#This had been fermenting in my wips for a while

[entomolog-t]

Aedes has two moods:

1 - oh no big scary woman 😰😖😫

2 - oh yes big scary woman 😏😍😋

Aedes pullin' an absolute baddie with that Scared-lil-guy rizz

[a-little-unsteddie]

rot, ferment & decompose?

this is a continuation/expansion upon the strawberries & lemonade ficlet i posted for steddiemicrofic in uhhh september? i cannot remember off the top of my head BUT it’s got witch!steve and commoner!eddie, and i’ve accidentally put a lot of lore into it.

eddie goes to steve for help because his uncle is sick and then i want to focus on steve sensing some fuckshit happening w his magic, and the story follows as eddie and steve get closer while steve figures out exactly what is wrong with the magic

i’ve had issues with figuring out how i’m starting it but!! here is a tiny snippet of what i have.

—

There’s a darkness that has been surrounding the small village of Hawkins for as long as Steve can remember. It’s been creeping closer and closer every month, tendrils reaching out and brushing against the edge of the village. He knows it’s touched some people, can see it as it winds around their throats and into their mouths. He can see it in the darkest corners of every building, shivers as they try to slip through the protective charms he wears.

—

WIP Game!

[imogenkol]

— WIP WHENEVER

tagged by the lovely @adelaidedrubman 💕

no pressure tags: @marivenah @jillvalentinesday @sstewyhosseini @florbelles @socially-awkward-skeleton @voidika @corvosattano @jackiesarch @shegetsburned @unholymilf @inafieldofdaisies @jinfromyarikawa @kyber-infinitygems @simonxriley @aceghosts @shallow-gravy @shellibisshe @theelderhazelnut @roofgeese + anyone else who wants to!

Imogen’s love language is acts of service and all she knows how to do is maim kill torture etc :/

Imogen found her leaning against a lonely balcony, drink held loosely in her restless fingers as it sat precariously on the edge of the railing. Bix quietly stared up at the expanse of stars above them. A few smaller pinpricks of light drifted this way and that, some even blinking out of sight all together. Imogen used to watch the sky on Coruscant as a youngling, where the amount of ships in the atmosphere seemed to outnumber the systems mapped in the archives. On a mission with her master, she had encountered certain insects that gave off a glow during the night as they fluttered about. They reminded her of the countless ships and stars, so small and far away that they could very well be those little creatures.

She came up beside Bix and watched her for a moment. The mechanic must have sensed her presence, but she continued to stare upwards with the corners of her mouth slightly downturned. “Are you troubled, my love?”

Bix tilted her head towards the sound of her voice. While she did not look Imogen in the eye, her gaze landed on where the bounty hunter’s hands rested on the railing. Bix took one of those hands in both of hers and lightly caressed across the contours of her knuckles and all the way up the length of her fingers. Imogen felt her heart flutter just as those tiny insects’ wings had.

“What is it like to have all that power at the tips of your fingers?”

Imogen felt it was a strange question to receive from Bix, but she answered honestly. “It is reassuring. To know that I will never be completely helpless.”

The mechanic nodded bitterly, her jaw twitching. “I bet it is.”

“What is bothering you?” Imogen asked again, reaching out with her free hand to brush her thumb across the other woman’s cheek. It did not lessen the tightness of her jaw, but Bix released a shallow breath.

“I’ve been dreaming about it again.” She still wouldn’t look at her. “Being in the hotel. I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Gorst is gone.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t just Gorst. There was that woman from the ISB. Gorst was just an instrument and she’s the conductor.” Bix released Imogen’s hand and took a quick swig from her cup. Filled with some sort of spirit, no doubt. Imogen could smell the sweet aroma of some sort of fermented fruit. “Now she’s out there doing the same thing over and over to who knows how many people.”

All this time, Imogen struggled to find solutions for Bix’s suffering. No matter how many nights she offered her comfort or times she stepped in for her basic needs, it never seemed like enough. Bix would still struggle to sleep. She would still have days where her mind became a prison that kept her away. Sure, Imogen had rescued her from Ferrix, but that felt like the only real act of service that made any difference. Until now.

Now, Imogen had something of value to offer.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Imogen said in a measured tone as she took the mechanic’s face in her hands and firmly locked their gazes together. “If you wish it, I will hunt that woman down and deliver her to you. Then I will do whatever it is you ask of me until you are satisfied.”

Bix searched her eyes with an intensity until the full meaning of Imogen’s words finally settled within her, darkening her expression. “You’d do to her what was done to me.”

“I will do worse,” Imogen replied coldly.

There it lay. Slumbering just underneath the surface and now awake once more. The darkness. Imogen had not forgotten it was inside of her, but it had been quite a while since she gave in. Bix had yet to truly witness the utter malice within her lover, but she yet again did not flinch away from gazing directly at the calm, focused predator that Imogen Kol used to be – has always been.

In fact, something unexpected sparkled in Bix’s eye as her hands squeezed Imogen’s forearms. “And what happens after?”

“The Rebellion may have her. If there is anything left,” she answered nonchalantly. Before Bix could be overwhelmed by the weight of what was offered, Imogen calmly added “The decision is yours.”

But was that true? Would Imogen be able to stay her hand if Bix refused? The promise of a hunt worth her while spurred the temptation to spill blood. Imogen certainly hadn’t gotten the proper time with Gorst that she would have preferred. She wanted to make this ISB woman hurt like none other. She wanted her to feel the lifetime of torment that Bix would have to endure. She wanted to hear her pleas for death and never grant her that wish. More than anything else, she wanted to gift her beloved the control that had been ripped away from her by presenting a shattered version of the being that was responsible.

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

wip wednesday

Double tagged by @walkinginland and @theawkwardterrier​ - thank you, lovelies! 💕

I am rather unfortunately struggling with Beside the Seaside at the moment and the only bits I have written are either too spoilery or not all that interested to share, so how about a tbbfiy wip update? I feel like I have been teasing this one for forever and still making very slow progress while I’m focusing primarily on Seaside, but it is progress: 

Jamie sought them out first, finding her and Brianna in the small parlor. She could see the question in his gaze as he bent to give her a kiss, but she found herself distracted before she could answer, overwhelmed with the scent of wine that had seeped into Jamie’s clothes from his hours of working on the fermentation process. “Oh you smell good.” She gripped the front of his shirt before he could straighten back up and pulled him back for another kiss. “You taste good too.” Though that was likely due to his wine with dinner, she reasoned. 

“Claire,” he said with a choked laugh, and she realized she was still holding him captive, sampling the hint of wine from his lips, though he kissed her back just as greedily before she released him. 

“Your fault,” she murmured, glancing to make sure no one else had joined them. “You know I can’t have wine and you come in here smelling and tasting like that.” 

He looked altogether a little too pleased with himself, and her heart tumbled in her chest. She sent out a fervent hope to the universe that this one — this child — would arrive safely into their lives in seven months’ time, so that he or she could know the da so filled with joy at even the mere mention of them. 

Very sincerely mean it when I say if you want to do this challenge, please consider yourself tagged by me! I’m not sure who is working on stuff right now, but would love to see whatever my fellow fic writers want to share from their wips! 🥰

[dreamwatch]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you to @occasionaloverboy for the tag!

So I got tagged in one of these before but had barely written anything, but this time I thought ‘fuck it’, I have some words down now.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Zero! Hoping to fix that soon.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

Zero, please see above.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Stranger Things.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Okay, so as before, no kudos. I do have some drabbles over here and the first one got over 500 likes which still boggles my little mind.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! Because holy shit you, a human I do not know, read my stupid little thing and left me a comment and it made me happy.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I’m not counting prompts because they’re all kind of short, vignetty kind of stuff, and I haven’t finished any of my long fic. Off the top off my head, I would say none have terrible endings planned, though one is definitely pushing it. I also am in super duper early stages of planning a Vietnam AU, and I can’t see that having the happiest ending.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Like I say, so far none ended. I think the one that is likely to have the happiest ending is the Steve and Eddie in the 90s one, as it’s kind of a romance I think?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Well so far it’s just been ficlets and drabbles on tumblr and people have been very sweet. I’m a little scared if the prison fic sees the light of day because it’s got heavy shit going on and critical thinking is sorely lacking these days. So… hopefully not?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

So far no. Honestly? I can’t ever even imagine it. And that’s becoming a struggle I’ve recently identified in my WIPs because there’s only so many chaste kisses you can let boys have before someone says ‘bUt wH3n ArE tHeY g0nNa fUCk!?’. In my fics, probably off screen, in the comfort of a bedroom or van and I shall avert my eyes while they do.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Nope. Hate ‘em.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not as far as I know. Why do people do that? Don’t do that.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No. I’m always intrigued by how people write a fic together? If you do that tell me now? I’m curious.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

To quote Miss Erica Sinclair, you really have to ask? Steddie. It will always be Steddie.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Pffft… I mean, all of them? But if I had to pick one, there was one I started and it was my first ever, and it was my take on a recovery fic. And there’s still stuff I like about it, things I had planned for it that I haven’t seen in other similar (aftermath/recovery) stories but I’ve got so caught up with other fics that have a more interesting premise.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I mean… good question, who knows? I’m a contrarian, you show me 100 fics that all do X and I’ll write Y just to spite everyone. More deeply that that, I honestly don’t know.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Oh god so many. I’m ok-ish with dialogue, but shitty with describing what’s going on around it. My pacing isn’t great, I either go into way too much detail or no where near enough. I rarely find the sweet spot. I don’t have the most extensive or imaginative vocabulary, and while I’m not one for overly flowery prose, I would still like the language to be able to communicate imagery and emotion better.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I’ve never done it, I would be worried about it. Nothing more embarrassing than writing an emotional death scene in Icelandic only to be told by a native speaker you ordered three plates of fermented shark.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

The A Team, TV not the film. Fuck the film.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Of course none of them are finished, but up until now Like A Stone, aka depressed Eddie gets stuck working in the plant with Wayne and nearly everyone has moved away. It took me by surprise in August and I blasted 30k words in one month, and it’s been left ever since. But I need to pick it up again.

No pressure tags, and also if you’ve already done this sorry!

