#i should make like a general statement but--if i ever post a WIP i welcome constructive criticism for it!

[cassynite]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @dujour13!! Thanks so much--I have been focusing more on drawing than writing lately but unlike my writing drawings don't look good till they're done so here's a bit from chapter 3 of Daeran fic (which at this rate is going to get finished before chapter 2 lol).

----

It's the movement from the guards stiffening to attention that alerts Daeran to the figure walking his way. She is still in the armor that she wore at Iz, when she threw herself into the maw of Deskari's trap and emerged alive. Then, she'd looked regal and triumphant and only half as contrite to Sparrow as she should have been. She'd graced Daeran with a nod as cold and remote as he'd ever seen from her, as if he'd just successfully pulled off yet another grand statement snubbing the Mendevian old guard, and not just miraculously come back from the dead and the horrors of the Abyss.

She does not look cold or regal now. Her armor is stained from the battle in Iz, and her pinned hair and her face is spattered with crusted blood. She looks tired, like the sun orchard elixir is only wallpaper over her century and more of living. The expression she wears when staring at him, sitting right outside the war room waiting for Sparrow, is complicated.

"Hello," the queen of Mendev says. Her voice is low, and slightly hoarse. "Do you mind if I sit next to you?"

She doesn't wait for a response, for Daeran's refusal--and it would have been a refusal, as if he wants to sit next to his honored cousin--but when she does settle next to him, he doesn't rise. He's waiting for Sparrow after all. If the lauded queen wishes to endure his presence until the Knight Commander arrives, he is not going to flee from her presence.

It is several minutes of silence thick enough to cut a dagger through before Galfrey sighs. "I'm sorry."

It takes a second for the words to register as real--but Daeran would never even dare to imagine Galfrey apologizing. It's enough for his self-control to break and to stop pretending she isn't there; when he looks over, Galfrey is already turned slightly toward him, her lips tight.

He finally recognizes the expression on her face: guilt. He doesn't even think he's seen her show something as mortal as guilt before.

"For what, exactly?" His voice is hard. "Sending us to the abyss to what was, in retrospect, almost certainly our deaths? Or something else? I never did forgive you for how you made me cut short my little sorcerer's contest in '14."

Galfrey ignores the barb. "Stopping the Nahyndrian crystals by any means was necessary for the war efforts as a whole. If anyone could have survived it, it was the Commander--and she did. But. I should not have let you go with her. I should not have forced you to stay in the Crusade in the first place. It was...rash. And it ultimately put you in more danger than you should have ever been placed in."

Half a dozen responses form in Daeran's mind--how if he'd really wanted to leave the Crusade, he would have found a way. How Galfrey's petty little revenge had become the best thing that had ever happened to him. How he didn't need her, or anyone, to baby him, and that he was capable of making his own decisions--and had made them already, when it came to so many things about the Crusade and its Knight Commander.

He gives a graceful half-shrug, turning his attention away from Galfrey in a cutting end to the conversation. "I rather imagined you'd be glad to see the back of me. I can hardly tarnish my family's good name and my mother's legacy if I was already where everyone assumed I belonged anyway."

To his surprise, Galfrey lets out a small chuckle. "You're hardly beyond recall. Your mother was a hellion in her younger years as well, you know," she comments.

It's rare for Daeran to be rendered speechless, but he opens his mouth and for several seconds, no words come out. Not once in his life has his mother's memory ever been anything than that of a paragon of virtue. Finally, he says, "Excuse me?"

"Oh yes." Galfrey straightens, some life returning to her expression as she recalls the distant past. "She even ran away from home, tried to renounce her title. Your grandparents were far more traditional in their upbringing, and Silaena apparently chafed under the expectations of her role. She went off when she was--maybe a few years younger than you at the time, really. Joined a traveling theater troupe."

[ween-kitchens]

lilacs and poppies (ch. 1)

this has been a wip for like two weeks now and I just finished it now so you’re getting this at 20 to 1 in the am because I wanna post it now 

basically this’ll be chapter one of god knows how many I can actually be able to finish, but it’s basically just a scarian flower shop au because i’m Normal about them  (i’ll tag as #lilacs and poppies  cause i have no idea how many millions of flower shop aus there are on this site lol)

it’s also very gay so yeah 

“well, hello there!” scar says, hearing the bell above the door jingle. he wheels over to the counter. “welcome to scar’s flower emporium! how can I help you-“ he looks up at the person who’s just entered and feels his heart skip a beat. “-today..?”

the man who is walking up to the counter may just be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. he’s fiddling with the cuffs of his red sweater as he reaches scar.

