your clamps, it stretches well under your will, nice and evenly drawn out and ready to be fired again for its next hammering.

You look up in time to see a young blonde haired man. Dimitri as you recall, standing watching you work. Tossing the steel back into the forge, you turn to speak with him.

“Good morning, what can I assist you with?” You greet him as you wipe your hands on your apron, black bits of carbon staining the front.

“I was hoping you could help me with this?” The blue eyed man blushes as he produces a steel lance with the spearhead bent at a very incorrect angle.

You take the lance turning it around and look into his handsome young face. “Were you using it as a lever? Trying to get rocks out of the ground? How many of you were pushing on the handle?” You smile at him.

“Oh no, I was just sparring and, well, I guess I hit the wall and well, here we are.” His blush has crept down his cheeks and into his neck.

Turning the spear again, you find the point where the metal has given way. You move to the right, standing with your legs and knee holding the handle of the spear against your anvil, using both hands you are able to bend the spearhead back towards its original position, then toss the end into the center of your forge. Pumping the bellows a few times you turn to the owner.

The prince’s eyes are as wide as saucers, he had tried to straighten it back out himself and it would not give at all. You simply grabbed it and straightened it back in the blink of an eye.

“Well, Dimitri, what would you like me to do? Just straighten it back out? Reinforce it to make it harder to bend?” You ask as you pull out another piece of the dagger steel and begin hammering it.

“Yes! That would be wonderful if you can reinforce it some. If it would be of no trouble to you.” He looks away shyly.

“That’s what I am here for. I don’t have the fire built for it today, but I do have some welding set for tomorrow. Should be ready in the afternoon.” You answer, not missing a beat with your pounding the metal, drawing out the furthest end into the point of the blade.

Dimitri stands mesmerized as you continually strike the metal, the sweat rolling down your arm muscles then suddenly drops of sweat are flung into the air with the next strike of your hammer. Suddenly he realizes that he’s been staring at you.

“Just how heavy is that hammer?” He asks.

You hold the hammer out to him, your arm straight, the metal head close to his chest. “grab the handle just under the large metal end. It may be a bit hot if you grab the end itself. “

Dimitri takes the hammer in one hand, not expecting it to be that heavy, quickly he gets a second hand on it before he drops it completely. He grabs the handle with two hands, raising it above his head before bringing it down to waist height, then handing it back to you. “It is quite impressive that you can swing it over your head all day long.”

“You could do it too, just need practice. You are incredibly strong to be able to bend your weapons like you do.” You smile, turning back to your work.  You wave to him saying his spear will be ready tomorrow afternoon.

 After a nice lunch break you are back at work on the daggers. Fine tuning the edges calls for a smaller hammer and more finesse work. Clangity-clang! The higher pitch of the five pound hammer working the metal to a fine sharp edge.

“Hail good Blacksmith! If I may have a moment!” A cheerful voice pulls you from your concentration. You grab your tongs and place the blade in the forge for reheating.

You turn to see a Noble Gentleman whose hair color could rival the center of the forge, glowing as orange as the coals in the middle. His wide smile beckons for your attention. “Good day to you sir. How may I assist you?”

“Lady Blacksmith, if I may inquire.” Ferdinand begins, a look of awe is upon his face. He had no idea the muscles that he was admiring belonged to a woman, a very healthy, muscular woman. He coughs into his fist briefly. “In my last battle I incurred damage to my left gauntlet. As you can see the plates on the outer fingers have been bent, making it difficult to grasp my lance properly. I would pay anything if you are able to assist me with this problematic situation.”

You hold yourself back from laughing in the face of this apparently naive noble asking a woman for assistance with the grasping of his lance. You kick the anvil to keep yourself from smiling as you answer. “I would be happy to assist you with the repair of your gauntlet.” You hold the metal glove in your hands turning it and getting a gauge of the metal that was used for the plates.

“You have excellent maintenance skills. A well oiled and maintained piece such as this will last you many years. If you could give me 3 days to complete the work, I can have it back to you then, good sir.”

“Excellent. My name is Ferdinand Von Aegir. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.” He proudly announces as he holds out his hand so that you may place yours within it for a kiss.

You shyly back away, hands behind you. “You wouldn’t want to kiss these hands right now. They’re covered in coal and oil and smell like steel and grease.”

“Another time, perhaps.” He bows. “It would be an honor to kiss the hand that makes the finest steel bend to its will.” The smile he gives outshines the sun as he bows, heading off to merge in with the crowds, long strides taking him halfway through the marketplace in a scant moment.  

The rest of the day is spent finishing the daggers, straightening the lance, and pounding the steel to the correct thickness to replace the bent portions of the damaged gauntlet. Bending the metal around rods of the correct thickness, matching that of the removed parts then finally hammering the punch to make the hole in each side, allowing the piece to be fastened to the glove and inner plate.