@cchapsticck @devilyouwere @hbyrde36 @farahsamboolents @thisapplepielife

[kuiilandtorch]

For the Author Commentary, a few snippets, all from A different kind of blood! (One from each chapter instead of a huge slug :P)

ch 1 Finishing his ministrations, Luke wiped the sticky, pungent residue of bacta from his hands and stowed the supplies back into the medkit.  Placing it back into his bag, he pulled out the canteen of water and considered how to compose his next offer, since all he had to go on were assumptions drawn from Grogu’s memories and the context of their parting on the cruiser.  In all of Grogu’s experiences, at least the ones he’d imparted to Luke, the Mandalorian had always worn his helmet, even on occasions where other parts of his armor were removed.  The fact that Grogu had asked to see his father’s face before leaving with Luke meant that he had never seen it. The Mandalorian’s decision to grant his son’s request had likely been as sacrificial as his choice to surrender him to Luke. Just for once…let me look on you with my own eyes. And Luke hadn’t turned away from it then, too caught up in his own memories and fighting to wrestle them under control, lest he show weakness at a crucial moment. ch 2 He’d promised Grogu he’d see him again, and while knowing it was at best a placating lie to comfort the child, perhaps one he’d forget if enough time passed, Din did not give his word lightly.  That was one thread he could grasp.  He’d thrown away his honor for the life of his foundling, and no matter how deeply the Creed was etched into his mind and spirit, somehow he could not imagine a universe in which it mattered more than that. ch 3 Grogu squealed with glee and made grabby hands for the canister, and Luke sighed in amusement.  “I guess Yoda didn’t have bad taste because he lived in a swamp, he just had bad taste.”  That you share, kiddo, he thought, but charitably kept that to himself.  He supposed he was one to talk — he thought womp rat tasted just fine in Aunt Beru’s stew, but he knew people outside Tatooine would be disgusted.  “We should probably take this outside so we don’t stink it up in here.”  He could see now, peering down into the canister, that it held some kind of fermented fish, which explained the intense odor. Sitting out on the walkway, Luke settled for some more of his own jerky, though the reeking fish had stolen any appetite he might have had.  He only kept up appearances so that Grogu wouldn’t be distracted from enjoying his meal.  The child tucked into the canister with gusto, digging his claws into the fishmeal, and Luke hoped he wouldn’t get it onto his smock, though he knew he probably wouldn’t be that lucky.  Unless Luke successfully managed to clean him up in whatever facilities were available in the room given to them, Din was going to have a very noxious son on his hands. “Did you know I went nineteen years without ever tasting fish?” Luke said, just to make idle conversation.  “The first time I ever tried some, I couldn’t get enough.  It was like the first time I’d seen rain and puddles of water after growing up in the desert where there was nothing but sand everywhere.”

OK- *rolling up sleeves*

Ch. 1: I will forever foam at the mouth at all the missed opportunities in the S2 finale, and the fact that we have to imply them ourselves. Like, don't even think about the crack shipping for a second, THEY MADE MR. STAR WAR HIMSELF STAND IN FRONT OF A GUY TAKING HIS HELMET OFF FOR HIS KID, SHARING THIS BLATANTLY EMOTIONAL MOMENT, AND YOU EXPECT ME TO BUY THAT HE TOOK THAT WITH A DEAD-INSIDE STRAIGHT CGI FACE?????????

That was the biggest, most painfully obvious parallel and all jokes aside, it would not have stolen the thunder from Din and Grogu connecting and it would have only enriched the moment to take a second to show Luke's facade cracking to show the haunted, bittersweet joy and grief you know he had to have been feeling witnessing this. No matter how many versions of this scene I rewrite into different WIPs, I always have to include this framing because it's essential and inescapable to me. Luke survived and the galaxy was saved because his father ultimately chose selfless love, and he saw that beauty again; he was inadvertently included in this extremely intimate, powerful moment and it's such a profound honor. And he had to hold himself together because he knew this guy giving up his kid was devastated enough, he didn't need the stranger he was trusting with Grogu to fall apart too. (At least, that's what he tells himself.)

That's really the driving motivation Luke has to do what he does for Din in this story - yes, he wants to be a compassionate Jedi, but like his father, Luke holds strong loyalty and love for specific people, and while he wouldn't or doesn't want to name it as such at this time, Luke already loves this man on a soul-deep level for being a selfless father to this traumatized child, even if he knows nothing about him, and if he can show kindness to him in any small way, he'll do it. He wants Din to feel appreciated for everything he had to go through and give up.

Ch. 2: ok here's the thing-

I get the face-value notion that when Din said those words, he really was determined to see Grogu again. For me personally, I think something very very important about the S2 finale - removed from anything that came afterwards - is viewing it through the lens of Din and Grogu mutually agreeing they need to separate for their own good, no matter how painful it is. Yes, we see Grogu being sad and clinging to Din's leg, but he's a kid, it's understandable, yet he's showing great maturity in being willing and ready to leave with the Jedi. He's the one who urges Din to let in whoever's on the other side of the blast doors. He's the one who mentally informs Luke that he wants Din's permission, not that he's resisting departure. And as badly as Din's heart is breaking, I think the pragmatist in him would be accepting the fact that this was likely the last time he'd ever see Grogu. He would at least be preparing himself for that. It was literally his quest: return the kid to his "kind," and then it's over.

Din is absolutely a man of honor who does his best to keep his word, and if somehow, some way later on he'd get the chance to reunite with Grogu, he wouldn't turn away from it. But I took the view that Din said that more as a reassurance to help Grogu feel better about leaving than anything else. That moment was about Grogu, that was the entire reason for him putting the final nail in the coffin of his creed and taking his helmet off right there, to grant the kid a parting gift of love and respect for his wish. Din realized and accepted that he loved Grogu more than his own soul, regardless of the fact that his own creed does hold children in the utmost importance. If he saw any contradiction in his principles, he was going to fall on the side of preserving an innocent life no matter what the cost, fuck himself and everything else.

But that's why Din was crying in that scene. He felt this was goodbye. He'd fulfilled his obligation, and it was tearing him apart, but this was what needed to happen, this was what was best for Grogu. The kid was still so little; he thought maybe, eventually, if he was content wherever he was, Din would just fade to a blip in his life and Grogu would move on to better things, and that would have to be okay.

The other parallel I don't see talked about nearly as much in this scene is that Din is Shmi Skywalker. Din is ripping his heart out of his chest and handing it over to a Jedi, and being as brave and reassuring as possible to his son to see him walk towards a more promising future, away from strife and misery.

Ch. 3: I COULDN'T NOT GIVE MANDALORIANS SPACE SURSTRÖMMING >:D

And look, for the record, I fall squarely in the "Luke is domestic enough to be functional in a rural capacity because you can't exist on a farm and not know basic useful life skills along with farm chores" camp. No, he's no chef, but he can skin and dress a varmint like nobody's business and make a decent stew and cheese because he wants to keep his aunt's memory alive. No, he's not much of a fashionista and he couldn't make couture, but he sure as fuck knows how to mend shit to keep it going and sew some basic patterns. He's fond of his fair share of pickled and fermented and dried and heavily spiced foods from back home, but nothing on Tatooine can touch Mando space surströmming, that's for sure. XD

I love to showcase Luke idly telling Grogu silly anecdotes about himself and trying to inject some fun into Jedi teaching because he just wants to make this kid happy, and it buoys him to see Grogu being happy at whatever, even if it's super stinky fish.

[ghostxofxartemis]

For your WIP ask, how about Foundations, D&D Night, and/or Kaidan's POV?

Thank you for asking! Okay, so regarding Foundations. It suppose to go in depth of Alexandra's first few days at Grissom Academy. It takes place after the fic "When Biotic Flares". Alex's biotic manifest during a game of chest with her father, her brother, and Traynor. This breaks John and Ashley's heart because they have to do the hard decision to register their daughter to GA to learn how to control them, since neither are biotics themselves. Alex has spend most of her life on the Normandy and at the apartment on The Citadel, she's been home schooled until then.

Foundations is her learning new ropes, learning to navigate a big school with so many unknowns and feeling abandoned. It's also where she meets her best friend, and later on boyfriend.

It's basically, a young girl trying to learn about who she is, and who she'll become. But it's also about to people who set the foundation for a strong loving relationship down the road.

Alexandra sat at one of the tables in Grissom Academy’s cafeteria. Her head rested on her hand while she poked her food around with her fork. Her hair fell forward, framing her face. It’d only been three days since the Normandy dropped her off. She'd been furious at her father. When her biotic abilities manifested just mere six days ago, he had said he still loved her, but instead he dropped her off here. In a school for "special kids" in the middle of space where she couldn't run away.

He never directly said "special kids," in fact he called it a prestige school for kids with high intellect, special talents - like biotics -, a school where they can focus on said talents. He was right of course, he always is, but she wasn't ready to admit that just yet. She had to play the part of being a furious daughter. It was hard when she's always been a daddy's girl. Not to say she wasn't close to her mother, they were extremely close, but she'd grown a special bond with her father.

Her mother had explained the same thing to her in extension that she wouldn't be all alone, Jack, a good friend of her father's, someone who Alex liked, would be there to look after her.

It was taking her some time to adjust to this new environment. She’d been so used to living in a frigate where she knew everyone, it was overwhelming to see so many new people. She missed being homeschooled.

She was deep in thought, completely unaware of her surroundings when she felt the air change slightly around her.

"Hey, is this seat taken?" A boy asked her.

She looked up to see a boy with beautiful forest green eyes looking at her. He had a wide grin on his face. His hair normally well groomed was mussed up.

She shook her head and he took the seat opposite of her, placing his tray on the table in front of him. He picked his apple and started playing around with it.

"You're new here aren't you? You're in my english class," he asked.

Alex nodded but said nothing.

"Where're you from?" He asked with a hint of English accent.

"Space."

D&D Night. So, while docked at The Citadel for shoreleave, Traynor finds an old D&D game and brings aboard the ship when they return from leave. Now, at this point, I think Alex is 15-16 ish, the family have their set routine while on the Normandy, and Thursday nights are game night (Friday Nights are movie night). So While John's packing away some extra rations because the kids are on board for summer vacation, Traynor tell him she found a D&D game. John's super excited because the last time he played, he was 12 ish, just before shit hits the fan for him and he ends up in the reds, and not willingly. I didn't get very far with it other than:

If there was one thing that Alexandra looked forward to the most, it was Summer Breaks from school. They weren't a typical summer break like her fellow colleagues experienced; the stay at home, summer camps, or going to the beach kind of summer. But it didn’t make her summer breaks any less interesting.

She normally spent about two to three weeks at home on the Citadel, where she spent a lot of her time with one of her best friends, Lauren, during those weeks. From time to time she’d spend a week at grandma Williams, however for the rest of the summer break, she found herself aboard on the Normandy. She may get summer vacations, but her parents didn’t.

Alex stood in the elevator car next her father, both carrying bags of provisions in their hands. She shifted on her feet, readjusting the bags in her hands.

“Do we really need this much food for three weeks?” She complained.

John quirked an eyebrow, “what’s the longest you’ve gone between meals?” he asked her, answering her question with a question.

Alex huffed, rolling her eyes.

The door opened and they stepped out and made their way to the galley in the mess.

“Hmmm, forty-five minutes? Maybe. I don’t know,” grunting, she hefted the bag onto the counter. Her stomach grumbled loudly. She searched in the bags until she found the box of protein bars, tore it open, and grabbed a bar. She grabbed her bottle of fermented tea, untwisted the cap, gulped down a fair amount of the tea as she sat down on the bench.

John chuckled, as he unpacked the provisions, storing them away, “My point is, we’re going to run out of fresh food before the end of the three weeks is up and have to use the military provisions the way you eat non-stop,” he said as he threw her one of the military provision packed packaged as point.

“Ow,” she flinched and grumbled, spilling a bit of her drink on her shirt as she got hit from the package. She pulled at the shirt to look at the damp spot, “awww.”

"Great, a quantum computer as a dungeon guild master.. what could possibly go wrong?" Joker snorts sarcastically.