“hey, i’m grian. I run the new records shop next door.” he gestures to the wall on the right hand side. “it opens in about a week.”

“oh, in that case, welcome!” scar beams, hoping his face isn’t too noticeably red. “I might have to visit it myself. so, are you here to say hello, or are you looking for something?”

“I was looking for some advice?” grian says. “y’see, I wasn’t too sure about what would look good as decor in the interior, and one look in here tells me you’re pretty skilled in that area.”

scar raises an eyebrow, but can’t help grinning. “i’m flattered.” he says.

“I was hoping, if it isn’t too much to ask, if you could pop by and suggest some ways I can liven it up? you’ve done it beautifully in here.” grian says, looking around.

“well, it’s a sunday, so i’m closing early. I can probably come by at around three if you’d like.” scar says, praying grian doesn’t see how much he’s blushing.

grian’s smile broadens. “it’s a date.” he says cheerily, and if scar wasn’t already flustered enough by that comment, he adds, “oh, also, which flowers would you recommend?”

“for- for your store?” scar asks.

“just in general.” grian shrugs. “like, your favourite flowers.”

“oh, uhm.” scar is definitely bright pink now. “we-well my favourite flowers are lilacs and poppies.”

“awesome, thank you.” grian smiles, before turning and walking out of the shop, the bell tinkling.

once grian is out of sight, scar buries his face in his hands. okay, no, this is fine. he can manage a pretty guy next door. even if the guy in question is as charismatic as he (usually) is and is incredibly good at making innocent statements sound romantic. it’s fine.

the bell jingles again, and scar nearly jumps out of his skin. luckily, though, it isn’t grian.

“oh, mumbo, thank god.” he breathes.

“hey, what’s up?” mumbo asks.

“you would not believe the ordeal i’ve just endured.” scar says, wheeling out from behind the counter. “honestly, I should get a medal or something for it.”

“what happened?” mumbo is grinning, which is not the correct response.

“have- have you seen that man?” scar points to the wall connecting his and grian’s shops. “the one who owns the record store?”

“yeah, he and I are friends.” mumbo says. “why?”

“you’re what?!” scar exclaims. it comes out slightly squeaky. “you mean to tell me you’re friends with the most beautiful man on earth and you never thought to tell me?!”

mumbo blinks. then his grin widens. “oh, I see. so, you’ve just met him?”

“yes!” scar says. “and he- you won’t believe what he said to me. he said that he liked my decorating, so i’m going to his store at three to help him, and when I suggested it, he said ‘it’s a date’!”

mumbo does not seem to realise how dire of a situation he’s in. “isn’t that just a thing people say?”

“well I might have thought that too, if he didn’t immediately follow up with asking me what my favourite flowers are!” scar says. “I mean, how am I meant to cope when someone that pretty says that?”

“so.. the issue here is that you’re crushing, incredibly hard, on someone you’ve just met.” mumbo says.

“yes!” scar says. “and that he seems to be doing everything in his power to send me to an early grave via a gay panic induced heart attack.”

“you’ve had one conversation with him.” mumbo deadpans.

“exactly! if i’m this bad after barely exchanging a few sentences with him, I might actually implode if have to hold a proper conversation.” scar says. “and that’d be incredibly embarrassing.” he adds.

“I mean, you’ve only interacted with him once, so how have you already fallen for him?” mumbo asks.

“well, I wouldn’t say fallen for him.” scar flusters. “more.. crushing. relatively hopelessly.”

“whatever it is, you’ve barely met him.” mumbo says. “and like, i’m not saying he’s bad, cause he isn’t, but I just don’t get how you can start liking someone so fast.”

“i’m a weak man, mumbo.” scar grins. “he’s handsome, charismatic and likes flowers. I was doomed from the start. i’m jealous that you get to be his friend.”

mumbo laughs. “so, what, you want me to be an inside spy?”

scar snaps his fingers. “exactly!”