 The next morning is cool and the heat from the forge is most welcome. Today mostly coal is in, the fire needs to be hot hot hot to work on welding the additional metal to the spear. Tempering the daggers and gauntlet bits. Twelve new spearheads requested.

You begin with the weld, everything pristinely clean the fire exceptionally hot as you heat the spear and steel to be welded. Placing the first piece of steel on the spearhead and removing them both from the heat. Placing them on the anvil quickly and lining them up with shorter clamps, you immediately hammer the two pieces of metal together, joining them into a single piece. Now you must reheat the spear to weld more steel on the other side.

While waiting you grab the first of the three new dagger blades that are on the outer edge of the forge. The metal is heated to orange, not nearly as hot as the welded pieces. The oil in the metal tub close to the forge is warmed sufficiently and you quickly dunk the blade into the oil, swirling it in figure 8s to cool it quickly, tempering the metal and strengthening it. The flames on the oil dies down as the metal cools. You place it back in the forge, tempering the other two blades.

Now the spearhead is hot enough to weld the other side. You hammer the pieces together tossing them into the firey forge to heat to tempering.

Grabbing your waterskin you take a long drink. For being so chilly this morning, it’s gotten quite hot in the shop. You swear the pink haired girl standing close to the side of the front is just there to warm herself. Dimitri begins to walk past and notices you taking a break.

“Your lance is coming right along. I’m well on track to have it done around lunch.” You lean with an elbow on a huge log standing on end at the front of the shop.

“Wonderful. I was hoping to get in some sparring this afternoon. Not that we always practice with regular weapons, but it’s good to keep the muscles toned.” Dimitri smiles at you. He can feel the heat radiating from you even a few feet away. His eyes watch the drops of sweat dancing down between the muscles in your arms. He jolts when you speak.

“I can tell you work hard. Be proud of yourself. I’ll be here to make sure you’re well equipped.” You give him a big smile and wave as he heads off to his friends.

The daggers are ready for the next tempering, followed by the spear and gauntlet pieces. Now you pull out your files, working the edges of the metal on the spear so there are no sharp bits, making it smooth and shiny.  Only a few files are needed for the spear. The daggers however need much more work, fine tuning the angle of the blade, then having to switch to stones, finely oiled and the edges drawn out until they can cut a hair.  You almost have one dagger complete when Dimitri returns for his weapon.

You’ve polished it up, removed any burrs, smoothed the handle and sharpened the edge.

“Thank you so much, your work is magnificent.” The prince starts off well, placing his payment on the anvil, then reaching for his lance. However once his fingers brush yours, his shyness gets in the way. “Such a beautiful spear completed by a sharp...Uh..no..Sorry. I brought you a muffin.” He says grabbing the lance and stuffing a bag with a large blueberry muffin contained inside into your hands before he turns beet red and runs off.

You laugh, realizing you had not stopped for lunch yourself. Grabbing a bite to eat you finish your tasks for the day.

 The next morning you finish the gauntlet for the red haired noble, polishing the whole thing until it glows. You decide you’ll make the deliveries during lunch. The schedule is light for today and you’ve always wanted to see the students in their ‘natural environment’. You spend entirely too much time trying to knock the smithy smell off of you. Now you smell like coal, oil, iron, steel and lavender. At least your skin is more pink than black on your arms and face. Your hair is pulled back, you’re wearing a fluffy gray blouse and dark gray tight pants with leather shoes.

Most of the students are gathered in the dining hall. It isn’t hard to spot the tall young man with his glowing red hair that is just brushing his shoulders. Of course, for some reason, he has announced his own name, confirming you have found the gauntlet owner.

“Such an unexpected surprise!” Ferdinand says as he stands and bows to you. “It looks magnificent! Do you mind if I try it?”

You nod, smiling at him.

He stuffs his hand into the gauntlet, the fingers wiggling and grasping at his other hand. He looks into the gloved portion, slipping it off. “It is perfect!” the redhead announces loud enough for everyone to hear. “There is something different, there was a spot inside that somehow does not bother me at all.”

“I attached a bit of moleskin to some places that were rubbing at the base of your fingers.” You point to the area.

“Simply magnificent! Your work is perfection with every effort! Thank you! Thank you!” He says graciously as he hands a bag heavy with coins.

You look at him curiously, this was far more than you were expecting, a whole new gauntlet would have been cheaper. “Are you certain?”

“Ahh yes! It fits me like a glove!” He smiles, holding his hand out, waiting for yours.

You cautiously take his hand and he gently brings his lips to your knuckles. You find this cute and can’t help but giggle.

He laughs cheerfully as he turns and heads back to his room to retrieve the missing match for his review.

 You head out towards the classrooms, looking for Professor Byleth. As you’re walking you hear a voice approaching from the right.

