wip roundup
tagged by: @lavampira @birues and @fourteenthz !! thanks frens!
tagging with no pressure: @scionshtola @hythlodaes @impossible-rat-babies @galadae @lilas @hylfystt @thevikingwoman @ghostwise @the-rogue-mockingjay
rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it!
okay well... i don't name my wips :c they're all "untitled document" until they're posted. and i usually work on something for a week and then post it right away so i don't have much to offer here 😂
veyer-y angry [wayfarer: effie/veyer]
landmark 2 [estinio modern au]
haurche scars [ffxiv: io/haurche]
flying2garlemald [ffxiv: io/estinien]
esti pining [ffxiv: io/estinien]
(these next three are all me starting and stopping the same WIP because i can't figure it out aaaaaAAAAA)
tired in thavnair [ffxiv: io/estinien]
distracted io [ffxiv: io/estinien] (suggestive)
demi4demi feels [ffxiv: io/estinien] (suggestive)
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If Four Score is your second favorite my little pony fanfiction, then whats your favorite?
Fallout Equestria, the only one I currently love enough to have a print copy of.
Really, though, everyone knows I like FO:E. Five Score is one I don't talk a lot about, but God damn if I couldn't write a whole fucking essay on it.
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Prior events of the day made me think that Juno is definitely the type of gal to have played those shitty little flash dress up games growing up. He also strikes me as a Bratz dude over a Barbie or a MH dude. Do any of these ancient readings ring true? Or would he not fucking say that, as they say?
Juno is definitely a flash game enjoyer I think. Obviously a dress up game appreciator (I would not be surprised if they got outfit inspo from some), though I could see them playing a lot of different ones too. I can see them being a big fan of the devilish hairdresser series and drawing gay fanart of the angel girl and devil girl. (I’m currently picturing that one meme of the guy leaning against a poster going “oh [character name] we’re really in for it now” but with the devil and angel girls. those are her idols fr).
As for the dolls, I actually don’t think they’d be huge on bratz. I can see him liking a lot of fashion dolls as a whole though, but specifically she strikes me as an Ever After High girlie. 100% up her alley and she was devastated that the series never continues. He’s obviously a Cupid stan but I imagine she’d also be fond of Ashlynn, Darling, and Lizzie. I don’t remember her name but the white rabbit girl too. She was cool I think Juno would like her.
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31 Days of Horror Day 16: Theatre
Content warnings: death, descriptions of corpses and decaying
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The Lasalle name held no prestige even when the family’s grand theater by the city square blazed with lamplight every night. It hung faded over a boarded-up entrance with cracking, peeling letters, and crass graffiti on the right wall facing the street.
The chandeliers still hang from the entrance hall, dripping with cobwebs swaying like wraiths. The mirrors have largely fractured, the gilded paint on their frames cracked and chipped. Beer bottles and cigarette butts litter the old tiles with scuffed flower motifs.
Callista alone remembers the grandeur of the theater. She sits patiently in the audience (although she must admit her patience is wearing as thin as the threadbare seats) pulling the cotton that spills out, the once-rich burgundy chairs now a dull brown. She pays no mind; only, she sighs loudly when a large rat skitters by her feet.
It does a double take when it sees her - rats are such intelligent creatures - but, discerning no harm, it runs away, no doubt back to its partner and many, many rat children.
The audiences found the rats dreadful. The ladies would clutch at the pearls that choked them, fainting when one ran by, and the gentlemen would oh so gallantly (gentlemen always considered themselves gallant, as if it was such a tremendous task, this calming after seeing rats in a crowded city) catch them, holding them stiffly upright. Callista used to peek out from the doors on the side of the amphitheater if the manager wasn’t looking.
She remembers Viola most all, with eyes like spotlights from the back of the theater, trained on Callista.
There are no simpering young ladies and their chivalrous escorts to mind the rats now. What is theatre with no audience?
The orchestra plays silently tonight, as every night. It still brings the hair on the back of her neck to a stiff stand, goose prickles up and down her arms, a quickening heartbeat. Or at least, she remembers these sensations.
The flesh forgets, but perhaps, tonight, it remembers. Perhaps tonight, as with every night before, or so Callista hopes, there is a bit of land outside of town where wild clover dances, and underneath, the bones try to clasp their fingers together, and the descendants of worms from decades ago constrict unknowingly compelled by some small part of a diaphragm their ancestors pushed through.
She pushes her skirts under her legs, leaning stubbornly back into the chair. Presses her lips together as hard as she can. Somewhere, maybe, there’s a fox who lives only because her starving great-great-great-grandmother, through sheer luck, dug up the body of a contralto and, because nature loves irony, tore out her throat. Perhaps that fox makes small, low whimpers as it dreams, the echoes of a song passed down in time.
The stage, empty and dusty, and obscured by shadow, beckons her still. If she snuck into the wings, she would find the floorboards decayed with gaping holes through which a person could fall. The smell of face powder and perfume would be replaced by mildew, and the rustling of skirts and gleeful, sheepish shushing would be nothing but insects and rodents running and fighting in the walls.
If she stood on that stage, no spotlight would save her from the consuming, frigid dark that enveloped the building.
It used to be: no matter how hard she practiced, she could still feel the pounding of her heart in her throat when the audience’s eyes and ears focused in on her hotter than any spotlight.
Callista looks to her left, to her right, behind her, above to the mezzanine. Empty. Empty. Empty. A one-woman audience with no show to watch.
She touches her throat (metaphorically, of course. She hasn’t had a throat or a sense of touch in decades), and turns her attention back to the empty stage.
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