“no, that was a joke-“

“nope, too late, i’ve already said yes.” scar interrupts. “so, what-“

scar is in turn interrupted by the jingling of the bell.

“hi, sorry to bother- oh, hey mumbo.” it’s grian.

mumbo grins, and scar shoots him a glare before turning to smile at grian.

“hi grian.” mumbo says.

“you know scar?” grian asks. good to know he does know scar’s name.

“yeah, have done for a while now.” mumbo is doing a very poor job of being understated. he keeps smirking at grian then at scar. scar wants to hit him. “same with grian.”

“that’s a coincidence.” scar chuckles. “who’d have thought we’d have neighbouring shops as well?”

“not me.” mumbo grins. grian hits him not-so-subtly with the back of his hand. huh.

“anyway, what brings you back here?” scar asks grian.

“ah, I was going to ask for something but I seem to have completely forgotten what!” grian laughs. “sorry to trouble you.”

“oh, not at all.” scar smiles. he can tell grian is lying, but he’s not going to ask. “it’s been relatively slow today anyway, it’s no bother.” especially if I get to see you.

“d’you mind if I steal mumbo away for a minute?” grian asks.

“I do not.” scar says breezily.

“um-“ mumbo starts. grian grabs his wrist and pulls him out the shop, pausing to wave over his shoulder before the door closes.

scar smiles to himself. he has got to learn what grian’s favourite flowers are.

[olga-eulalia]

Notes: Without having gotten an opinion on this thing, my decision to go ahead and post it anyway may not be a wise one, but... Maybe someone out there has any tips on how to improve it or knows someone who wouldn’t mind looking over a wip like this?

Unbeta’d OT3 WIP. PG-13. Pre-S4. (SilverMadi, SilverFlint, MadiFlint as of now) Warnings: Non-native speaker writing here.

Find the updated version here.

I.

On an island where access to goods was limited, a decent bottle of rum was hard to come by, but as it happened, two crew members had availed themselves of the secret stash of one of their mates, and in order to put an end to the ensuing altercation, Silver had taken swift action and confiscated the disputed item. He was fairly certain he could put it to better use.

As, just that afternoon, he'd managed to counter one of his teacher’s elaborate attacks with success for the first time since his lessons had begun almost two months ago. Granted, the execution may have been a bit sloppy, but it was as good a reason for celebration as any.

Wrapping both arms around her middle while she put hers around his neck, he pulled Madi flush against him and, ignoring the twinge of pain in his leg, lifted her off the ground just to hear her languorous ungh at the feel of his strength. His lips slid over the sweet curve of her chin and over the plush shape of her mouth hungrily, starting a kiss that continued long after her initial indulgence had transformed into something much more demanding.

Then he told her.

“So you’re making progress,” she said.

They'd had variations of this conversation before. She didn't like the fact that he was becoming enamoured with the idea of entering the thick of battle himself. She, too, knew that fate was cruel, that skill and cleverness did not protect against stray bullets.

So by the time he made his way across the settlement, his giddiness had somewhat diminished and he actually caught himself wondering how likely it was that Flint would receive his gift with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

At this hour, the voices of the forest had grown loud. A breeze was ruffling through the palm fronds that stood in black tufts against the sunset's afterglow, brushing through his undone hair and snaking over the exposed skin at his throat and arms, less hot now that evening turned into night.

Flint's small thatched hut, much frequented and often crammed full of people during daytime, finally stood in solitude, lit in the dim flickering light of nearby torches.

"Can I come in?" Silver asked, poised to open the entrance door.

A groan was audible through the delicate timber structure. It was followed by a grumble that sounded a lot like, "When are you gonna give me a moment's peace?" Stripped of coat and boots, Flint had laid himself down to rest and was barely willing to do more than lift an eyelid when Silver entered. “All right. Who threw the first punch this time?”

“Please,” Silver said, pushing the door closed. “You know I’d never bother you with something as trivial as that.”

Among the jumbled items and stacks of paper on the table that stood between them, Silver found two cups which he arranged on either side, positioning the bottle of rum smack in the middle. A flame in the vicinity gave off sooty smoke, sputtering on its wick.

Flint’s smirk came on slowly. Demonstrating true resilience by placing his naked feet back on the dirt floor and abandoning his bed, he took a seat at the table across from Silver.