“Ooooh. Looks like a lovely, gorgeous lady is about to find out this is her lucky day” A male voice schmoozes as his footsteps come closer, suddenly a deeper voice chimes in “That’s the blacksmith, idiot. She will break you like a toothpick.”

 Alone again, you enter the classroom. Byleth looks up from the desk where she was grading papers.

“Almost have your order complete for the lances. Have you seen Yuri?” You ask, holding out a box.

“He just left, I bet you can catch him if you hurry, just head towards my room, right by the sauna.” Byleth answers, giving you a wave.

 You run out heading towards the entrance to Abyss. You hope you can catch him before he heads down. Something about being underground just gives you the creeps. Like at any time the roof is going to collapse on you. You’re running and thrilled to spy him just around the next corner.

“Hey!” you call out, gasping for breath. Your job doesn’t normally call for you to run.

“Hello there, friend.” He sweetly calls back. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Needed a change of scenery, so I thought I would make a few deliveries, here.” You say as you hand him the box.

“Oh, these are nice. I knew you would come through.” He says as he takes one of the daggers out, twirling it in his fingers. “Sharp as an eagle’s eye too.”

“It’s buy two get one free day.” You nudge his shoulder, fortunately he catches himself before you knock him completely to the ground.

“I pay fair a price. I don’t like owing anyone for anything.” Yuri frowns deeply.

“Well I heard there’s someone you know that makes a wicked fruit tart, one of those would be payment plenty.” You grin.

“That can be arranged.” Yuri smiles and winks.

[tsarisfanfiction]

I Promised

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Tragedy Characters: Law, Shachi

“Promise me,” Shachi had said once.  “No matter what.“  Law wished he hadn’t.

So this has been kicking around in my wip folder for literal years - I think I actually wrote most of it in 2018 - and those of you who pay attention to my side pages on my blog might have seen this teased under Tales From The Heart.  It’s technically Tales-verse, and will be archived under the series, but due to a character death, I’m posting it as a separate fic.  However, it references chapter 94 “Immortal” of Tales From The Heart, and actually I believe the idea for this fic came from a throwaway comment I got for that chapter?

“Law!”

Exhausted as he was, Law couldn’t move fast enough, his eyes tracking the blow headed straight for him as he stumbled back half a step and braced for the impact that seemed likely to kill him.  Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have cared at all, but with a crew that meant more to him than life itself he realised he didn’t want to leave them, not now and not ever.

The collision was solid, shoving him backwards until his back hit something hard; some rubble debris from the fight, probably.  A weight followed him, crashing into his chest and pushing all of the air from his lungs.  His back hurt from the rubble, blood soaked his front.  There was no pain at the point of impact, but that was probably shock.

He opened his eyes to see the damage – when had they closed? – only to gasp as his throat choked up. Ginger, a colour unmistakable even in the battlefield, clouded his vision, alongside askew shades and weeping eyes.

Shachi’s eyes were green. Law had never been close enough to tell before, even in thirteen years.  Once upon a time they were probably striking, before being ruined by snowblindness.  Moisture welled up in them and Law moved instinctively to fix his shades, a trembling hand wiping away the tears.

The act drew his attention to the blood dripping from Shachi’s mouth, the laboured breathing. The fact that the blood soaking into his own top was coming from elsewhere, wasn’t his.

“Law,” Shachi croaked, voice weak and trembling even as his lips pulled into a pathetic excuse for a smile. Law’s eyes widened in horror as the situation started to sink in.  “Are you okay?”  Law was numb, trembling as his nakama tilted forwards before his hands moved on autopilot, catching the ginger’s weight.

“You-” he tried, feeling the blood coating his hands in seconds.  So much of it; they needed to stop the bleeding now but he couldn’t even draw on his Room and conventional treatments wouldn’t be fast enough.  “Shachi-”

The ginger coughed, blood splattering Law’s face.

“It’s okay,” he wheezed, as though he wasn’t painting Law’s world crimson with every passing second. “It’s okay, Law.”

It wasn’t okay, wasn’t okay at all.  Law tried to move, to do something even though his bones felt like lead, only to be brought up short by quivering hands on his face, wiping away tears he hadn’t realised he was crying.

“No.”  The voice was broken, cracking on the single syllable and barely louder than a whisper.  It took Law a moment to realise it was his.  He didn’t have any stamina left, the muscles in his arms trembling from supporting the ginger’s weight and his knees trembling in warning that they couldn’t keep him standing much longer.

That didn’t stop him from dredging up whatever he could, pushing out the Room from his heart and ignoring the burn that warned he was draining his own life.  The blow would have been enough to kill Law, and Shachi was weaker.  He didn’t even have Armament Haki capable of absorbing any of the attack.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” he managed, letting gravity take over and pull them to the ground.  He needed his hands free for this, even as Shachi gave him a bloodstained grin.  The crimson stained his lips and cheeks in a way that was all too similar to Cora-san’s eternal grin; his final grin.