Now, I have EDI still alive in this universe, cause I yeet canon and she was saveable, and at some point she interjects she wants to be the dungeon master. Everyone is silent for a moment and suddenly Joker, with his sarcastic witty humour, says:

"Great, a quantum computer as a dungeon guild master.. what could possibly go wrong?" Joker snorts sarcastically.

So there you have it. That's foundation and D&D. I do plan on finishing Foundations at some point, but I'm not sure about D&D. I just had Joker's voice in my head for a split second and I wrote that.

[tungstenb]

WIP Weekend Whenever

Tagged by @rpgwarrior4824, @ljandersen, @natsora, and @inquartata30. Thanks for the mentions, everyone!

Inq and Nat asked for fluff, so that's what I'm gonna try. I don't think my writing style is suited for fluff. But! An attempt was made. ^_-

I'm planning a bit of an intermission between SAtS and BODS — a series of vignettes from the trip to Thessia first referenced in "Cardamom and Cloves" — so here's a snippet from that (~2,500 words).

Enjoy!

Thessia: Day 2

Something's wrong.

It wasn't so much a thought but a feeling, an instinct. A surge of adrenaline to rouse her from sleep, to tense her slack muscles and propel her to act. One short intake of breath and she shot upright. Eyes keen. Mind ready.

Stillness. Early dawn.

Not wrong, only different. She'd forgotten.

Armali.

Shepard sank back down onto the plush bed, her sigh lost in the breeze rumbling with the crashing surf. Beyond the vast bedroom windows and billowing sheer curtains, new light tinted the scenery outside in a cool muted grayscale, the sky dilutely inky, the ocean mercurial, the scattered islands and jutting rock formations awaiting the colors of day, just beginning to come to life with swaying trees and flocks of birds. She sighed again. Allowed the last of her hypervigilance to bleed away. And as she shifted, turning to her left, she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips.

Beside her, Liara slept soundly, facing away, curled up comfortably under a drape of sheets. The relaxed curve of her shoulder rose and fell slightly with her steady breathing, the gentle sheen of microscales still somehow catching the dim early light. She glowed, even in the gray.

Shaking her head, Shepard barely suppressed a quiet breathy laugh, all amazement and relief and disbelief. She never thought she could have this. Never thought her heart could feel so full. She reached out, stopping just short of running her knuckles gently over Liara's arm, or sweeping the fallen strap of her nightgown back up over her shoulder.

She wouldn't wake her.

Hand sinking into the pillowy mattress, Shepard propped herself up and swung her legs over the bed, taking a deep breath, rolling out the residual soreness and tension in her shoulders, stretching her neck, massaging her bad leg. She stood. Breathed. Stretched again. The woven rugs were soft beneath her feet and the stonework cool as she made her way to the kitchen. Priority: coffee. Leave it to the asari to perfect the tech even for that. She hummed as she scooped the fragrant grounds into the machine, tapping a few buttons to start it brewing.

By habit she brought up her omni-tool before remembering she'd decided to ditch her usual early-morning reading for the week, her daily newsfeeds and all but the highest-priority messages muted, their pinned widgets grayed-out and transparent on her homepage. She clicked her tongue over the whirring and dribbling of the coffee maker, then wandered to the refrigerator, idly appraising its contents.

The rental house had been stocked with essentials before their arrival — maybe standard Armalian fare, maybe items a bit more suited to human tastes, maybe things Liara had requested specifically, Shepard couldn't be sure. Two large glass bottles, one green juice, the other milk (or something milk-adjacent). A variety of eggs cradled in a basket, some small and pastel, some larger, textured and mottled with bluish spots. A package of dense, doughy bread, sliced, cylindrical in shape. Small blocks of what appeared to be cheese, or butter, or another sort of cultured or aged dairy product, wrapped in decorated waxy paper. Assorted vegetables in crisper compartments. A bowl of shiny berries. A jar of… whatever the hell. She grabbed it, unscrewed the top, took a whiff. Fishy.

Best wait for Liara to wake before attempting to cook. Bit out of her element, at least with these ingredients. Chances were she'd fuck it up, Liara would wake up laughing at her and her sad burnt breakfast lump, and they'd have to go out to eat. And maybe Liara'd prefer to go out anyway, head to a quaint little cafe on the waterfront that starched its cloth napkins and served fancy drinks with like, olives and celery sticks or whatever the garnish for socially acceptable breakfast/brunch booze was here. Probably best to defer to her judgment; this was her home, after all. But she could, at the very least, have tea ready for her when she woke.

Taking the milk-like bottle and setting it on the counter, she readied and leveled her translation overlay. Tapped for an audio sample. Melikhratun, said a silvery voice in her earpiece. She poured some in a glass and tasted it. It was reminiscent of melted vanilla ice cream, even in thickness, and it coated the interior of the glass. Kinda weird, oddly tasty. She shrugged and set the glass aside, skimming through the article.

Melikhratun: a sweet liquid cream/yogurt made from haavi milk, rich in… well, everything. Fat, sugar, protein, vitamins, sometimes probiotics; eezo content variable, generally ranging from 0.5 to 5.0 ppm, depending on livestock origin and feed. Ideal for the energy needs of those who make ample use of biotics. Many regional versions, cultured and uncultured, in a multitude of flavors, some seasonal, some staples, some festive varieties only making brief appearances for annual holidays, most notably porfuranq flavor, for Janiris. Either drunk straight, used in recipes, mixed with other beverages — and essential for serving arwamaasi, a tea made famous in Serrice.

She tapped the link to arwamaasi, the article popping up beside the one for melikhratun, humming a tune as she shuffled over to the pantry.

Arwamaasi, arwamaasi… that one also sounded familiar.

The hinge squeaked as she opened the pantry door, and she turned. In the sliver of the bedroom still visible from the kitchen, she found Liara still sleeping soundly, face serene, arm relaxed resting before her. Thankfully undisturbed by the squeal of oxidized hardware needing oiling — constant humidity and salty sea air would do that. With a quiet breathy chuckle — and a mental note to tend to it later — she turned back to her search.

Translation overlay active she scanned the labels, looking for a match among the tins and boxes and jars lining the shelves. The pantry was well-stocked — nonperishables left by previous guests — and she scanned over the bubbles of transliterated text that popped up in real-time.

Arwamaasi, arwamaasi, arwamaasi, she repeated, silently. Liara had said the word before, back on the Normandy, the syllables rolling off her tongue as sweetly as the scent of spice that permeated the air and lingered on her lips after she'd drunk cup after cup, counting on the kick of caffeine to keep her awake and alert long after staring at her terminal had strained her eyes and made her mind weary.

"It's just not the same without melikhratun," she'd explained to Shepard, but assured her she enjoyed it even without the rich, sweet Thessian dairy product. Not practical to keep it aboard: perishable, spendy, difficult to acquire without eezo contamination. I'll see what I can do, regardless, Shepard had thought. Errands on the Citadel. What's that stuff called again? Alone, she'd detoured on Tayseri Ward and ordered coffee from an asari-owned cafe, hoping to jog her memory. Thought to ask for something nice to put in tea, a specific kind of tea, what's-it-called? Stopped. No, just the coffee. But… god, no. The gesture would be too forward. Her omni-tool chimed as she finalized the transaction and rocked, agitated, on her heels.

Pull yourself together.

It had ached, hurt like hell back then. Soft freckled cheeks and supple lips and spiced tea and she'd punched the Normandy's elevator console just a bit too hard, because it wasn't right, all these impure thoughts she couldn't shake, but what could she do but go run on the treadmill for half an hour and blow off that steam and longing and frustration because fuck, Liara had to know what she was doing to her when she talked so smart and sucked on her teeth and licked her lips and smiled like that.

No fucking way in hell should she even think about making the first move.

But if Shepard swiveled to her left — and she did, then — there, only meters away, Liara slept, that placid comfort clear on her face in the early light, and that sight ached too, but it ached so good. Warm and full and perfect and — god, how did she get so lucky? Bouncing on her heels, she quietly hummed while her nose and her eyes crinkled in a grin she couldn't fight, and she shook her head, scoffing in disbelief.

Shepard turned back toward the pantry, peering through the hovering transparency over her forearm. And a match. She waved the translation app away, tin in hand, flicking back to the article.

Arwamaasi: developed by tea artisans in Serrice. Made with leaves soaked in concentrated spices, then expertly woven into packed shapes designed to bloom when steeped; then fermented, where they grow in pungency; and then aged, where they condense into pellets as they dessicate. High in caffeine, this tea is treasured for its distinctive flavor, heightened with the addition of melikhratun.

Making it would be simple enough, and she collected the rest of what she needed — the melikhratun already sitting out — and switched the electric kettle on. The dry, compact tea pellets rattled in the tin as she pried off the top, then stuck her nose inside. Sniffed once and pulled back at the pungent sting. Punchy. Smells like a concussion but probably tastes real good. Gingerly, she plopped a pellet into a glass teapot.

Shepard poured a mug of coffee and drank, leaning against the counter as the tea kettle heated. It was good coffee. Really good, actually. Even better in the quiet, with the gentle humid air, the soothing rhythmic crash of the waves, the incredible view. She smiled, eyes lingering on Liara, still fast asleep —

The kettle beeped shrilly and Shepard spun to turn it off, shushing and admonishing it for its disruption, and quickly poured the boiling water into the glass teapot while sneaking glances toward the bedroom.

Stupid noisy thing. Hopefully it didn't — nope, still sleeping.

The packed cluster in the teapot unfurled lazily like some sort of sea creature, releasing amber swirls as its delicate leafy arms swayed in the steaming water. Shepard sipped at her coffee, waiting for the tea to finish steeping, tapping her fingers against the countertop as she sang soundlessly. She topped off her own mug before finishing Liara's tea preparation.

Coffee in one hand, tea in the other, she returned to the bedroom, setting the tea cup down on the nightstand. And as she lingered there, smiling, the sweet scent of arwamaasi spices wafted on the humid breeze. She leaned over, kissing Liara lightly on the cheek. When she pulled back, though Liara's eyes remained closed, a sleepy smile warmed her face.

⁂

Something warm and sweet tinged Liara's fading dreams. She stirred. Yawned. Stretched, breathing deeply as she sat upright, spilling out of a loose cocoon of soft sheets. Before her, on the nightstand, was the steaming source of that familiar scent, sweetly spicy and full as it mingled with the fresh air and tickled her nose. She picked up the cup and swiveled to look behind her.

Unsurprisingly, Shepard's absence on the bed meant she was out on the balcony. There, she sat, ankle on the opposite knee, coffee in hand, staring out at the ocean.

For a moment Liara just waited, watching her, one leg tucked up on the bed as she drank her tea. She'd never seen her look so relaxed. Never had her heart felt so full.

Eventually she slid off the bed, greeting Shepard with a light brush of her hand on her shoulder and a playful tousle of her hair.

"Mornin'. How's the tea?" she asked, scooting over in her chair to make room.

"Perfect." Liara sat, their shoulders brushing.

