#my chapters be in the ten thousand work count a least

[writingdotcoffee]

Challenge: Write for 10 Minutes Every Day for a Week

It's a common misconception that a daily writing habit takes a huge amount of time and effort to maintain. It doesn't.

With the right tools and systems in place, it can be as leisurely as a walk in a park. You don't have to lose sleep over it. You don't have to chain-smoke cigarettes. You don't have to quit your job and move into the woods to do it.

I'm not sure what is causing this sentiment — perhaps memories from when you joined NaNoWriMo and tried writing thousands of words daily (or a similar push to hit a crazy deadline). While it can work for some, most writers don't write thousands of words every day like that.

This week, I want to challenge you to write for just ten minutes every day. There's no daily word count goal. If you sit there for ten minutes and nothing comes out, that's a success too.

From Dreamer to Writer

Hang on a second. How can you get anything done with just ten minutes per day? I'm glad that you asked!

If you stick to it, you'll write for just over an hour per week, five hours per month and 60 hours per year. According to my writing stats, I average about 1,500 words per hour. That's 90,000 words per year. I'm not a particularly fast writer, but even if you did half of that, you're still in the 50,000 words/year range.

That's a lot of words, considering you're only writing for 10 minutes a day. But there's more.

Occasionally, you'll be in the mood for writing. Your ten minutes fly past, and you're nowhere near done. Maybe you write for 30 minutes, perhaps an hour, working on an exciting chapter of your story.

The words add up faster than you think.

The Challenge

Starting today, write for at least ten minutes per day for a week. You may work on your current WIP, write a short story, blog post or journal.

There's no word goal. As long as you sit down to write, it's a success!

I set up a challenge in Writing Analytics if you'd like to join:

https://app.writinganalytics.co/challenge/647f2785e7b6ddfbda265635

One great thing about WA is that you can set and track time goals for your writing sessions. That makes it super easy to build a writing habit like that:

Happy writing!

[queenie-official]

Chapter Five: ‘A royal wedding’ Bridgerton Au!Anakin

part 1, 2, 3, 4

a/n: sorry this took a while to get out guys😅 i was hanging out with my bestie since she was visiting home from college😋😋 anyways i ended up cutting most dialogue from this chapter just to focus on the emotional aspect- i hope you guys still enjoy 💅✨

a royal wedding was never a small affair for any kingdom. regardless of wether it was public or made private to the people, they would celebrate the conjunction of a happy couple. which seemed ironic considering most royal marriages where strictly out of politics rather than love. you of all people where very aware of the fact considering your situation. so here you are precisely three hours before the wedding pacing in your undergarments as poor Eleanora tries to help get you dressed.

Padme sat on a stool watching you work yourself into a frenzy, she’d already tried to get you to stop but it was futile. in the end you had managed to tune her out entirely to consumed in your own thoughts and worries to process the world around you.

��y/n if you don’t stop moving you’re going to have to show up to your wedding in your underwear” Padme tried once more to garner your attention. slowing to a stop you turn to look at her and then to Eleanora who had quickly seized action the moment you stopped and began putting on your pannier, fearing if she missed the opportunity you’d be a pacing mess again.

“sorry it’s just hard to sit still knowing that i’m going to be a married women in a few hours…” you sigh out still fidgeting slightly as you stood in place but at the very least Eleanora could work with that. Traditionally there would be five to ten bridesmaids with you right now but as much as you got along with your other ladies-in-waiting you didn’t exactly trust them, so it was just the two you knew you could count on most.

“it’s okay to be nervous i was nervous when i got married to my husband” Padme said in a attempt to make you feel less alone. “yes but you did not have the weight of two kingdoms relying on your marriage” you feel the weight of the day pull you down along with what felt like the thousands of layers you where now wearing. yet still Eleanora was not done as she continued to dress you, a wave of fear that you may pass out from how heavy the dress was rushed through you but you pushed it away feeling as if that would be one of the better outcomes of the day rather then some of the other scenarios your brain had come up with.

“i’ve been thinking about it all, what today is going to be like- what the rest of my life is going to be like…” you add running a hand through your hair that still has to be done. you honestly just wished for the day to be over, then you could rest and breath properly once more. free of stress even for just a moment.