Law was a doctor.  He didn’t need his abilities to tell him that Shachi’s wounds were fatal, even as he shoved him over to lie on his back – roughly, but he didn’t have the strength to use any finesse.  Shachi was beyond feeling the pain, anyway.

There was only one thing he could do, short of letting Shachi die and that was not an option, was never an option.  Law had suspected that one day things would come to this: exchanging his own life for his nakama, just like Cora-san had exchanged his life for Law’s all those years ago.  Unlike the Ope Ope no Mi’s other abilities, this one didn’t need any stamina to use. It would take its payment at the end.

A hand grasped his own, pale where it wasn’t stained with blood, halting him with strength it didn’t seem like it should have had.  Dead man’s grip, the back of Law’s mind whispered in despair, and he tried to tug his hand back, to continue the operation.

“You promised,” Shachi rasped, somehow managing to sound strong even though his voice was faint. “No matter what.”

Of course, Shachi was the one that had found him the day he’d learnt about his ability to exchange his life for another’s.  He wasn’t the only one that knew Law could do it – such a thing, while kept close to his chest, couldn’t be hidden from Penguin or Bepo for long – but he was the only other one that had read the papers detailing how to do it.  No-one else would have known until it was over.

“I won’t let you die,” Law snarled back, tugging furiously at his hand to no avail.  “What would that do to Penguin?  To the others?”

“The weak… don’t get to choose how they die,” Shachi quoted, reminding Law of the phrase he’d said more than once.  “Law… Captain…  Am I that weak that I don’t get to choose?”

“No,” Law admitted, unable to even imply that Shachi was anything other than strong – in many ways, stronger than him.  “But-”

“Everyone dies sometime,” Shachi cut him off, his grip increasing further.  Law wished that was because his strength was increasing, and not because his muscles were starting to seize.  “For a pirate… I can’t think of a better death… than saving my nakama.”

“Shachi-” Law wanted to complain, scream about how it wasn’t fair and that he refused to let Shachi die, requests be damned, but one look at the content look on his face, marred only by a furrowing of his forehead that Law knew was Shachi’s concern that he wouldn’t be listened to, and he couldn’t do it.  Not to Shachi.  “You idiot,” he mumbled around a suddenly too-thick tongue.  His vision blurred, but despite that he could see the moment the ginger relaxed, realising that yet again – for the final time – he’d out-stubborned Law.

“Law... look after Penguin, would you?” Shachi asked, and Law’s heart seized.  Penguin.  How was he supposed to face the older man?  “He’ll… understand.  A-and, Law?”  Law made a noise of recognition, no longer trusting his voice.  “Look after yourself.  You probably know… this already, but j-just this once… I’ll say it.” He paused, taking as large a breath as his rapidly weakening lungs allowed.  The rasp cut through Law sharper than any scalpel.  “I love you.”

He was smiling.  Law wanted to shout at him, to tell him he wasn’t allowed to say that and then die smiling, but before he could gather his thoughts into enough coherency and get the first word on his tongue Shachi’s chest – heaving weakly since the blow – stuttered and then stopped.

The noise that escaped Law’s mouth instead was a cry of anguish.  Tears blurred his vision, but not enough to hide the fact that even in death, Shachi was still smiling.

[phoenixtakaramono]

SUMMARY: Let it not be said that Shen Yuan didn’t know how to be an accomplished—arguably better—writer than Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky! A middle-aged author in his hubris, he’d unknowingly triggered his fate and had his consciousness whisked away into an unfathomable mystical world that he would later learn to be based on Proud Immortal Demon Way and his very own work-in-progress. When given the opportunity to customize his character’s stats and to design his one remaining Customizable Skill Slot, as a veteran reader of transmigration stories and their tropes, Shen Yuan demanded, “Grant me the protagonist’s halo of course!”

The SYSTEM was silent all but for a minute.【Understood. Unique Skill "PROTAGONIST'S HALO" activated. Esteemed Host, you share the Unique Skill "PROTAGONIST'S HALO" with one other.】

“Who?”

【This world’s Luo Binghe. From the original novel series.】

“...Hold on, I need some time to process this.”

(Little did Shen Yuan know that this world’s Luo Binghe is the same sadistic “Bing gē” from the released Extra short story. It was also too bad that Shen Yuan, in his mortal form, resembled Shen Qingqiu by a good thirty-to-forty percent.)

This was the second time they’d held hands. Fingers threaded together, palms touching. A significant amount of information could be communicated in the simple act of taking someone’s hand—the shape and texture of it, the roughness or softness of the life they’d led, and the strength or fragility of their grip. Luo Binghe would remember the feeling of that pale hand gripping his tightly for the rest of his life.

The mist billowed under Luo Binghe the moment he was allowed entry into the dream realm of the divine. Instantly, he was besieged with the feeling of falling into a frozen lake. The cold was a shock through his body, forcing his hand to convulsively clamp down as he stumbled.