They didn't speak for some time, Shepard resting her head on Liara's shoulder, both watching the birds and boats and waves as the sky continued to lighten and the comfort of closeness was enough. Shepard set her mug on the table first, hopping off the chair and heading down the balcony stairs before Liara could ask where she was going. Reluctantly, setting aside her own tea, she followed.

The bottom tier, at water level, served as a dock. As Shepard leaned against the partial railing, taking in the scenery, Liara nestled up beside her. "Did you see something?" she asked.

"Something?" Shepard scoffed in amazement. Gazed back out at the ocean. "Everything," she said, awed.

Liara only chuckled softly in response, the warming breeze tickling her crest and her affection leaving her speechless. Pausing, she traced the curve of Shepard's cheek, her skin soft and slightly — as she'd recently learned to say — peach-fuzzy. "What did you want to do today?"

"That's such an open-ended question." She took Liara's hand and cupped it in both her own, running her thumb over her knuckles. "Dunno. This's your home. Anything. Surprise me. I'll even close my eyes the whole way there, if you want."

Liara shook her head, amused. "I would be willing to wager a significant credit sum that you couldn't manage to keep your eyes off me for a minute," she teased.

"Oho. Oh. One whole minute."

"An entire minute." Liara smirked. Lowered her hand from her grasp. "Okay. Let's practice."

"Okay." Shepard's gaze was unwavering as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, hands at her sides.

"I'm starting a timer," Liara warned, and brought up her 'tool.

Shepard closed her eyes, the hint of her smile still there, as she took Liara's hands in her own.

Hands occupied as they were, Liara couldn't reach out and cup Shepard's cheek, run her fingertip over the scar on her brow, trace the stubbly texture of the buzzed hairs on the sides of her head. But she could, in this moment, lean forward and kiss her.

"Five seconds," Liara announced smugly, pulling away.

"Hey — uh, no!" Shepard sputtered. "Sabotage. Doesn't count."

Liara flicked up her brows. "Try again, then?"

"I have a feeling by 'try again' you mean — ahhh…"

Liara kissed her again, pulling her close. Suddenly, she gasped and staggered back — and not because Shepard's fingertips had found pressure along the ridges on her spine.

A trio of maidens skipped by on a motorized skiff, squealing and hollering their delight at the show while triumphantly waving protective hats and fishing gear. Liara clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Shepard, shoulders rocking with silent laughter, cleared her throat. "Uh, where were we?"

"Day plans," Liara said, removing her hand from her mouth just enough to speak.

Shepard continued to rock with laughter. "Right," she deadpanned.

"Hmm." Liara gazed upward, sucking on the inside of her cheek as she thought. Looked back to Shepard, raising her brows. "Armali Natural History Museum?"

"Oh shit, dinosaurs!"

"Excuse me?"

Shepard, expectantly wide-eyed, mouth excitedly open, burst into actual laughter.

"Is that a 'yes' or a 'no'?" Liara pressed.

"It's a 'whatever you want to do today, Li.'"

"Petraaa."

That earned Liara a nose-wrinkle. "Nobody calls me that."

Liara tapped the end of Shepard's nose and shrugged, grinning. "I do."

"At the very least," Shepard said, playfully swatting the arm attached to Liara's nose-bopping-hand away, "we should talk breakfast first." She took Liara in her arm, pulled her close, kissed her shoulder. "There's some weird-ass eggs in the fridge if you know how to cook those. Or we could eat out… hey, why are you looking at me like that?"

Her grin turned devious. "I think I'd like that," she said, and she grabbed Shepard's hand and pulled her up the stairs.

[countessofbiscuit]

Six, six, and a kiss. 1, 5, and 7, an' it please your ladyship.

Six, Six and a Kiss

or: Rex has got some fucking stones, rocking up there with her like she’s just another tailhead trophy with a matching paintjob. (Mature, Fox/Riyo, Rex/Ahsoka)

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

This fic began life over two years ago when I messaged a friend on discord with:

I've been out and about all day tormented by the thought of Rex and Ahsoka going to 79s for the first time after they've reunited but before Mandalore, and Fox and some CG dudes show up, get a lock on Rex and Soka sitting in a booth, and Rex just ... drapes his arm across her shoulder, pulls her in close and plants a very showy kiss on her cheek — unusual PDA for the Captain — eyeing Fox the whole time, like "you gotta problem with her mate? It ends now."

So originally, it was just an excuse to purge some Fox vs Rex(soka) feels off the back of the Wrong Jedi arc. The WIP fermented for long enough, left untouched due to my inability to write a goddamn fist fight, that other strands of angst bubbled up within it: Fox’s long exposure to Palpatine; the thankless task of the CG; the narrative cataclysm of Fives’s death. It was never meant to be unsympathetic to Fox, but I didn’t decide to write it from his POV until I had a Foxiyo brainwave. There was a deeper vein of raw emotion to be tapped if Fox had a compromising relationship of his own when he has a showdown with Rex. And I’d grown so fond of him, that I had to let him make his bitter case on a number of evils generally laid at his door. 

5: What part was hardest to write?

The actual brawl. Mostly because I didn’t believe that I could, stylistically. I had to psych myself up by watching instructional self-defence videos and breakdowns of (good) fight scenes in movies. 

7: Where did the title come from?

six, six and a kick -  (U.S.) Six months confinement, six months loss of pay, reduction in grade to E-1, Bad Conduct Discharge; formerly the most severe penalty that could be awarded by a special court martial.

Between the themes of discharge, martial law, and bad conduct, this phrase was perfect. I’d been toying with ‘kiss with a fist’, but while I could contemplate cribbing a song phrase, I couldn’t make myself use an actual song title. Also, patterns are cool: the eventual title stayed true to my habit of using .mil slang for Rexsoka fics and became the basis for my Foxiyo series (Let Me Count the Ways) :3

Thank you for the ask!

[besanii]

WIP Meme

Tagged by my Person @sarah-yyy​, who has been my Person across multiple fandoms for so many years and continues to be amazing <333

Rules: Post the first line of your wip and tag as many people as words.

“Xian-er! Xian-er! Come and greet the Duke!”

This is from a brain baby I had while writing those kiss prompts from a couple of weeks back, where LWJ is a Duke (wangye) and WWX is his childhood friend from a noble family that fell on hard times and who was sold into a brothel. LWJ spends thirteen years tracking him down and finally finds him.

IDK if I’ll finish this, but I do like the premise so I might post some of it...maybe a scene or two as ficlets rather than a whole thing. WE’LL SEE.

Wei Wuxian has heard many stories about the Cloud Recesses as a child.

This one I’ve been trying to work on for MONTHS now, but haven’t gotten anywhere besides a rough outline of what I want to happen. It’s a Three Lives, Three Worlds, Love and Destiny AU where WWX is a vermilion bird spirit who falls in love with the dragon prince!LWJ, inspired by that one YouTube video I linked a while back.

I WANT TO FINISH THIS BUT IT’S SO HARD TO WRITE. I’m doing it in bits and pieces whenever I get some inspiration, but it’s all very piecemeal at the moment.

"Hi sir, welcome to Chen Qing Matchmakers. Do you have an appointment?”

HAHAHAHA SO THIS ONE I STARTED LAST NIGHT.

WWX works at Chen Qing, a high-profile matchmaking company who help set their clients up on dates. They arrange appointments for the prospective couples at Lotus Pier, a fancy cafe - YES THIS IS A COFFEESHOP AU SHUT UP I GOT CARRIED AWAY. LQR bullies LWJ into going to a matchmaking date at Lotus Pier and he falls in love with the manager/barista instead.

I literally only have one line and the vaguest idea of a plot rn pls leave this one alone so it can ferment for a bit XD

Tagging @eirenical @bahoreal and anyone else who would like to do this!

[wiseauthorowl]

CALL FOR WIPs October Event: Immortal’s Warrior

WIP Title: Immortal’s Warrior

Main blog: https://wiseauthorowl.tumblr.com

Summary: Seth wakes up from a multi-millennial slumber with no memory. She has no idea what is going on or who she is, but she has awoken among a primitive tribe who believe her to be their ancient goddess. Unaware of how to control her power, Seth accidentally and randomly impresses and ferments the tribe’s beliefs as their goddess which gets her thrown head first into confrontations with those who are posed against the tribe, namely, another tribe with their own, recently awoken goddess, Neria. With the arrival of a mentor and his student, Fenrir and Avroth, Seth, and Neria soon get drawn into an even larger mess when a large, political power takes an interest in Seth and Neria and their powers.

Genres/Themes: Fantasy, magi-tech, self-discovery, lgbtq+, power, war, violence

Warnings/Tags: #violence #war #gore #horror

Main characters:

Seth: a dark elf girl who has just awoken from a supposedly two-thousand-year slumber and has no memory of what happened. Many well-meaning people try to help her by telling her who and what she is, but Seth would rather figure it out herself.

Neria: another dark elf girl who had awoken in conjunction with Seth. She and Seth are supposed to hate each other, according to preserved records, yet Neria can’t help but admire Seth’s daring and straightforward personality.

Caldour: Seth’s best and only friend in the Waketo village. Caldour was once an outcast for leaving the village for the outside world but when the knowledge he gained saved many lives, he was let back in. He might just be a human with no magic to speak of, but he makes up for it by being as supportive as he can be.

Fenrir: a mentor to Seth, Neria, and Avroth. He understands the struggle of curses and contradictions more than anyone and being a few thousand years old elf, he’s become pretty good at helping people out with them. And protecting them. Don’t touch his kiddos.

Avroth: likes to act all cloak and dagger but in reality, he just wants a friend. He kind of sucks at making friends, though. At least Fenrir puts up with him.

WIP Blog: https://immortals-warrior.tumblr.com/

Settings:

World: Acroran

Continent: Cuadren

Other: forest, hills, caves, urban

Other Characters: 

Aspen Lux: a white-mage who is proficient in healing and shields. Aspen researches the Flame Emporer and his children to no end in hopes to find better ways to defend against them.

Bartholomew August: a man who lost his birthright, family, and city to the Flame Empire. After seeing his home and city torched by one of the Flame children at a young age, a “display of true power,” Bartholomew has become obsessed with reclaiming his title of a Lord as well as obtaining his idea of ‘true power,’ at any cost. Only daring innovation will be able to defeat the Flame Empire.

The Author: I’ll be 23 in early October and I’ve been writing for quite a while now. I started Immortal’s Warrior officially seven years ago under the name Shadow’s Calling and have been stealing old notebooks to scribble in for a bit longer. I absolutely love writing and always love talking about my works as well as listening to other’s but watch out; I can go on and on for hours! Outside of that, some generic information is that I’m male, total nerd and cosplayer, I love camping, and I’m a bit antisocial. Maybe more than a bit...

Magic System: In the early ages of Acroran, magic was a specific aether-based art but in modern times, the term magic has become more generalized, used to refer to any art that uses aether. With that being said, the magic system is really the aether system. 

Aether is created by weaving pure energy into a usable form. Pure energy is extremely volatile and will break down anything it comes into contact with into more pure energy; this is not a regular issue because the only place pure energy is found in is the Rift (the space between worlds). Spent aether and pure energy are drawn into the rift to be later pulled back into the material plane. 