“perfectly normal thing to do your majesty” Eleanora said as she finished the final touches of basting on your engageantes. “i just can’t help but feel like something is going to go wrong” you sigh looking down to your hand and staring at the ring that now weighed down your finger, it was a pleasant weight in your opinion. something about it brought a comfort to you, even if the only reason Anakin had given it to you was out of his mothers request. clearly he had thought it worth something to choose a diamond so personal to the place he was from- or maybe you where reading into it too much.

“there’s no sense in worrying about something that has yet to happen.” Padme counters as she and Eleanora both begin to work on your hair once you take a seat in front of your vanity, you were sat at a horrible angle. unable to sit properly with how tight the corset was, you quite literally could not bend. “i feel like i’ll be better prepared if i do” you say with a small pout to your lips that makes padme laugh. “it’s yet to help you thus far” she points out as you nervously twist the ring on your finger, the only thing you could really use to occupy yourself without moving too much. “maybe i just find comfort in worrying, that’s strange isn’t it?”

“i wouldn’t say strange but i also wouldn’t say it’s normal” well you certainly could always count on Padme for being honest. your whole body ached from the position you where in as pin after pin is inserted into your hair, ensuring that everything stay in place. “by the end of today i’m going to be a wife. that doesn’t even sound real”

“the sooner you are a wife the council will schedule the coronation and Alderaan will have a queen and king again” Padme says happily probably thinking that would make you feel better since you’d finally have the control over the council you needed but all it really did was make you cringe inwardly. “No pressure” you mumble as they finish and you can stand again, feeling just a smidge of relief not having the corset dig into you as much. looking over yourself in the mirror you did have to admit for as much as it was a pain the outcome was beautiful. the dress itself was a work of art, each layer having intricate lace detailing as well as pearls and ribbons sewn in- it reminded you of the porcelain dolls you played with as a child.

“you’ll do great y/n, and we’ll be by your side through it all” Padme said with a smile and you felt yourself relax. she was right you could do this, and if something did happen you knew you had people to fall back on.

less then any minute now and you would be walking down the isle of the church. You weren’t to be seen by anybody until then, that did little to help settle your nerves. Padme and Eleanora where now waiting with the rest of the ton inside the walls of the church, you had no one to voice your thoughts to. no one to help ease you, and you found yourself growing increasingly more nauseous. the heat of the day mixed with the weight of your gown did not make it any easier for you, the earlier fear of passing out coming back in a brief wave before you pushed it down.

there you stood in one of the private rooms awaiting for the Chancellor who’d be the one to walk you down the aisle. you hated it, that he’d be the one to walk you. it felt like a cruel joke in a way, he’d been the one to convince the rest of the royal council along with Barclay of the rash decision for Anakin to be the one you marry. and now here he was being the one to hand you off to him, as much as it irked you the thing that bothered you the most was solely the fact it wasn’t your father. honestly you’d finally accepted the fact this was truly happening but now there was a grief that surrounded it. mourning the fact your parents would not be there to see you.

twisting the ring on your finger, round and round. over and over- you had to admit this was much better than pacing. less effort for sure, less dizzying since you weren’t the one going in circles. circles that matched your thoughts, round and round. you take a deep breath the door to the room opening, turning round to face the Chancellor. you felt your throat dry as you nod to him.

now walking along the corridors of the church heading to the Nave. you could hear your heartbeat in your ears, and for a moment you thought you may actually pass out. thankfully the sound of trumpets and a piano rang throughout the building pulling you back down to reality. the doors in front of you now opening, you could only hope you didn’t look as sickly as you felt. “your majesty” Chancellor Valorum called your attention to him, glancing him over slightly confused only to notice his extended arm. right, it was time- you take hold and force a smile hoping you looked happy enough for everyone to believe you.

you look ahead of you as you both begin walking down the aisle, finally meeting the eyes of your soon to be husband. he stood tall, and was probably dressed the best you’d ever seen him so far- though it’s not like you saw him much to begin with. you decided it best to focus solely on him, the smile on your face becoming a bit more genuine. you may not know him personally yet but you could still admire his looks- it felt a bit wrong initially like you weren’t supposed to like how he looked. as if it would diminish the fact you didn’t see him as a lover, though you guessed you should probably change that line of thinking anyway.