Foolish, Luo Binghe berated himself. To have been finally welcomed inside the dream realm of a celestial being meant this version of his shizun had thought highly of Luo Binghe and his constitution. Yet instead of a composed and dignified air, Luo Binghe had just shown his weak side.

Shen Yuan halted midstride. Concern was written upon those white brows upon seeing his reaction.

It was, nonetheless, an opportunity. Luo Binghe forced an amiable smile as he pretended to be oblivious, masking any sign of his discomfort as he leaned against Shen Yuan’s weight. The sensation of pins-and-needles assailing him wasn’t something he couldn’t tolerate, but it was unpleasant. Except for their one point of contact, no part had been spared. His gaze lingered on the long scholarly fingers wrapped trustingly around his, before sweeping a glance over their new surroundings.

He felt like he’d stepped into a world composed of silk screens. Ahead, the fine mist passing through the painted scenery shrouded the outline of the tall mountain range and forest. Even the walls of the buildings were composed of firm brushstrokes and soft ink wash.

Since Luo Binghe had difficulty walking, Shen Yuan had to support him. Both men, mutually depending on each other, took slow steps forward.

Droplets of water splashed quietly from their strides as Shen Yuan guided him in the direction of whatever he’d wanted Luo Binghe to see. Like black ink that had been dipped into clear water, the transparent surface was beginning to darken with each tread that Luo Binghe took.

He stared down at his feet. The sight of the ink and water swirling into one another as though they were made to be together gave rise to the tide of emotions which had been circulating within his mind.

In the newly fallen darkness, he could sense his companion had fallen into another state of deep contemplation. As the two men disembarked in companionable silence, Luo Binghe took a long, measuring look at the landscape—at the secrets hiding within the fog, behind the translucent silks.

The atmosphere was incomparably resplendent and harmonious, yet it painted an undeniable fact about his companion. Knowledge could be gleaned of how this revered existence perceived the outside world. Life was a flow of changes—transient and ephemeral. Being in this realm didn’t feel real, with the indifference of an observer who was transcendent and so far removed from the mortal scale.

They were truly opposites—not only in their physical appearance and status, but also in how their dream realms manifested.  

“…You’ve always had an unruly habit to roam and draw unnecessary attention to yourself!” An insidious and vicious whisper brushed against Luo Binghe’s mind like a wisp of smoke. “ It’s impressive you can even move so well inside this barrier. To think you’d chase him here on impulse!”

Hearing the litany of grievances, Luo Binghe hid the blade that was his smile. Unlike himself, he had no doubt that his senior might have been exorcised had he not taken refuge in Luo Binghe.

Because however convincingly Meng Mo conveyed his displeasure, his voice was nonetheless weakened by the barrier. He was merely being crotchety to maintain appearances.

Shen Yuan had made it clear that his invitation into his dream was extended to Luo Binghe only. With that one remark addressing the senior dream demon, and by performing the gesture of taking his hand, it couldn’t have been even more obvious what he’d wanted.

Earlier, Luo Binghe had gambled that on this fateful evening that the celestial fortuneteller would have no choice but to attend to his growing fatigue. His guard would be lowered and that was when the opportunity would present itself.

The practice of invading and manipulating a person’s dreams was nothing new. With his secret tutelage cultivating on the demonic path, beginning when he’d been a mere Cang Qiong Mountain sect disciple, he had learned to infiltrate many minds. Several had been his lovers—the first being his shījiě, accidental as it had been pulling his martial sister along with him—although the treatment his women received was far more considerate than the cruel methods he inflicted upon all those who opposed him.

He had seen the duplicity of people’s hearts and reproduced illusions of varying natures. He’d learned how to lure others when they were at their most defenseless and be able to find their worst fears and memories to inflict the maximum psychological torment. With his enemies who were impervious to physical torture, few could claim immunity upon being confronted with their own inner demons. And with his lovers, he could skim their memory fragments and indulge any spring dreams either of them had fantasized about, causing romantic feelings to overflow.

Because unlike the waking world, the dream realm was honest.

The capability to doubt was stripped away. Memories could be spied on. Falsehoods were exposed. And no secrets could be kept from him. Oftentimes one’s impulses could not be held back within the dream realm.

It was a glimpse into one’s truest state.

Meng Mo’s withered voice interrupted his thoughts.

“The ways of those of the Heavenly Realm are mysterious—but they are proud and have always held contempt for our kind. I know you are captivated by him, but be more prudent in choosing your words around him. Don’t be muddled in the head just because you believe he can replace the late Qing Jing Peak Lord….” Ridicule had crept into Meng Mo’s tone. “His looks aren’t bad but to have aspirations of eating the tofu of someone who bears the farseeing, discerning eyes of the Heavens…. Your ambition is bold, as is your guts. This elder doesn’t know whether to be impressed or scold you for your shamelessness.”