Aether (and energy) are etherial and not inherently physical (material). 

There are many different types of aether along with many different sources, each can be used in different types and styles of magic. 

The process to use aether (or magic) is thus: raw energy from the Rift is drawn into a source (a soul is a common source of aether), each source has a physical and ethereal presence and has what’s known as an energy weave, it’s the way in which the source weaves energy into aether. The type, purity, efficiency, and potency of aether are all dependent on the weave. Using the weave, the source turns energy into usable aether then draws it into the material plain for various uses (in the terms of a soul as a source, it will use aether to power the body). In terms of magic, if the weave’s aether is useable for magic, the source can use or have its aether used to supply power to the magical arts by weaving the aether further into a specific use, such as casting a fireball spell.

A few examples of sources are; a soul, special types of crystals (all crystals can hold aether, only some produce it), aether currents in nature, aether wells.

A few examples of aether based magic types are; Curses/hexes, summoning, animation, elemental, ki, ritual/rune, augmentation.

A few examples of aether types are; elemental (each element is a different type), nature, neutral, umbral, light.

[atamascolily]

2019 end of year fic review

I wrote a lot of different things this year, but the thing I'm most proud of is finally getting Desert Places--most of which I wrote in 2018--finished and up on A03 at last. I also wrote 10K+ of meta on this novel on Dreamwidth because I have so many feels about this piece. @jadedjo made some lovely cover art, and I dream about getting a hard copy formally bound and printed for myself, but I did NOT accomplish that this year. It turns out I would rather write new stuff than copyedit old, which makes achieving that goal a challenge.

I also did two fics for a kink challenge, and I wrote 56K--the first draft of an original urban fantasy novel--for NaNoWriMo, both of which were challenging growth experiences. I pushed my genres by writing some short non-Star Wars fics, plus a lot of crossovers. I also wrote two side stories in my Inheritance 'verse--one featuring Obi-wan and the other featuring Callista.

I also started podficcing, which is really fun, and had been on the to-do list for a while, so I'm proud of that, too.

Goals for 2020:

I'd like to finish my current WIP, Through A Glass Darkly--a Star Wars sequel trilogy fix-it with Legends characters helping their Disney counterparts. I'd also like to start writing and posting the JAT fix-it fic I've been thinking about for 2.5 years now. I got intimidated by the scale and complexity, but I think I'm ready to handle it now--I just have to get started! I also think about my Harry Potter/Good Omens crossover, which has also grown a plot when I wasn't looking. I'd also like to finish my WIP podfics, and do some new ones, too! Also, my original novel needs some serious work, which is going to take time away from fic.

That said, I'm always open to new ideas, and I can never predict what I'm going to write next or what will come up. Ideas are everywhere, and I try to get as many as I can down on paper, but I can't be everywhere at once. My philosophy is that the best fic is the one I've written, rather than the one I haven't, so while there are certain fics I'd like to do in the future, I realize there are a lot of factors outside my control that also influence the process.

Quick list of questions and answers

1.    favorite fic you wrote this year

Desert Places, obviously. Aside from that, probably In A Dark Time, The Eye Begins to See, which is such a niche fic, but makes me really happy. The best from a technical perspective is Grounded.

2.    least favorite fic you wrote this year

The Noodle Incident reads weirdly to me and I don't know why. I was trying for humor and I don't know if it worked??

3.    favorite line/scene you wrote this year

From Grounded: "The tree stirs sleepily at the unexpected vibrations, then recognizes Obi-wan's presence, and subsides with the quiet but unmistakable dismissal of Mammalian dormancy hallucination."  I can't read this without LAUGHING.

4.    total number of words you wrote this year

fics to A03 - 217.5K NaNoWriMo - 56K WIPs - no clue - maybe 10-15K?? 

5.    most popular fic this year

In the Reptile House - the Good Omens fandom is HUGELY popular right now.

6.    least popular fic this year

The Wreck of the Katana Fleet - song parody of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald". I like it but I can see why it's not terribly well-trafficked.

7.    longest completed fic you wrote this year

Desert Places - 79512 (not including meta) - 64K in 2018

Otherwise it's, In a Dark Time the Eye Begins to See, 32094 words

8.    shortest completed fic you wrote this year

The Ballad of Kam and Tionne (1274).

9. favorite character to write about this year

Force Trees, obviously!! But Demon!Nagini grew on me, and I like how she turned out enough to want to continue what was supposed to be a one-shot.

10. favorite writing song/artist/album of this year

I don't generally write with music, so... silence is great!

11. a fic you didn’t expect to write

In the Reptile House was totally random. Why did my brain decide to mix Harry Potter and Good Omens? No idea. Did I run with it? Hell yeah.

12. fic(s) you completed this year

I don't feel like writing them all, but here's the list!

13. fics you’ll continue next year

Through a Glass Darkly for sure. Others TBA.

14. current number of wips

lots, but mostly short things that need time to ferment.

15. number of comments you haven’t read

ZERO, though I've stopped responding to the weird ones.

16. most memorable comment/review

Sadly, I have gotten some seriously weird comments this year, but the most exciting was when someone I used to know IRL left a very nice comment even though I'm pretty sure she has no idea that I know who she is.

17. events you participated in this year

Fetish/Trope Roulette at @jadedjo's impetus. Also, NaNoWriMo!

18. fics you wanted to write but didn’t

I really meant to write a Halloween fic this year, and I chose to finish Grounded and prep for NaNoWriMo instead. I just didn't have enough energy to do a high-intensity crossover novella on top of everything else. Maybe next year?? (NO CLUE.) But it will be awesome if and when I finally write this thing - another weird Star Wars Legends crossover that nobody but me wants, with a series that nobody but me has ever read.

[hedgehog-o-brien]

8, 11, 20 and 48?

8, 11, 20 and 48?

8. Favorite trope towrite.

Cool Smarmy Bastard AssholeWho Is Actually A Major Softie And Only Shows It Around Their Favorite Person.For Evidence, see: Eliot Spencer, Ezekiel Jones and, most recently added tothis illustrious list, Anthony Janthony Crowley.

There’s just something so*chef’s kiss* about a character who talks a great game during the day, keepscool during the crisis at hand and then completely melts into their s.o.’s armsas soon as the lights go out and I don’t care if there are a million fics aboutthese characters and this trope already, I’ll keep adding more and you can’tstop me.

11. Describe your writing process from scratch to finish.

-       Idea strikes. This can be a line, part of aconversation or just a general ‘huh that scene’d be cool. Occasionally, it’s apun. This is the most annoying thing of all

-       Put off writing and let the Idea ferment for abit because the couch is comfy and to write I have to actually get up and go tomy Writing Computer (first world problem I know but writing on my laptop sucks,believe me)

-       Idea keeps walking around banging pots and pansin my brain until it becomes impossible to ignore

-       Grumble and groan and switch on WritingComputer

-       Put on Ambient Noise Video on Youtube.Something with fire or a thunderstorm (or both) usually works best

-       *insert gif of furious typing* occasionally interruptedby research or snack or water breaks

-       No beta we die like men

-       Post

-       Keep pressing that refresh button on the AO3stats page while watching the hit/kudo counter like a hawk

-       Go to bed exhausted

-       Eat, sleep, wake up, repeat

20. Post a snippet of a WIP you’re working on.

I’ve got a bunch of GoodOmens WIPs now but since I know you’re not into that (yet), I’ll post somethingelse. This is a deleted scene from the (for now abandoned) Keep the Home Fires Burning, and it was supposed to be part of the ending until Idecided against making it a Librarians/Leverage crossover.

There was someoneyelling in the hallway.

Now was that not unusualin itself; whoever thought that British politics were a model of decorum andtranquility, had never been inside the backrooms of Westminster. But what wasunusual, Aloysius thought as he looked up from his paperwork with an irritatedfrown, was that it was a distinctively American voice, shouting at whoever wasoutside to let him through so he could break that slippery bastard’s neck soget out of the way or I’ll start by breaking yours.

Aloysius sighed. He hadbeen expecting this.

He put down his pen andgot up to open the door. He was met with a rather unusual sight: a short,stocky man in plaid flannel and jeans, his face red with fury under hisquivering semi-mohawk, was accosting his clerk Jeremy, who was doing a verydecent job at not trembling with fear. ‘He’s busy,’ Jeremy squeaked, inchingbackwards as the other man (Aloysius had already dubbed him ‘cowboy’) marchedforward with a snarl. ‘He’s not seeing anybody right now!’

‘I will make anexception,’ Aloysius said coolly. ‘Mr. Stone, I presume?’

The angry man turned andglared. ‘You Uncle Al?’ he asked, contempt dripping off every syllable. ‘Yougot something of mine. I want it back.’

‘Let’s talk inside,’Aloysius said, stepping aside to let Mr. Stone stomp into his office. The manreally was an exceptionally excitable fellow, it seemed. But then again, AgentJones had not been possessed of the best of tempers either. They would havemade a fitting pair, Aloysius mused, closing the door.

Such a shame.

‘Mr. Stone, may I onceagain start by expressing my…’ he started, and then stopped.

It was like atransformation took place right in front of his eyes, even though nothingreally happened. Mr. Stone did not change his clothing, or his hair, oranything else about his person to warrant such a dramatic shift, but when heturned around, Aloysius could not see one trace of the man he had just let intohis office two seconds ago. All the anger had gone, the tension sliding awayfrom his posture like water off a window pane; instead he stood easily, hisshoulders relaxed and his hands tucked into the pockets of those atrociousjeans, surveying the tastefully decorated office with an almost amused quirk tohis mouth before he turned to Aloysius.

And smiled.

‘Mr. Aloysius,’ he said,his voice now a pleasant Southern drawl. He held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry. Youseem to be laboring under some misapprehension. Don’t worry, it happens a lot.Though it’s usually the other way around,’ he added with a crooked grin.

Aloysius stepped back.Because that was not a friendly grin and the blue eyes that had been smilingjust a second ago, were now looking at him with an ice cold light that Aloysiusknew all too well.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.There had been nothing in Mr. Stone’s file to indicate the man was dangerous;he was just an oil rig worker and art historian, a bit prone to violence and hecould hold his own in a bar brawl, but he was not a stone cold killer.

But the man in front ofhim was. The man in front of him practically radiated danger, from the tips ofthat ridiculous Mohawk to the toes of his scruffy cowboy boots and if Aloysiuslooked closer at those cold blue eyes, he could see the pits of hell wavingback.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the manwho was not Mr. Stone said again as he took a hold of Aloysius’ hand. Hesuddenly stood uncomfortably close. Aloysius had not even noticed him moving.‘I’m his brother. Eliot Spencer. You may have… No, no, no, none of that,’ hesaid as Aloysius’ knees gave out from under him. ‘Let’s talk first.’

48. Favorite genre to write in.

I love me some good old (Emotional)Hurt/Comfort, especially when combined with the Smarmy Asshole Secretly Softietrope above!