They had sat together like this on several occasions, assembling military troops into various constellations on a grander scale than ever before. Flint assessing people based on their merit in battle, Silver providing the information on who could actually work together as a unit. To be taken into confidence by a man as formidable as Flint was nothing if not intoxicating. Whereas other people received precise orders and curt statements from Flint, Silver was there to observe their germination.

Even now, when in less than two weeks they were going to make their move against Rogers and invade Nassau in a painstakingly rehearsed attack to reclaim their home, the experience had lost none of its potency.

"I'd sleep more soundly if we had five ships," Flint said, clearing some space by gathering paper into a pile.

"I thought you said you could do it with three ships."

"I could,” Flint stated. “Under ideal circumstances. But one has to account for all eventualities." He glanced at Silver, making sure the allusion did not go unnoticed.

"So how do you propose we get that fifth ship? Steal it? Coerce its captain and bribe the crew while we're at it?"

"I was thinking we ought to take a more practical approach this time,” Flint mused, slowly leaning in and reaching for the bottle, “and advertise for it in the newspaper.”

Caught off guard, Silver all but choked on a laugh. Flint’s delighted chuckle was short like a hiccup. There was no telling whether it would ever stop feeling strange to joke around with the most feared pirate captain in the New World.

Uncorking the bottle, Flint began to explain, “Good old Captain Hewe once did, almost six years ago now, but it actually turned out not quite how everyone thought it would...”

As it so often did, their conversation went on a tangent about Nassau's past and its colourful denizens. Silver listened to Flint's stories besottedly, flushed by drink. One or two of them sounded familiar already, but, as always, it was the telling that he found himself swept up in. Following every cadence and gesture like the melodious course of a river was a pleasure not to be missed. But he’d be deceiving himself if he didn’t admit that he’d trade the life stories of fifty pirates for just one more about Flint’s past.

Once again, he found himself puzzling over Flint’s relationship with Thomas, how they’d been with each other, who had encouraged who in the months leading up to Flint's exile. There were so many questions he wanted to ask about the Hamiltons, but after the second time he'd done so, he knew better than to mention the name. Though he wanted to hoard every last piece of information about them, he understood that he had no right to ask for so much when he himself was unwilling to part with even a little of what was deemed so important by Flint.

Before long, the talk swerved back to the topic that no one on the island could escape from for even an hour, and Flint said, looking down into his cup momentarily, "We can't afford to screw this up."

It was an utterly ludicrous notion to Silver that defeat should feature in Flint’s considerations at all. Which was probably the biggest pointer to the fact that he’d spent so much time bolstering his captain’s confidence that he himself appeared to have lost the ability to doubt him altogether.  

But Silver couldn’t bring himself to be bothered about it tonight. He had sunk down in his chair and had his chin propped up on the pad of his thumb, one finger tucked between his lips. It was that last detail that trapped Flint’s gaze when his thoughts went straying.

And it was that half-forlorn, half-hungry look on Flint’s face reminiscent of a mangy creature that drew Silver out of the comfort of his chair.

Supporting his steps by leaning his weight against the table, he moved along its edge to stand in front of Flint, who looked up at him, blinking slowly. With the intention of speaking his words in the most emphatic manner possible, Silver put his hand on the back of Flint’s chair and leaned down. But then instead, because it seemed the more encouraging thing to do, leaned down a little further and placed a kiss on Flint's brow.

And then another on the shy curve of his cheek. And, invited by a subtle lift of Flint’s chin, on his lips as well. They were soft and generous in the thicket of that ginger beard, hot and humid. Silver, welcomed by a sigh like a breath, settled in to take a long taste of them. Surprised by the surge of want that ripped through him with a force that seemed at odds with the tender nature of his affection and filled his body to the brim with exhilaration until he felt himself on the precipice of something beautiful, yet terrifying.

Both of them were breathing hard by the time they paused. Flint took that opportunity to turn his head away and then make a retreat to his bed where he sat down heavily, putting his head against the wall and sprawling his limbs as though the strength had gone out of them.

He looked terribly young in that moment, his skin gilded by the light, glowing in warm hues of amber. “If, for whatever reason, it does go pear-shaped,” he said, “I don’t want you in the fray.”