Although his lips had thinned into a white line, Luo Binghe remained silent.

Water shaped its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flowed. Tonight, many of his initial plans had been waylaid. Although he couldn’t have predicted its trajectory, he wasn’t discontent with the final outcome. He’d gained information that would be invaluable to him—and he’d finally found his shizun.

There had been a quiescent anticipation in the night as Luo Binghe waited like a spider spinning its web, searching and reaching for the only mind of this residence who was of interest to him, until he’d finally sensed the faintest reverberation of the otherworldly and ephemeral—a presence that could only belong to him.  

And he’d pulled.

As someone who used to humbly occupy the Mortal Realm, never in his imagination did Luo Binghe expect he could claim success to the achievement of accessing the dream realm of divinity.

The rush of triumph had been dampened once, upon seeking Shen Yuan, Luo Binghe encountered a Qi-condensed barrier—a mental defense meant to repel demonic influences. Impenetrable even against the combined efforts of himself and his senior who had centuries worth of infiltration experience, no matter how much he’d concentrated—redirecting the violent and rough flow of his Qi into something more finessed—he was unable to cross the boundary.

Luo Binghe had been stuck at an impasse. Breaching the barrier would require a much greater display of force, inflicting irreparable mental harm onto the dreamer.

He’d realized the barrier had to stay.

The passage of time was immeasurable in the world of dreams, but with every moment that had passed without the precious person inside revealing himself, the fear had mounted. Perhaps Shen Yuan had predicted such an incident would occur and had taken precautionary measures.

In hindsight, his action had indeed been too rash.

It was inevitable that they would be going their separate ways in the coming morning. Moreover, the last deep impression he’d leave behind would cast Luo Binghe in an extremely bad light, with Shen Yuan withdrawing back into seclusion and harboring a grudge for being taken advantage of. The opportunity would have slipped through Luo Binghe’s fingers like granules of sand.

All would be lost. Faced with the possibility of being abandoned, Luo Binghe had been inconsolable. The tension in the air around him had been so thick, it’d presented an oppressive miasma in his own dream realm.

The giant boulder which weighed down his heart vanished when, with the keen senses of a cultivator, his five senses had detected a ripple in the fog.

From faraway, he’d been spellbound. He’d seen a silhouette resembling that from legend, with the unattainable white moon that was Shen Yuan descending down from the stars which glistened like shards in the night.

Despite the offense, he had chosen to come to Luo Binghe from his own volition.

Another realization had struck Luo Binghe. Seeing the regal figure out of his immaculate finery—dressed down to his inner clothing and with his moonlit hair undone, without a headpiece in sight—was a rare sight beyond measure. Aside from the servants who tended to their master, no one else must have seen him in such a compromising state.

It’d also been fascinating observing how someone of the Nine Heavens would interact within his world; Shen Yuan had assimilated quickly. Wandering aimlessly in an unfamiliar environment, his appearance reminded Luo Binghe of the purest white snow, high above and unreachable, the likes of which remained untarnished. Such bearing was similar to what Luo Binghe expected for somebody of high status. Like a fairy unaffected by mortal matters, Shen Yuan’s manner had been aloof and vague. The only difference was that his attitude toward Luo Binghe had not been uncaring. Courtesy had been given, even knowing who he was—and what he’d done, and would be capable of doing.

There was no one who could deny Shen Yuan’s appearance was picturesque. When he was smiling, it was as moving as spring flowers and the autumn moon. When he was lost in thought, he projected an air of melancholy—solemn and ambiguous, like the subject of a painting one could only admire from a distance.

“…Xiōng dì.” A cultured and steady voice trickled into Luo Binghe’s awareness, pulling him from his deep reflection.

An invigorating energy suddenly blanketed him. All discomfort fled, replaced with the refreshing feeling of a spring brook engulfing him. Shen Yuan had fallen a step back so that they were now shoulder to shoulder.

Shen Yuan’s gaze was appraising as his breaths feathered the fur. “I had not expected you being here would be strenuous on you. Please take care of your body.” A hand went up to clasp him on the shoulder. “Endure the skinship. I think, for now, it’s better to stay close to me until you can stand on your own. You’ll be safer by my side.”

Luo Binghe inhaled sharply.

“Hoh. How considerate!” Meng Mo’s dryness filtered into his thoughts. “He treats you very well. Such goodwill. He certainly has a good heart.”

Stay out of this, Luo Binghe rebuked. You are not invited to take part in this conversation. Scram!

Replying in the affirmative though, he ducked his head. The hidden meaning of Shen Yuan’s words had not been lost on him. He simply hadn’t expected how protective Shen Yuan was of him.