[so-shiny-so-chrome]

Witness: Tyellas

Creator name (AO3): Tyellas

Creator name (Tumblr): thebyrchentwigges

Link to creator works *https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/works?fandom_id=51060

Q: Why the Mad Max Fandom?

A: I’ve been a fan of postapocalyptic scifi since my teens. But it took me until Fury Road to really fall in love with the world of Mad Max. Living Down Under probably helped. 

Q: What do you think are some defining aspects of your work? Do you have a style? Recurrent themes?

A: For Mad Max, my style varies very much based on the character point of view. Max's terseness is very different from a History Person's verbal rambling. Recurrent themes for me...Some of them tie back to canon, like the fragility of Wasteland technology and the quirkiness of human nature. There's a lot of geology and a consistent thread of land-based spirituality - an Antipodean influence, there. 

Q: Which of your works was the most fun to create? The most difficult? Which is your most popular? Most successful? Your favourite overall?

A: Most popular overall – Definitely “Gastown Nights.” Max, Furiosa, sexual tension, adventure in a setting with the Wasteland wildness turned up to 11 – what’s not to like? Most fun – Writing fluff is always fun, even if the world’s falling apart around it. “Very Max, Much Wasteland, Such Dog,” my take on Max Gets A Dog, and “If You Give a Pup a Flamethrower” stand out to me. Most difficult – Several of my Miss Giddy stories were harrowing, “Weave a Circle,” “One Way Ride.” At one point writing “Weave a Circle” I glanced in a mirror and was shocked – shocked! – to not be looking at the face of a tattooed 76-year-old. 

Q: How do you like your wasteland? Gritty? Hopeful? Campy? Soft? Why?

A: Gritty as, mate, but always with that glimmer of hope. Because that's how it would be.

Q: Walk us through your creative process from idea to finished product. What's your prefered environment for creating? How do you get through rough patches?

A: I may jot down a story’s core idea, then let it ferment a few months. I might think I’m writing something just for myself, then it will take on a life of its own. When the time is right, I’ll think and plan around it, then do an outline. I like Kurt Vonnegut’s advice that a character in a story should want something, “even if it’s just a glass of water.” A glass of water is a big thing in Mad Max! For a writing environment, I’m very lucky – I have a home office, a desk chair, a desk specially set up for writing. If part of a story is giving me trouble, I’ll treat it like the eye of the storm. I’ll write around it, write down to it – I’ll write everything but that part! Once the frame is in place around the difficult part, that helps.

Q: What (if any) music do you listen to for help getting those creative juices flowing?

A: For Mad Max, Ocker rocker classics from the 70s and 80s. Songs by Goanna, Cold Chisel, Dragon, AC/DC. New Zealander Neil Finn's song "Sinner" always makes me think of Max. 

Q: What is your biggest challenge as a creator?

A: Finding time when I have inspiration, and finding inspiration when I find time.

Q: How have you grown as a creator through your participation in the Mad Max Fandom? How has your work changed? Have you learned anything about yourself?

A: I've grown so, so much as a writer. Descriptions, plot, research. Getting over myself and putting that crazy idea out there - and learning that it was worthwhile if it found one reader. Personally, I decided I would probably survive an apocalypse, which is always good to know. 

Q: Which character do you relate to the most, and how does that affect your approach to that character? Is someone else your favourite to portray? How has your understanding of these characters grown through portraying them?

A: I took the long road around to this one, because it took getting into the Mad Max fandom for it. I'd say I relate the most to...Aunty Entity. She's determined, she's creative, she's femme, and she has excellent taste in henchpeople. Oddly, I've never written about her, for all that I have screeds about Furiosa, the Vuvalini, and the History People. Aunty Entity has aspects of those three. My Furiosa is calculating, fierce, stony, and, after the Fury Road, willing to make terrible decisions for a long-term goal or a greater good. After a mostly Citadel life, she’s used to better living, and both disgusted and horrified/saddened by how others are getting by.  

Q: Do you ever self-insert, even accidentally?

A: All the characters we write about are our shards and our reflections. I do have a draft of a piece for a Self-Insert week that never took off, where I hitch a ride in the Nullarbor desert with some Buzzards.

Q: Do you have any favourite relationships to portray? What interests you about them?

A: I've written smut, and in my fics both canon characters and OCs get laid and find love. "Citadel Nights" is a novel-length fic about love and sex in the Mad Max apocalypse. But the most enduring relationship in my fics, one that all characters deal with, is...their own one with the Wasteland. That post-apocalyptic world around them. For some it's chaos and ruined dreams. For some it's horror yet opportunity. And for some of them, it's simply how it is. My story quartet "Wasteland, Seize My Bones" delves into this in all kinds of ways.

Q: How does your work for the fandom change how you look at the source material?

A: For Mad Max, I seek it out and look at it in more detail. Some of it takes some finding. It took me a while to track down the novelization of "Beyond Thunderdome". There were some jaw-dropping interviews with George Miller back in the 80s!

Q: Do you prefer to create in one defined chronology or do your works stand alone? Why or why not?

A: I can't help creating in one defined chronology. That's just how my imagination works. Every Mad Max story of mine fits into a timeline. I've sketched out that timeline over two notebook pages, like the nerd that I am.

Q: To break or not to break canon? Why?

A: For Mad Max, I'm usually in line with canon. Mad Max canon itself is so rich, flexible, and berserk that most of the plots and actions I wanted to write fit right in. Like most fan creators, I did make it gayer.

Q: Share some headcanons.

A: Oh, so many! Have three: - Furiosa wears her keys on the left: Max wears his on the right. - There are two popular headcanons around Miss Giddy: long-term Citadel denizen or Wasteland Survivor Having Adventures. I like the second one better. - Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer had a thing going on for a while there. 

Q: If you work with OCs walk us through your process for creating them. Who are some of your favourites?

A: There are OCs and there are "characters who had three frames in the movie/outtake." Very often I'll create an OC to fulfil a plot moment and then...they're not done...they tap my shoulder with more stories. I have a list of my Mad Max original characters for reference. I need it because I have *forty-nine* of them. Wretches, War Boys, Milking Mothers, Wastelanders, antagonists. My favorite OCs are the ones I've spent the most time writing about - if an OC of mine has a POV story, you know I liked them. Or somebody else did and made a request! 

Q: If you create original works, how do those compare to your fan works?

A: My original works seem positively sybaritic compared to my Mad Max fan works! 

Q: Who are some works by other creators inside and outside of the fandom that have influenced your work?

A: There were all these different creative factions – Maxiosa shippers, War Boy lovers, the Gigadumpster focusing on the villains – having fun. That in itself was inspiring. For a while I was unable to read @sacrificethemtothesquid ’s Length and Breadth of Fury Road. Its gravitational field of influence was that strong for me. And I adored the story “The Bullet Farmer’s Daughter” for its ruthless postapocalyptic extremes. For Max and Furiosa and their particular dynamics and madness, I’m influenced by J.G. Ballard – his compelled postapocalyptic wanderers, his cool, in-charge women. For my History People writing, influences include Margaret Atwood, Ursula Le Guin, and Neal Stephenson’s “Anathem”.

Q: What advice can you give someone who is struggling to make their own works more interesting, compelling, cohesive, etc.? 

A: The time you spend planning your project helps bring it to life. Thinking, plotting, outlining, deciding your ending and working up to it. If something seems crazy or self-indulgent, but *feels* real or right, there’s emotional truth and weight behind it. Readers will sense that and respond to it. Write it and see what happens. Thanks to our protagonist of few words, Mad Max writers suffer less from verbosity than other fandoms. Still, keep a sentence 20 words or fewer: keep a paragraph 6 – 8 sentences or fewer. Your reader will stay more engaged with your writing. 

Q: Have you visited or do you plan to visit Australia, Wasteland Weekend, or other Mad Max place?

A: I'd love to go to Wasteland Weekend sometime, but I live in New Zealand. It's been great to meet up with some fellow Mad Max fans in Australia, and to have Mad Max-like moments when I'm visiting there.  Walking down an industrial street, lost, when a gang of masked bikers roar by, disrupting the crows into their own corvid cries...

Q: Tell us about a current WIP or planned project.

A: I've got two Mad Max WIPs that will be done, come hell or high water. I'll share their titles: "In the Heart of the Wasteland Sun" and "A Favourite Has No Friend".

Thank you @thebyrchentwigges

[ambivalentangst]

Face the Gods on Your Knees

First of all I’d like to say for basically all of May I was dead and now that it's summer I feel productive and rejuvenated and lovely. With that in mind I came back to a WIP I let breathe for awhile, and here we are. This is based on the idea that an Altean can’t live without their scales, and on that note, this is pretty dark. If that’s alright with you, I hope you enjoy!

tw: kidnapping, blood, graphic descriptions of violence, mild gore, torture

Prince Lance had long known, as all of his people did, that when an Altean died their souls ascended to be one with the gods, and their scales fell from their cheeks as a token to their loved ones of what once was. Still, never had he been more acutely reminded than with the bite of the rope on his wrists, staring up at wooden walls that bore cases upon cases full of the markings that had once adorned the cheeks of Lance’s people and the people of his forefathers.

It was a morbid rainbow and had what Lance suspected to be a drug not already forced him to expel the contents of his stomach, he would’ve retched. Lance swallowed, his throat dry and sore. The tutors from Olkari had often told Lance about different poisons an assassin might try to slip into his food, so he might know how to treat himself in turn. As obstinate as Allura claimed he could be, he truly didn’t wish to inconvenience anyone. He tried to pay attention, but a pulsing ache was developing in the empty space between his brows, splitting his head open and robbing him of any chance to calculate just how quiznacked he was.

Lance tried to recall what had happened.

They were with visiting dignitaries, at a feast. Shiro was doting on Allura as always in his own way, cutting an imposing figure at her shoulder. Pidge and Hunk had been (against his parents’ better judgment) seated next to him while Keith tried to remain stoic despite the way the corners of his lips twitched up whenever the three of them said something particularly stupid or clever. Typically, it could be both. They were gifted that way.

Lance couldn’t remember thinking anything was amiss. The dignitaries were delightful, and his food and drink were both served as normal. Lance had gone to sleep in his own bed, and when he had woken up his entire body ached from, apparently, sleeping on the floor.

What recollection he had of past events didn’t do him any good, and Lance was quick to move on. He didn’t need to know what had occurred to get him where he was, he just needed to leave as soon as he could. One of the first things he’d noted since waking up was the absence of weight dangling from his ears, and Lance cursed his luck. If he’d at least had his earrings he could communicate his location, but they must’ve fallen off somewhere during the journey from the palace to wherever he was. He pushed past his annoyance and shut his eyes, concentrating on the slide and crackle of bone and flesh that he’d grown accustomed to when he shifted.

He’d always been quite good with the Altean skill set, he’d always been told, and Lance expected no problems with his actions. However, as he tried to shift, he found something like a wall in his mind, brutally blocking him when he tried to access his abilities. Lance yelped, panting as his will to change evaporated into thin air.