he was truly handsome, nice jawline. pretty eyes, curls that you felt added a boyish charm to him. and then there was his smile, you hadn’t even realized you focused in on it as you now stood before him. his hand extended for you to take so the ceremony could begin. his smile was warm and soft, it calmed you. gently taking his hand as you stand side by side now, facing one another head on. you move your gaze up meeting his eyes, soft blues that where already staring down at you. selfishly you allow yourself to get lost in them, tuning out the world around you not even listening to what the Archbishop spoke.

the only thing that reminded you of where you were and what you where doing was the sound of Anakins voice. “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” he recited the vows the archbishop had just told him which meant it was now your turn. half listening to what the archbishop said before he gave you the very same vows to repeat, nodding to let you know to go. “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” you say with a surprising confidence, you turn your face away from Anakin’s for the first time since the ceremony began.

now looking towards the archbishop as he closed the ceremony. a new ring added to both of your fingers, a wedding band.

Warmth and music, that’s all you felt as you danced a waltz with Anakin. you were actually having fun, he made it easy in all honesty. conversation between you both was flowing naturally and he made you laugh- you where pretty sure he enjoyed making you laugh. there was of course the voice in the back of your head that reminded you it was all for show. that you where both only acting like two people in love for the hundreds of eyes on you. part of you could only hope that at the very least a little bit of it was real, something small and budding that might have a chance of flourishing.

you refocus on the man in front of you, not wanting to sour a good moment with your concerns. allowing him to dance you both into a stupor, song after song. paying no one else a mind, regardless of the situation this day was about you two. a joyous occasion, and for once you did not need to think about anyone else but yourself and each other- for once you did not feel the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders. instead you felt like a normal girl from the ton dancing with a man who had simply asked for a dance, a dance that lasted for hours. of course all good things have to come to an end, and eventually your endless dance came to a halt.

you both walk hand in hand outside along the carpet preparing to speak to each guest at the ball and bid them their farewells. it was a little chilly but as it happened Anakin ran warm, and with him alongside you the chill of the night bothered you no longer.

part 6

Tag list: @luvvfromme @gatekeepingirlboss

@bimbo-baggins86 @bby-imasociopath

okay loves🤭 i hope you enjoyed this one, i know the ball scene was a bit short but don’t worry this will not be the only Ball, and the next time there is one it will include a lot more 😋 i just wanted to focus mostly on the wedding portion and didn’t want to draw to far away from that 💋💋 anyways have a great day huns Xx

[stelladess]

Who among the main cast of Arknights is the best cook?

I would define the "main cast" for the main story as a whole as being Amiya, Ch´en, Kal´tsit, W and the doctor, if we go into main characters for individual storylines things would get a lot more complicated (I think one could make the argument Ch´en is only for the Reunion arc but she appears more after then too then most operators do so I count her for the whole game too)

The doctor´s diet seems to consist mostly of protein bars, cup noodles and snacks. This would indicate they are not a good cook... however we actually get no information suggesting they are bad at it, they just do not do it much. They taught Amiya which shrooms are edible which she made a mushroom stew out of in Vigilo, which apparently tasted good. So I think we can from that infer that pre amnesia doctor was probably at least average of a cook, post amnesia jury is out on though. Probably bad at it due to not knowing how, and not having had time to relearn it yet though.

Ch´en´s diet consists of energy drinks and protein bars, or going for takeout. Ch´en is 28 years old and has lived on her own for about a decade or so, she can probably cook some stuff but it seems like she is still eating the college student diet despite being a working adult for years, we can infer that she is average to bad at it but probably knows HOW to cook at least.

Kal´tsit.... does not do regular cooking. She only does the kind you do in a lab, HOWEVER! Her weird green nutrient cubes that she gave the doctor at one point supposedly tasted surprisingly good. This suggests that while her cooking is extremely unconventional she is actually very good at it. And being tens of thousands of years old, having had all that time to perfect her craft, Kal´tsit is likely really good at it, even if she does not flex it often. She merely finds her lab made nutrient cubes to be a more efficient way of getting nutrients and still tasty.