In this lifetime, Luo Binghe would like to think he could recognize his shizun even if he turned into ashes—or took on a different appearance. Even the slow-witted were able to see that Shen Yuan was of different temperament, reminding Luo Binghe of the other “Shen Qingqiu” of the mirror world. This fortuneteller had a sincere and utterly honest personality, thoughtful and broadminded. Even when blood was shed, he didn’t condemn Luo Binghe.

This night was the first time they’d met, but it was undeniable that there was a flow to their conversations—as though they were not strangers but were, instead, dear friends reuniting. It was as if someone had seen the unfulfilled desires of his heart and had crafted him a companion to be compatible. Being with Shen Yuan felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Embracing him had felt natural.

Although he was a man, Shen Yuan had fit so perfectly in his arms. The firmness and strength of his body. Warm and solid. Alive and real. It hadn’t been the same as hugging a soft feminine figure but even now, Luo Binghe could recall how it’d felt folding him into his arms, at the simple pleasure of sharing body heat. Of inhaling his clean scent.

Being that close to him, the intimacy of such an act, had been so strangely powerful the connection between them had felt tangible.

Here was somebody meant to be unattainable and unreachable, whom mere mortals never would’ve had the fortune to meet unless they’d managed to ascend to the highest realm. Knowing that he was supposed to keep all divinity at a respectable distance made his awareness of what he was doing seem all the more enchanting.

There was no such thing as a string of coincidences. Luo Binghe held no illusion of what this really was; a second chance was being offered to him. Since they have finally encountered, it must have meant they were fated. Since fated, one must live up to the fate that the Heavens have bestowed.

(Cont.)

The rest can be read on AO3!

[wr1t3-my-wr0ngs]

Reaching Out

Codywan 4+1, Angst edition 

Four times Cody felt Obi-Wan reach out to the Clones mind with the force, and one time Obi-Wan felt it slip away. (Order 66)

Alright here is the thing I was working on last night. It has been spell checked and my grammar shouldn’t be too bad. In hindsight this isn’t as good as I thought it was at midnight, but ain’t that just the way writing works? Anyway, I hope y’all enjoy it just the same!

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

1- In battle

The first time it happened, Cody had more pressing things to worry about, such as staying alive. He was, after all, in the middle of a firefight.

He had lost sight of the General some time ago, the Jedi disappearing in the mess and confusion of battle. The droids were numerous, far more then what they had expected for this campaign and much harder to get rid of then usual.

He’s taking cover behind a pile of debris, most likely a piece of a ceiling if the decorative patterns, half covered by dust, are any indication when it happens.

It feels unlike anything he has experienced before, and it's only looking back after the event that he's able to put any words to it at all. Like the setting sun, all golden and warm, if it were made into a blanket brushing over something deep inside of him. As quickly as the feeling comes, it vanishes, leaving him feeling odd. It's as if on some fundamental level the inherent shape of him has changed, both bigger and smaller.

A blaster bolt slamming into the concrete of his makeshift cover mere inches from his head draws Cody back into the fight and soon enough the strange occurrence pushed aside in favor of returning fire. Whatever it was, it doesn't happen again, and by the time he once again gets eyes on his Jedi, Cody has forgotten all about it.

2- In the mess hall

The next time it happens, Cody is in the mess hall eating the morning meal. It's nothing special, but its also not ration bars, and is therefore an improvement on any number of meals he has had to choke down in his admittedly short life. All around him his men and brothers are starting their day as well, some shuffle in a half-awake state, desperate for the morning cup of caff, others chat amongst themselves.

Cody nearly chokes on his food when the strange warm feeling brushes up against and invades his mind. His eyes water and his breathing goes a bit funny as he tries to clear his airway, and Cody would be damned if the sunny feeling doesn't seem to change in response. It becomes sharper, more focused, and the feeling of being enveloped become more intense. Whatever it is, it almost feels... concerned?

Someone thumps him on the back, and Cody's airway clears. The concerned edge to the intrusion in his mind lingers for a moment until seeming to sigh in relief and relaxing, making one last pass around the edge of his consciousness, all golden and comforting, before pulling away.

"You alright, Vod?" Rex asks as he takes a seat next to the other clone.

"Yeah," the darker haired clone responds after a moment’s hesitation. "Yeah, I'm good."

3- On the bridge

The third time it happens, Cody curses. Loudly.

The ship is under attack yet again, and just once Cody would like it if they could get through a battle without any major damage. Luck, unfortunately, does not appear to be on his side as yet another blow strikes against their forward shields. The whole ship rocks, and Cody grabs onto the holo table for stability, his eyes never once leaving the projected display of the battle that rages around them.

The feeling slams into his mind with all the finesse of a rancor and the curse that comes out of his mouth turns several heads. Where before the feeling had always been one of a calm soothing nature, this time it rages like a burning frost. It screams warning and caution and to move, force help him, move.

His mind comes to a conclusion in an instant, trusting this strange sensation for reasons he can't fully articulate except that it feels safe and familiar.