“Quiznack,” he hissed under his breath. Why had that hurt, like scraping his fingers raw on some rock? Not being able to use his own abilities made his skin crawl, and Lance swallowed back the bile that had risen in his throat. Fine. If he couldn’t accommodate to make the ropes smaller for him, or even to break them from the sheer size of a transformation, he’d just use plain old grit. He began to flex, trying to use the strength that had never come to him naturally in the first place. Where he outpaced Allura in shapeshifting, she was by far physically stronger, and Lance—as usual—thought about how she would’ve already been free and on her merry way in the same situation. Instructors had also told Lance, for as long as he could remember, that Allura, the eldest and the heir, was an honorable fighter. Lance, with his slight form and how sickly he’d always been as a child, would have to kick dirt into eyes and use every dirty trick in the book to give himself the upper hand.

Lance spent quite a long stretch of time fighting with the ropes brutishly, and when that failed, collapsed over his knees, chest heaving as he blinked back tears. All he’d succeeded in doing was rubbing the skin off his wrists from twisting around so much. It made his bonds a little slicker with his blood, but not enough so to actually be helpful.

Lance cast a fearful look up towards the cases of scales, most lined with a rusty color that made Lance’s stomach turn. Scales fell off naturally in death, yes. Tales differed based on region, but the scales were universally agreed to be the mortal connection Alteans had to the gods. When the soul moved on they were no longer needed and detached naturally. Lance wondered how much pain the scales’ owners had been in as they were forcibly severed from their cheeks, and shuddered at the thought. There was no Altean without their scales. Even losing one brought on madness, and Lance touched his own shining turquoise pair to his shoulder for the sole purpose of remembering that they were still in place.

As his eyes darted from pair to pair—largely against Lance’s will, but he observed the macabre trophies with a horrified fascination—he saw a pink pair that looked far too similar to his sister’s, and managed to heave onto the ground beside him, wriggling away from the spreading waste once the deed was done.

Allura was okay, right? Lance felt awful for not thinking of it sooner. He hoped to the gods that she hadn’t been taken too. How long had he been out, anyway? What if they really—

Lance shook his head and firmly cut himself off. He was not going to finish that thought. Nobody would touch Allura. She was strong and beautiful and someday she would be queen. Shiro would keep her safe. There was no way—or at least, not any way Lance would allow himself to entertain—she could be in this situation with him. Lance’s continuous reinforcements had just begun to calm his racing heart when he heard footsteps coming from somewhere beyond the door, drawing closer and closer.

Lance shuffled forward, closer to the door. If he could just get the drop on whoever was coming, he could escape. His knees were already plenty bruised from his previous attempts at freeing himself, but Lance shuffled forward, throwing his back against the wall to pull himself to his feet despite the faint whimper the action pulled from his lips. However he’d gotten where he currently was being kept, he had not been transported with care, and his entire body ached. Lance’s heart pounded while he listened to the door slide open. He rushed forward, fully prepared to give whoever was there a good head to their chin and to maneuver himself past them towards freedom. Lance was instead greeted with a scaly hand locking on his wrist, and slamming him back onto the floor with a crack of, presumably, Lance’s skull.

Lance only barely saw two faltering versions of the same door close behind the hulking mass of muscle that had come in. White sparks exploded behind Lance’s closed eyelids—a precautionary measure, because if Lance dissolved into hysterics now, he would lose any shred of dignity he still maintained. A voice permeated the fermenting silence, darkly pleased and fruitful in the blackness that seemed to follow its presence.

“Not the king, no, but maybe a suitable substitute. Certainly with the potential to become so, and the matching scales don’t hurt,” the creature mused, and Lance shivered, wiping the blood trailing from his mouth on the ground. It was not the only place he was bleeding, the back of his head felt plenty wet and he cringed to think of the red muddying his pearly locks, but there was nothing he could do about that.

“Who are you?” Lance growled, thinking again of Allura. She was a force to be reckoned with, and their father always described her as a viper presented like a ribbon. Still, Lance wasn’t sure even she could escape someone so overwhelmingly, for lack of a better descriptor, large. His captor laughed, and Lance got his first good look at him as he crouched before him.

His eyes were gaping sockets in his face with what looked like coals smoldering in their depths, his cheeks harshly cut and glinting in the lighting from the scales covering his skin.

“You don’t recognize me as one of my people, princeling?” Lance felt an oily fear wash over him, adding to the mounting sickness he felt as he watched the creature’s lips move. Massive teeth—almost unnoticeable at first, they so blended in with the darkness of his skin—hanging down to his jaw moved with them, and it was rightly, highly unnerving to Lance.

“No,” Lance admitted after a moment, despite it instinctively feeling like it was not something he should’ve done. The alien’s features contorted wrathfully, and Lance jerked violently to the side as a strong arm, just as solid as the rest of him, landed with violent gravity to crack the floor where his head had been a moment previous.

“Of course you don’t,” the alien hissed, standing to pace around the room with footfalls that were heavy enough to shake the ground he trodded over. “When do Alteans ever own up to their mistakes, let alone teach their young about them, and how not to repeat them?” Lance’s shoulders scrunched up to his chin as a bitter, humorless chuckle passed through the air, suddenly sounding hair raisingly close as the sound bounced ominously in the shell of Lance’s ear. He yelped, turning and slamming his head back onto the ground with enough momentum to make the world blur yet again for a few long seconds, during which the alien strode back over and hefted him by his hair.

The sharp nails just barely avoiding his scalp tore out tufts of silky locks that Lance meticulously maintained, and he yelped. “Oh, is there a problem, princeling?” the alien hissed, his voice that Lance might’ve found beautiful in a different setting sending chills up his spine. “Is there something wrong with my voice?” Lance didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of an answer and didn’t respond.

“My people, in their dying moments, had screams that could shatter eardrums and burst heads. I was never very good at that, but I was resistant to it.” Lance didn’t understand why there was so much vitriol in the alien’s tone. Why was he doing this? “The conquerors who came to our formerly peaceful planet stuffed rags down our throats and cut off heads to save themselves from it.” Despite the situation, Lance had it in himself to be horrified. What an awful fate, and he gritted out, despite his anger and confusion,

“I’m sorry for your loss.” That was apparently the wrong thing to say. The fire needling away in the core of the stranger’s eyes blazed to life, and Lance gasped for breath as the hand dropped him onto the floor, pinning him in place as it latched brutally around his throat.

“You’re sorry, princeling? Sorry for what exactly? That when my planet sent distress signals to Altea—the mighty, peaceful Altea that was advanced beyond any other world in the quadrant—your father turned us away in the name of remaining pacifist? Sorry that my planet burned at the hands of an empire defeated mere quintants after attempting to seize Altea? Tell me, princeling, just what your apologies mean.” The force the words were uttered with was overwhelming, acid and hatred seething from the abyss of gouging teeth and flaming expression. Lance gagged for breath desperately, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth while his face purpled. He’d always said that it wasn’t his color, much to Keith’s chagrin. He wasn’t as entertained with his snide comments now, and the moment the alien seemed to calm and unlocked his grip, Lance gasped for breath desperately, coughing over the floor. He was sure if he’d had anything else left in his stomach, that would’ve come up too.

Lance didn’t know what to say. He was entirely unaware of everything his captor had told him, but admitting that would just get him killed, probably even faster than the fate already barreling at him if the circlet of rapidly bruising marks on his neck meant anything. Lance bit his lip, only to draw blood as his teeth sunk in faster than he wanted when his captor twisted his bound arms brutally in his overpowering grip. Lance felt him lean in close, the same ricochet and all too loud effect occurring as the creature hissed into his ear.

“Answer me, princeling, or you can rot here with one scale before I come back to finish the job.”

Lance was not a creature accustomed to begging. Not for his life, not for a break from his tutoring, not even for an extra pastry or two from the palace kitchens, but the thought of going insane while surrounding by the trophies of his lost kinsmen lit an insatiable fear at his very core that had him croaking out between pained gasps, “I’m sorry for not knowing.”

He heaved in relief as his arms were released, throbbing as the blood returned to the limbs.

“That’s what I like to hear,” the creature told him, and Lance reminded himself that if he ever got out alive, he was going to have to research species with the ability to send their voices rattling through his skull. He never wanted to encounter anything like it again. The creature and it’s scaled body skulked along the walls, fingertips tracing over the displays with an anger Lance could see was barely kept in check.

“I realize that, unless I get truly lucky, I will never see the Alteans burn,” the alien mused, a long tail that Lance hadn’t taken note of before thrashing wickedly. His claws scraped along the glass with a horrific shriek, but Lance was grateful that the sound, for the most part, was benign. Lance shivered, sprawled stomach down on the floor, cheek pressed against the ground for so long it had gone numb. “Still, I must try and do something, and though I was aiming for the king, I think it’s suitable to see the beloved, charming prince who has been known to love his people so, be torn apart.” Lance shook his head, working up spit on his tongue to fling when the alien next decided to get too close for comfort.

“You won’t,” Lance swore, and though his voice was hoarse and reflective of his pain, he was proud of the flinty pride still within. “Allura or Shiro or Keith will find you, and then you’re a dead man walking. You can run, but Keith’s got ears like satellites, Shiro has his arm, and Allura can bench press them both without knocking her crown out of place.” The creature stiffened, the scales covering its body lifting reflexively before settling again.

“Big words from a prince who can’t even shapeshift.” Lance tasted something bitter in the back of his mouth. His magic had always been a sore spot. His father had scolded him for banishing tutors that had been particularly harsh about it, but Lance’s ears were too hot and the scornful looks they cast his way too fresh in his mind to care.

“What did you do to me?” he demanded to know. Another settling of scales.

“A simple block, as provided by the tonic slipped into your drink.” Lance’s mind—always hyperactive, as father often said—worked furiously to jejune what servant despised him enough to betray him to a serial killer. Lance had always thought they were kind masters, but things were not as Lance had once believed if the alien’s rage meant anything.

“In one way or another, I’ll escape.”

“I doubt that, princeling,” the alien snapped, striding over with his fiery eyes flared up again, so hot the core of them was tinged blue. “That’s what the others said, every single one. You Alteans are an arrogant breed, you know? Always so keen on your gods and magic, and then when they desert you it is a matter of two little hooks on your cheeks to undo you entirely. Like pulling a thread from an unknotted seam, you will unravel, just as they all have.”

Lance gulped. His head pounded, but he recognized that the more he persisted and the less fear he showed, the angrier his captor got. That was no good. He needed to stall. Lance would not survive if he insulted the man too much. He would simply lose his cool and flash those wicked claws or the barbs on his tail—they glinted unnaturally—to slaughter him where he laid. It pained Lance, who could not deny the claims that he and his people were perhaps a bit too confident in themselves. Submissiveness did not come easily to Lance, but he was running out of options. His captor had the son of his most hated foe, and if Lance had learned anything from the history lessons he endured, it was that a moment of revenge often required nothing but a strong enough emotion to seize the mind.

“Please,” he groveled. “I’m just the prince, not my father. I’m sorry for what happened—may the gods bless their souls—but doing this won’t solve anything. Let me go, and I will make amends.” It pained Lance, truly.