W is also apparently pretty good at cooking. Hoederer, whose cooking consists of unseasoned boiled chicken, claims that W is really good. Which admittedly might just be in comparison to him and Ines, which seems to be a very low bar. But! In the 123-rhodes comics Paprika is also impressed with her cooking. We have nothing suggesting she is bad at it and a bunch of circumstantial evidence for her being good at it. She is at least average and quite possibly downright good at it.

And last but not least; Amiya. She seems to be fine at it. She keeps saying she is not good and can only do the recipes Gummy taught her... but she also did that mushroom stew, every time anyone tries her cooking or baking they say its good, she made those skewers in the cooking spinoff, with help admittedly, but they turned out good. Point is Amiya might not know how to make many dishes but she seems good at making what she knows how to make. Also like, it is Gummy´s recipes and why she is not as good as say Matterhorn who is an adult professional chef with years of experience, Gummy seems to be considered pretty darn good, and if Amiya is following her recipes, while she may be very "formulaic" in only knowing a few dishes (those+the skewers+some basic stuff like the shroom stew) the things she does know how to do is pretty tasty. Calling batter "embryo" does not make it taste any worse.

So my ranking would go something like:

Kal´tsit>W>Amiya>Ch´en>Doctor

However there are two wild cards that are spoilers from chapter 14 that might give W and Amiya stat buffs in this department too. But I doubt it would be big enough to catch up to Kal´tsit´s massive lead in her tens of thousands of years of culinary experience.

If anyone disagrees with this then let them speak now or forever remain silent!

[nine-of-words]

Something Borrowed (Part Eleven)

M Gargoyle x M Reader

PREVIOUS || STORY TAG

Wordcount: 7437

Content Warnings: Discussion of a Breakup, Brief Mention of Fantasy Catholicism

I’m not dead and here is another chapter! However this part ran way too long in the original plan, so I’ve decided to break it in two. It is somehow still more than 7k, so, whoops. Fittingly, we’re going with a baker’s dozen for this story rather than a dozen.

The anticipation is killing you.

You are in the back of a rented van, babysitting two comically large, magically chilled boxes full of partially constructed wedding cake. Your eyes are eagle sharp as you monitor it on the way to the venue.

It's something you've done hundreds, if not thousands of times before at this point, but it still makes you feel slightly queasy, watching the result of your hard work wobble and sway in its supported box with every little bump in the road.

But this time, you're an extra bit queasy for a different reason, as you hold your device out in front of you.

If you're going to call somebody, you need to have called them… at least twenty minutes ago, now.

Between working double time late into the night to remake this cake, and getting it ready for delivery today, you haven’t had time to make the call at a reasonable hour. 

Until now.

…Or so you tell yourself. 

You definitely waited until the last possible minute, at least partially out of fear.

You look down at the screen, the pixels composing the letters of Carlyle’s name starting to lose their meaning from staring at them for so long.

You suppose the second best time to call is now. 

You finally swallow down the dread and start to mentally count down from ten. 

Ten, Nine, Eight-

Ugh, what are you even doing? You’re just going to make a fool of yourself!

Seven, Six, Five…

What if he doesn’t pick up? What then? It’s the middle of the day on a work day! He's a lawyer, he's probably on a courtroom right now-

Four… Three… Two…

And what if he does pick up? You should’ve rehearsed what you were going to say better-

One.

You force yourself to hit the button before you can hesitate again. The sound of ringing on the other end is like a series of white hot pokers in your chest. Your eyes are screwed closed in anticipation.

It rings once. 

You consider wrenching open the sliding door of the van and tossing your voci out onto the highway speeding by.

It rings twice…

“Hello?”

Even with just the single word, he sounds absolutely incredulous. You can clearly imagine the way his eyebrows arch up when he hears something particularly egregious.

“... Hi,” You finally manage to force the word out on a forceful exhale, but then immediately stall, the ghost of your next sentence leaving you in a near-silent rattle.