"GET DOWN!"

Without his helmet he must rely on his own voice to reach the men around him, and the command bellows out with as much authority as Cody can muster. The men scramble to comply just as another, more powerful, blast slams into their deflector shields. This time the shields fail, and Cody's head collides with the edge of the table before him. It's funny, but as his vision slowly goes dark, Cody would swear he could hear General Kenobi calling his name.

4 - In Medical

Consiousness returns slowly. It takes a few seconds before the events of the battle catch up with him, and when they do, Codys eyes fly open as he tries to push himself into a sitting position.

Mistake, that was a mistake.

Pain assaults his head at both the movement and the harsh white lighting of the med bay. He closes his eyes with a groan and lowers himself back down onto his pillows, mentally telling himself that if someone needs him, they know where to find him.

"Cody?"

A warm hand on one of his own draws the clones attention away from the pounding in his skull and Cody opens his eyes, more cautiously this time, and although his eyes are slits, Cody easily makes out the familiar face of his General.

"How do you feel?"

The pain medication he is on has left his mouth painfully dry so takes a second before Cody can get his mouth to cooperate with him, and when he does his voice is raspy from disuse.

"M fine, sir. Head hurts a bit thats s'all"

His words slur slightly in a way that Cody knows means he both has a concussion. This time when the sunny feeling comes, it's gentle. Like a cool washcloth being placed on his forehead. The pain behind his eye’s eases, and the light doesn't feel as harsh as it did a second ago. Cody sighs in relief turning his head slightly as if that will allow him greater contact with the non-existent sensation.

The presence seems to laugh, and Cody is aware of Obi-Wan beside him huffing quietly with amusement.

Suddenly, things click into place.

"Oh,"

Beside him, Obi-Wan lifts an eyebrow.

"Are you sure you're alright Commander."

Between the head trauma and the painkillers, thinking is hard, and words are even harder, but for Obi-Wan, Cody tries. With his free hand, the clone points to his head, squinting against the bright light and doing his best to make eye contact with the Jedi beside him.

"That's you. I wondered."

And because his mouth is no longer obeying him, he whispers "Feels nice."

Cody could be imagining the slight blush that dusts the Jedi's cheeks at the admission, but he's too tired to truly care.

Now that he knows the strange sensation is actually his Jedi and not some side effect from brain trauma, Cody takes the time to properly assesses the force presence. There is something quintessentially Obi-Wan about the way it feels, something in the cool brightness that reminds him of the breeze on a summer day.

He is almost asleep when something occurs to him.

"You've been checking in on me."

That time on the battlefield when they had lost contact with each other, on the bridge in the last battle when Obi-Wan had practically screamed warning in his ear. Even, Cody realizes, that time in the mess hall. In all cases the Jedi was checking in, either to see how he was doing or to make sure he was still alive.

The blush that now decorates the Jedi's face is unmistakable. For the life of him Cody can't figure out if the embarrassment is from being found out, or if the act itself is what the Jedi finds cringeworthy.

"Ah, yes, well... I should actually apologize for that."

"It's alright, sir. It was startling at first but now that I know it's you..." Cody shrugs as best he can given his circumstances, "Just warn a guy first, yeah?"

+1 (ANGST) As a stranger (order 66)

Astride Boga, Obi-Wan feels something shift in the force. It's a familiar, if nauseating feeling, one that he associates with danger and trouble. While the battle had been going well, with Grievous dead and a good chunk of the firing out of the way, Obi-Wan had been hoping that taking the rest of the planet would be simple. What's worse is where the force is telling him trouble is coming from. Not further ahead in the canyon where scores of droids wait, but from behind him.

Without hesitation, the Jedi reaches out in the force, searching for the ever-steady signature of his Commander. It's difficult at this distance to pinpoint the clone he wants, but Obi-Wan pushes through until at last he finds the man he is looking for.

His bond with Cody is a as strong as any force bond can be when only one half of the pair is force sensitive. Its tenuous, chaotic at the best of times, but a constant in the Jedi’s mind. It should be easy enough to reach out and check in on his commander, but something is resisting Obi-wan.

When he does find him, Obi-wan examines the force signature for any signs of distress and finds nothing. The clone feels like the warmth of sun baked earth with a touch of the sea, free from the sour tinge of injury. His relief at finding Cody alive and unharmed is short lived, as the clones force presence is violently shut away behind a durasteel mental shield. It’s as if everything that makes Cody unique is drained away by a strong vortex. What is left behind is hardly recognizable as the Commander.

He has just enough time for dread to fill him before the first canon blast slams into the stone next to him. Boga startles, and that more than anything spurs him into action. He spares one backward glance at where his men stand, flanking the canons. As he fly's away, the tattered mental bond echoes back a single phrase.

Execute Order Sixty-Six, six, six...