Grabbing both their cups, Silver followed him to his bed and sat down next to him. “Is that why you’ve been teaching me how to fight for all these weeks?” he asked. “Jesus Christ. Am I truly that bad at it?”

Flint didn’t take the bait. “Please don’t deliberately misunderstand me on this issue. We need someone to continue the fight.”

“Who’s we?” Silver asked, upset that he hadn’t been able to divert Flint’s thoughts from going down that path. He certainly wasn’t going to fall in line behind Teach, whose sole motivation for being part of their invasion force was revenge, and who was not remotely interested in any of their nobler goals. A war needed a leader in possession of not just competence and daring, but also a greater vision. Something that Billy, too, regrettably lacked. “As much as that may sound like just another bout of sentimentality, there will be no fight without you,” he said, shoving Flint’s cup at him so that its contents slopped over, adding, "You're a lousy drunk.”

"Says the man who just got all sentimental.”

Silver didn’t reply, silenced by his inability to deny the accusation, filled with a maddening sense of agitation.

They probably could’ve lived as though the kiss had never happened, lived with it as with the memory of a dream. But now, after having that glimpse of how they could be, Silver was less than convinced that they should.

II.

Standing in grainy ocean water, looking at the horizon, he found himself in possession of both his feet. That was how he knew he was dreaming. That was how he knew he needn’t be afraid of the wave that was building itself to an immense height out there on the shoal, moving towards the beach with unhesitating swiftness where it eclipsed the sun’s light. As its foaming crest was towering above him, he felt confident that he needn’t draw breath either, but even in his dreams his body followed its own logic and made him take a big gulp of air just as the whole weight of the wave fell down upon him like a mountain and submerged him in cold, dark depth.

He gasped, awakened by Madi’s touch on his shoulder.

“Sorry. Bad dream,” he said, squinting into the light of the lantern dangling from the ceiling. Failing to grasp her withdrawing hand, he tried to communicate a grateful smile.

“What are you doing, John?” she whispered. She was crouching by the bed, a frown tucked between her eyebrows.

Befuddled as he was, it took him a moment to remember that he’d promised her to be back by midnight and that, judging by the candles’ heights, it was considerably later than that. It took him even longer to realize that he was still in Flint’s hut, in Flint’s bed, with Flint’s body pressed against him, faint gusts of breath coming down over the slope of his neck.

“I fell asleep,” he said by way of apology, tugging his shirt collar back into place and fishing about for his prosthetic leg on the floor, experiencing a spike of panic when it took him several attempts to find it.

All that shifting about stirred Flint awake as well, who sat upright with a small noise of discomfort. “Madi?” Initially confused by her presence in his hut, it didn’t take long for him to make the connection.

“What happened here?” she demanded to know, once Silver was sitting, squeezing his left leg into its leather contraption, and Flint had slid out of bed.

“I kissed him,” Silver said preemptively, surprising all of them.

“You kissed him,” Madi repeated, then drew in a large breath so that her collarbones stood in stark relief. She threw a doubtful look at both of them as she tried to sort through her thoughts. “Show me how,” she said.

“I don’t think that’s a--”

“Not you,” she silenced Silver, holding up a hand. “You,” she said, meaning Flint.

Looking at the situation through her eyes, Silver wouldn’t trust himself to be truthful either. “You can’t expect him to do that.”

“Please,” she addressed Flint, cutting Silver out of the discussion entirely. “I need to know.”

It was difficult to say whether it was the tone of command in her voice and the sense of duty it inspired or whether it was something else entirely that compelled Flint to indulge her demand. Straightening his posture, he stepped closer to her. Stalling, brushing his beard into shape with a stroke of his hand, he gave her time to reconsider. Because it was obvious by the way she was fidgeting with the bangle on her left wrist that she wasn’t entirely convinced of her own request, confronted with Flint’s closeness like this. However, she wasn’t one to back down either.

Perhaps Silver should have said something then, but looking at the two of them standing together with barely an inch of light between them, Flint in his black shirt and breeches, Madi in her pale blouse and skirt, he was dazed by the brunt of their beauty, the shapeliness of their figures, the refinement of their features. He was hesitant to breathe, fearing it might disperse the image like an illusion.