“...Hello. Are you… okay?”

“Yes- Well, no. Maybe?” You laugh nervously. “It really depends on what your answer to my next question is…”

“Hah, well- I’m listening, whenever you're ready.”

You take a deep breath of air, fist nervously clenching your apron hem, then swallow it down with your remaining pride.

“I know this is last minute and I know I don’t really have the footing to ask you a favor right now, but… I really need you,” You say, mouth already dry and your voice beginning to shake, the words harder to excavate the more you scrape out. “Do you think that you could… would you be my date to this wedding?”

“Of course. I’ll be there.” Carlyle’s response is more nonchalant and so much lighter in tone than you expected; relieved, even. You hear fabric rustling and what sounds like the subtle grinding of stone on the other end. “Send me the address. And the dress code- I'm assuming there is one.”

“R-Really?” You say in disbelief; you expected rejection, or at least much more pushback. You expected to have to beg for forgiveness. “Just like that?”

“Yes?” He lets out a soft, barely audible laugh. “Were you expecting me to turn you down?”

He has a point. What were you expecting, exactly? Bitter resentment? But no, of course he’s behaving in a kind and supportive manner- He’s never given you a reason to think he’d act any differently. You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

“I… suppose I was. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“Just so we're on the same page here,” The rustling of movement on Carlyle’s end of the line continues. “I’m going as your date, but is this a date? I'll still join you in a platonic capacity, of course, so there's no pressure, but I would like things to be transparent from the start.”

“A date!” You blurt out, but quickly clarify; “A, uh, not platonic one. A romantic one, I mean. I-If that's what you want.”

“You don't know how happy I am to hear you say that.”

“Sorry- I think I might know. Just a tick-” You’re overjoyed and devastated at the same time, struggling to blink back the sting of tears at the corners of your eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Really. You don’t have to apologize.”

You try to convince yourself to get off the line, but it’s just so good to hear his voice again, you’re desperate to wring as much of it as you can out of this short interaction- to save it up in case things go south again. But you’ll need to unload this cake soon, and understandably, Carlyle can't stay on the call for much longer either, given the sudden need to pack and commute. So, after giving him the information he needs, you’re forced to cut it short.

You finally say goodbye and end the call, left sitting in the back of the van with the cake, the anxiety weighing on you laced with a bit of pleasant anticipation, now.

One look at the place when you get out of the back of the van, and you’re already intimidated. They certainly didn’t spare any cost, from the look of it. You push the feeling down and remind yourself you have a reason to be here- you’re here for work primarily, no matter what the self-critical voice in the back of your mind is trying to tell you.

The building is an old Elven palace nestled in sprawling gardens, situated on the northern edge of the city and repurposed into an event venue. The exterior is all tall, windy spires and iridescent panes of stained glass, with sprawling plant life tracing cracks where they’ve found purchase. Even from here, you can see that a massive tree growing from the same craggy base of the hill the palace is perched on has started to grow into a hole in the building’s stone facade who knows how long ago- now kept artfully pruned now as a feature, rather than a signal of disrepair, you have to assume.

You walk into the reception venue’s service door from the parking area, somehow even more intimidated by the inside. Fittingly, it’s the palace’s ballroom. Branches of the tree have slowly crept their way in here over the years, twisting through the stone and dotting the cracks with the occasional vine or flower. Long hanging pennants of silky cloth hang down between marble columns and the same rosy stained glass panels from the outside, the backdrop to meticulously set dining tables with live floral centerpieces, evoking what it likely looked like in the past. The high ceiling has some sort of eerie gloss to it, with multiple finely dressed banquet workers in the room seemingly running tests as the lights flicker and twinkle a different color occasionally- you can only imagine what this room will look like with the lighting fully set later.

In your line of work, you’ve seen a lot of wedding ceremonies, or at least the set up preceding them. Elven weddings tend to be showy and overdone, ostentatious in their presentation, and this one is no exception. Everything about the venue you’ve seen so far screams “I paid a lot of gold for this”, which given Trevor’s parents likely foot the bill for it, you’re unsurprised.