“Oh, shut up,” the creature snarled. “I had plans to kill your father, yes, but Alfor is not the true prize. You are not a daughter, but you serve the same purpose as mine did, lovely as she was. A placeholder, though beloved. I don’t want your father. To kill you and send your scaleless body back to the palace would be the sweetest prize of all.” He forced Lance against the wall and knelt down in front of him. His breath was hot and sour in Lance’s nose, who gagged and subsequently lost the saliva he’d been working up.

Lance’s entire body hurt, but the claws tipping the stranger’s hands were drawing close to his face. They caressed his jaw in a manner that did not cut, but let Lance know that was only because he was didn’t want them to yet. The alien growled, again in that voice that chorused its discords within Lance’s pointed ears.

“I’ll enjoy this, princeling. I already have a pair just like your sister’s, but now I’ll have the real thing.” Lance felt panic really and truly hit, as he snapped his teeth at the hand coming to rest on his cheek, grazing the skin and pushing the alien to yank his head hard enough to rip out a chunk of white hair.

“Stop it!” Lance kicked, hissing as he felt the first prick of pain blossoming from the gouge being slowly made on his cheek. The alien grinned, showing off a full set of black teeth.

“I am owed my justice, princeling.” Lance hated the word from his lips. Nobody called him that, not even Lotor when he was in a mood. Even so, as much as Lance wanted to live and return home to dance with an unwilling Keith, run through the palace halls with Pidge and taste test Hunk’s cooking, hug his father, sister, he wondered if the alien was wrong. Lance was not so vain to deny what he said. If Altea had defeated the people who had destroyed his home so quickly, he couldn’t say the creature, angry and full of hate as he was, was wrong in desiring his revenge. Lance kicked harder.

“Stop! Please, just let me to talk to you for a tick.” The creature snorted.

“You cannot spare your life with your silver tongue.” Lance nodded.

“I don’t know what happened to your people and your planet, your family. I’m sorry for that, but please, this has nothing to do with the common Alteans. Once you kill me, stop, please. Leave them out of it. You’ll have everything you were ever deserved. They shouldn’t die for what my family did.” The creature hissed.

“A sacrifice for your people? How noble.” Lance tried to hold his head high, chin jutting out proudly.

“I’ll even go quietly if that’s what you want. Just please, stop going after Altean civilians.” Lance trembled from where he was pressed into the wall, biting back a scream as a nail hooked under one scale. Altea was not free of crime, murder, serial killers, but very few chose to kill as the alien did. It was not a simple process, tearing off a scale.

“I’ll take you up on your offer, with one modification. Just like every other filthy one of you I’ve killed, severing your people from their gods, I want to hear you scream.”

Lance wished he had his earrings, and braced himself for the pain. It was worse than he could’ve ever imagined.

His back arched unnaturally, cracking bones in places Lance didn’t have the presence of mind to think about as he screamed to the heavens, to whatever deity was out there to listen. His body tried desperately to shift, but he kept running into the block that lit a fire behind his eyes and electrified his entire body anytime he tried to fight it. The pain was blinding, leaving him to focus on nothing but it and the claws severing nerves and muscle and power that was integral to the very core of Lance’s being.

He howled, eyes rolling back into his head while his hands raked down the wall, splitting nails and scraping his fingers with absolutely pathetic pain in comparison to the agony engulfing Lance whole.

At the beginning Lance had said he would’ve gone quietly if that was what the creature wanted, but when the world was crashing down around him in galvanizing agony that had his head cracking back against the wall while tears streamed down his sob twisted face there was nothing to be done but scream, an unrelenting cry to just let it end.

Words were unthinkable, an impossible concept Lance couldn’t imagine utilizing in his current state, and they’d only just begun.

Lance could faintly hear the dark laughter of his torturer ringing horrifically in his ears, but that was quickly overpowered by his own shrieks, almost animalistic in nature. The pain was all there was, all there ever had been, all there ever could be, and Lance did not stop screaming even when he became aware of the sound of heavy blows landing on the door, nor when the creature hissed and withdrew his talons that left Lance a sobbing mess on the ground.

He heard someone gagging, likely at the sight around them as Lance had, but Lance couldn’t be bothered with caring. There were strong, furred arms around him, a furious hiss that made the hair on Lance’s arms stand up as it rattled his brain in his skull, and then nothing at all.

Lance’s eyes opened slowly, and with no small amount of effort. His eyelids felt like they’d been cemented together, and his cheek burned painfully. Why did it hurt?

Lance gasped and sat up quickly, hands flying to touch his face. Oh god, did he still have his scales? What would the people think if their already defective prince, told so many times by so many different people that he’d never be as strong as Allura, was lacking a scale. They’d never take him seriously, he’d be banned from the council that already hated him, and—

Allura’s voice, urgent and worried cut into Lance’s spiraling thoughts, her dark hand landing on his arm.

“Lance?” His tear stained face turned to meet her eyes.

Frankly, she looked horrible.

Dark smears of color hung like the most depressing set of drapes Lance had ever seen under eyes, and those—Lance had always thought her eyes were beautiful, and no artist ever got them right in portraits—were shot through with red. Lance could be quiznacked if he cared. He threw his arms around her and didn’t mind in the slightest that her grip was all but crushing the breath from his lungs.

“I’m so sorry we didn’t get there sooner, you started screaming and I thought we were going to be too late.” It would’ve been hard for anybody who hadn’t known her for their entire lives to make out what she was saying through her sobs, but Lance was just as much of a mess and shushed her apologies with an easy smile.

“You made it, I’m fine, ‘Lura. How did you guys even find me?” She sniffed and even though Lance was getting snot on her dress, didn’t let go.

“Your earring must’ve fallen on the ground when that thing,” she said the word with unexpected venom, “Dropped you originally. We started getting transmissions of your location immediately,” Lance praised the gods for emergency protocol, “But the signal was absolutely awful and kept copping out.” She drew back for a fraction of a second to unfurl a palm, the little purple gem lying in the center of it. “We found it off in the corner.” She shoved it onto the nearby nightstand and embraced him again.

“I was so scared,” Lance murmured into her hair, which was another part of her that he was speculating to be actively trying to strangle him. Allura rubbed his back and kept him close as she nodded.

“I know, but you’re here now, and we’re never going to let anything like that happen again.” Lance gave pause for a second.

“We’re?” Allura didn’t remove her head from over his shoulder to yell,

“Keith, Shiro, you can come in now, I’ve hugged him enough.” The door slid open almost immediately, and with previously unprecedented speed Lance had two very concerned Galra soldiers at his side. Keith’s ears were swiveling frantically like they tended to do when he got nervous, and Lance was surprised to see a very relieved smile on Shiro’s part.

“It’s good to see you alive and well, your highness. You had us all worried.” Lance grinned, waving him off.

“You know me, Shiro. I’m hard to keep down. Anyway, drop the formalities. You know nobody cares when we’re alone.” Allura socked him on the arm, and Lance winced for effect.

“Ouch, hitting a man while he’s down, I see how it is.” She rolled her eyes, and Keith bent down to give him a very uncharacteristic but not at all unwelcome hug, brief though it was. When Lance raised a brow, he shrugged and looked at the ground.

“I’m glad you’re safe, is all.” Lance hummed knowingly but didn’t argue with him, which he found to be something of an accomplishment, personally. He flopped back on his bed, able to relax with the strongest people he knew safely stationed around him.

“So am I, lemme’ tell you,” Lance replied, and upon seeing the somewhat nervous laughter that followed, was quick to change the subject. “Anyway, I feel sane and all, but am I, like, okay?” He kept his eyes up and a mischievous upturn to his lips, but the concern he felt for the subject was real. Allura nodded.

“The palace physicians were able to reattach the part of your scale that had been—ah, shall we say, upended?” She smiled, but Lance didn’t miss the worried furrow of her brow. He’d have to talk with her later. “The only difference is, well,” she sighed, and waved a hand. As per usual, the lights in the room switched off, and Lance was made acutely aware of the turquoise glow being emitted from just under his left eye.

“Ah,” Lance managed after a moment, but wasn’t exactly displeased. It was unusual, but privately Lance remembered the stories of the truly gifted alchemists that endured the same effect and wondered what that made him. He pushed the thought to the side. That was something to be saved for later, probably reckless, experimentation. Lance sighed dramatically, a hand flying over his forehead as Allura turned the lights back on.

“I’m never going to be able to turn the lights out during a ball and slip away again,” he groaned. It was then Keith’s turn to roll his eyes—to be fair, he was usually the one tasked with tracking Lance down again—and Allura’s to look sympathetic. Meanwhile, Shiro took a glance at the holographic update coming from his wrist.

“King Alfor, Pidge, and Hunk are on their way,” he announced. Lance grinned.

“Great! More people to dazzle with my new glow.” Collective groans ensued, and Lance found that as long as nobody was truly hurt, he was just fine with that.

[the-formerone]

5, 14 & 17 for the writers ask thing! before you as the fic for 14 :)

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?

Ahh, I’d have to pick ‘before you’. It started w/ @dimancheetoile‘s fic ‘Seeking Respect’. She wanted to write a couple of fics and was asking for people to give her help picking which to write and I thought the time travel MitoSaku sounded Cool as Hell. I read the first couple chapters and loved it esp the Mito/Saku interactions, then I read A Study in Survival by sprx77 aka @definitelynotaminion and it Changed My Life. Like, totally altered the way I viewed Sakura’s characterization during/post Fourth War. And once I had both of those fermenting in my brain, I just wrote like 1k of my take on it and that was the first chapter of ‘before you’. And it kind of became my hobby fic while I worked on Shikkotsu no Sakura, meaning ‘before you’ became my baby. Generally, it’s just been so much fun to write, from the worldbuilding to the character studies to the plotting. Like I’ve just really enjoyed it! And the response to it has been just so lovely; I did not expect as many people to flock to it, and everyone has been so encouraging w/ very rare exception. It’s my first Naruto fic to break 10k hits and will soon be my first Naruto fic to break 100k words. I’m sad it’ll be over in 5 chapters but SO MUCH is gonna happen in the closing chapters that it’s gonna feel like at least 10 more before it’s over lol. 

14) How did you come up with the title for ‘before you’? - You can ask about multiple stories.

So if you’ve read ‘oh you are my star’ or ‘we’ll go there without stopping’, you’ll know that Golly Sandra by Eisley is the wlw anthem of my youth. It’s such a soft, sweet song, and it’s v close to my heart. The end of the song has this refrain of ‘Oh you know that I have tried so hard for you, for you’ but sometimes my brain hears it as ‘before you’.  And I thought that it fit really well. ‘Before you’ as in Mito coming chronologically before Sakura, and Sakura circumventing that by going back in time; Sakura crash landing on Uzushio before Mito; Sakura seeing the ruin of the world before anyone else in this older world. It just fits everywhere! 

17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on.

The Uchiha had their ridiculous Curse of Hatred that made them only give a shit about their family, but the Inuzuka had the curse of caring-too-goddamn-much-about-everything-and-everyone-we-say-is-ours, which was a long way of saying you couldn’t accuse a loyal dog of doing bad without getting bitten back.

Feel free to ask me more!