Then, with deliberation, Flint began to reenact Silver’s kisses one by one. But while the first made Madi bite back a smile, the second turned her expression contemplative again. Despite her clear order, Flint searched for permission in her eyes to continue, to eventually bend his head and kiss her on the lips, moving his jaw slowly as she opened her mouth ever so slightly to deepen the kiss.

Silver gripped the bedspread with both hands. He was struck to see that none of the intensity he’d felt had been imagined and that not one of his caresses had gone unremembered by Flint.

When it ended, Madi was blinking rapidly. “I need air,” she said.

With his lips in a tight line, Flint watched her leave. Then he shook his head. “All that time we spent together--” He picked an empty cup off the floor and set it down on the table, hard. “You couldn’t even deign to tell me this?”

“You never asked.” Silver finished fastening the strap around his calf, pinching his skin in the haste of the moment.

Flint paused. “Probably because I didn’t want to hear the answer. Probably because I didn’t want to hear. That you love her.”

“I do,” Silver confirmed, because it was the truth. “But I--” he quickly went on to say in the same breath, only to find that he couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t hand over his feelings to Flint just like that.

Flint watched him try to shape the words that wouldn’t come, then looked him in the eye, understanding and leniency softening his expression. “You should go after her,” he said. A final move.

Silver acknowledged his defeat in this, brought about by his own cowardice, and followed Madi out of the door where he found her standing only a few steps away.

“I heard what you said,” she let him know, the weight of her gaze sinking into him like two dark pebbles.

Around the corner of the hut and down a gentle slope, he followed her to the little inland lake at whose edge the Maroons had built their new existence. Its surface stirred in the night breeze, appearing alive with the reflection of orange flame and white moonlight. A couple of toy boats lay beached there in the mud.

“There are things that I want,” Madi began, all of her emotion seemingly contained in the straight line of her back as she looked out across the water. “Things that would seem irreconcilable with the position I occupy. And there are other things that I want, things that seem to exclude one another by their very nature. But I’ve come to realize that they don’t. That, once the necessary struggle is overcome, it’s apparent that one thing always contains the other and that they are never separable to begin with.”

Gathering her skirts, she bent down to set one of the miniature rafts afloat.

Together, in the gentle caress of night, they watched its white sail bob up and down on rippling waves that soon ushered it back towards shore where he retrieved it for her. Her hand lingering on his, she faced him.

“Why are you deliberately keeping the two halves of your life separate, John? Discovering you so torn makes me doubt I ever knew you truly. You must realize that being so divided within yourself you can never hope to love with your whole heart.”

“I just can’t see how to make it work.”

“All it takes is a decision.”

He wasn’t entirely sure he understood her in this. “I don’t think this is my decision to make.”

“I’m telling you. It is,” she said and, after a moment’s hesitation, reached out to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye that had squeezed out unbidden when her words had unknotted some nameless tension within him. “I’ve made mine already.”

“Is she not taking you back?” Flint asked, failing to affect a neutral tone, when Silver cautiously stepped back into his abode a little while later. He appeared to be occupied with taking notes, but too many words had been crossed out on the slip of paper lying in front of him for it to be of any use.

“No, she is.” Silver gripped the back of the chair with one hand, unsure whether he should take a seat.

Flint studied him. “Then what are you doing here?” He wiped the quill dry with a stained rag and then set both aside. There was no malice in his words.

A multitude of unanswered questions had driven Silver to return, but he saw perfectly well that he couldn’t keep demanding answers without offering some of his own. “I came to apologize,” he said, “for not telling you about Madi and me.”

Flint ran his fingertips across his brow, leaving small traces of ink there. By his intake of breath Silver could tell that he was bottling a lengthy sigh.

Flint had been patient with him, but he didn’t know that Silver had spent so much time living from hand to mouth, protecting what little he had in whichever way he could that, at some point, he’d falsely come to believe that any sharing that did not yield explicit gain was equal to a loss. And that he’d only recently come to understand that other people had no such difficult relationship with the concept. That both Madi and Flint might not see his affection for them diminished in any way if they knew that they both had it.

So he continued.

“For not inviting you in,” he said, “when you are clearly as much a part of my life as she is.”

Flint, less stunned and much more scrutinizing in response than expected, leaned back in his chair. “You said she was taking you back,” he mulled over. “On what condition?”