As usual when you arrive, your first order of business is to locate the wedding planner, to confirm where to put the end product of your hours of effort. This time, it's a stern looking elven woman in a flowy black and gold jumpsuit and sporting a tight bun atop her head- someone you instantly recognize and find yourself hit with a wave of dread, realizing you have to have this conversation, of all things, right now.

“Ooh, hello!” She says your name, but all you hear is being called up to the gallows. “What a nice surprise it is to see you here!”

This is the wedding planner you were talking to when you had begun to plan your own wedding, when you and Trevor were still engaged. You feel a little bad that you don’t remember her name- you could probably find her card somewhere in your files from the times you’d worked on the same wedding before you hired her, but so much of that time period is such a blur to you now. It feels like a whole different lifetime.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly, fingernails already digging into the strap of your bag of supplies. You force yourself to unclench your fingers. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It has! We haven’t worked on the same event for more than… well, more than a year now, wouldn’t it be?” Her nails tap the datapad in her hands as she types away.

You can hear the question she’s being too polite to ask: It was when we were planning this wedding when it was going to be yours, wasn’t it?

“I changed location, so that might be why.” You offer an explanation.

“When Ms. Devinthal said she had a backup in mind when the groom’s first choice bakery fell through, I had no idea it was going to be you! I didn’t recognize the business name at all!”

Backup? First choice…? What’s that supposed to mean?

“Yeah, well, I changed my shop’s name too, so I imagine there just hasn’t been a lot of overlap in customers lately, hahah.”

“True…” She lowers her data pad and purses her lips, barely bothering to conceal her pity. It seems she’s able to piece together the reason as to why pretty easily. “If I can be purely honest with you? I thought you’d have quit the business. Spirits know I wouldn’t be able to keep working in this business after… well, all of that heartbreak transpired. I hope things have improved for you in that regard, dear.”

You can feel your eyes glaze over a bit as you vividly recall the day you had called this woman in barely-withheld tears to cancel her service; how you barely were able to explain through your weak voice, hoarse from crying, that there wasn’t going to be a wedding to plan anymore.

“Oh, they have.” You say, trying to keep your teeth from gritting, with a drawn on customer-service smile.

“Ohoh! Well, I should let you get to work! That cake isn’t going to stack itself, is it? However, if things keep going well, you’ll have to keep me in mind when you hear wedding bells ringing again, hmm? They say the second time's the charm!”

“Of course I will!” You lie through your teeth. “Thanks.”

Mercifully, you have your job to turn your attention to.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, you let out a long, withering breath, and resteel yourself. You’re not going to have a breakdown. It’s too early in all of this.

One by one, you bring the chilled boxes into the reception venue, fingers locked tightly, but not tight enough to damage the cake inside. You’ve never dropped a cake at the venue- yet- but given your luck lately, you’re not taking any chances.

Once all the necessary pieces are inside, you begin the work of extracting the cake tiers from their boxes and moving them to the obnoxiously broad cake stand. The cake will be set on a small table all on its own, pride of place of the banquet area of the ballroom.

Every tier you place as if you’re disarming a bomb; your life and the life of everyone in the building depends on it being undamaged. Dowel rods and cardboard circles are strategically placed as needed for structural integrity, each tier of cake perfectly centered in the middle of the one below.

Finally, you gingerly slide the last, petite tier on top of the whole thing.

…It’s secure. That’s most of the battle won. You let out the breath you were holding. Putting on the final aesthetic touches won’t be nearly as mortally terrifying as the potential of the cake crashing onto the floor into a heap of sweet mush due to an accidental slip of the hand.

You begin the process of touching up the sides and the seams of the tiers, dolloping buttercream from your container to hide any cracks like you're spackling a wall. Time both flies by and is somehow agonizing in how long it drags on. All the way through laying down the final buttercream decorations, up until you've meticulously placed the last sugary rose you spent so much time sculpting, there's only one thing on your mind, and it’s not the cake.

All that’s left is to seek out the wedding planner once again for final approval. To your relief, she's thrilled with your work and gives you the go ahead to clean up as she uses the datapad in her hand to send the rest of your payment to your account. It's always easier when there's no new demands or fabricated issues brought up at the very end. The tightly wound muscles in your upper back ease, just a little bit.

And with that- it's done, finished, out of your hands. The cake is delivered safely, and you feel lighter already knowing it's not your problem anymore.

… As long as it makes it through the night without exploding, that is.

You swallow dryly at the thought. Kirby enthusiastically assured you that there was basically no chance of it happening again so soon- that it happening to the first version of this cake was a blessing in disguise, since that explosion took place in your shop and not the venue, and there wouldn't be enough time for negative energy to accumulate again by now. You can't help but still feel the twinge of apprehension, despite you trusting their judgement.

The last of your supplies get neatly packed away just in time, as you're starting to see more elves dressed in their best formal wear filtering through by the passing minute. 

Casting one last lingering look at the cake, you leave the grandiose ballroom for your hotel room to get ready. By nature of attending a wedding you've also delivered the cake to, the time you have to prepare is somewhat more scant than you’d like, so you’ve got to get moving. 

After a walk down a particularly gilded hallway, you enter the frankly ostentatious lobby of the hotel portion of the palace. The high vaulted, ribboned ceilings are almost dizzying, and all of the small details on the architecture being gilded or inlaid with some other precious material is making it hard to look at anything for too long.

A bellhop takes your bags, leaving you less to fiddle with in your anxiety. So instead, you compulsively check your voci every few moments while you wait for the front desk agent to do her thing. Hopefully, she doesn’t notice how sweaty your hands are with nerves when you take the set of keycards from her. You want to get up there and get ready as soon as possible. You don’t want to hog the bathroom if Carlyle still needs to finish getting ready, too…

Since the guest rooms themselves are in the various high towers of the palace, the elevator ride takes what feels like forever. You’re left to look at your many reflections, scrutinizing the imperfections of your face amplified in the glass and regretting most of your life decisions up to this point.

When you finally get there, the hotel room itself is even a bit intimidating in how expensive and ornate it looks. You’re aware you likely got one of the most standard of rooms, as a low priority guest. You don’t even want to think about what the bigger suites must look like… And certainly not the bridal suite, which the front desk agent was happy to chirp about being at the very top of the highest spire.

Despite being what’s considered a standard room, it’s still more lavish than anything you’d ever buy yourself for the night by far, all gilded and crystal surfaces and the finest fabrics. 

Of the most note is an incredibly tall window pane that reaches from the floor all the way up to the ceiling- at least double and a half of your height. The view overlooks the swathe of greenery and pastel color of blooming flowers below, and then eventual transition to the blocks of Windrise City proper in the far distance, past the gardens. 

You may be in a time crunch, but the view from the window is so entrancing you find yourself opening the light curtains a little wider and staring out in awe for just a few moments. If you had time, you’d probably be out on the balcony right now.

Your delivered bags sit on the golden luggage stand in one corner, looking very out of place in their mundanity.

Hastily, you pick out the one suit you own from the top of your luggage, where it’s neatly folded on the hanger. You shake it out a bit before hanging it on the bar in the hallway closet.

Carlyle hasn’t shown up yet, which is both a relief and terrifying. What if he got stuck in gridlock traffic and he can’t get here in time? You’ll be here on your own anyway, after all of that. Somehow it’d make the whole situation even more embarrassing, seeing familiar faces while you stew in shame, left to endure pitying looks that cover up deep disdain for your presence…

But.. no. He’d definitely call back if he was running late.

You peel yourself out of your slightly sugar-crusted apron and hop into a hurried shower, starting the rush through your grooming routine.

Once you’ve bathed, you immediately move on to shaving; going through the motion of working a lather of soap onto your face. Thanks to your mother being an elf, you don’t have to shave that often, but she is a snow elf, so the stubble will still get out of hand if you let it.

The preening gives you a sense of comfort- a calmness that you’ve been sorely lacking lately.

You can at least handle this. You are fully capable of looking presentable. It’s part of your job.

While the momentary refuge from your dread is a comfortable diversion, reality quickly sets back in when you hear a knock at the door.

You look up and freeze, the razor still in your hand hanging inert by your jaw.

A bolt of terror courses through you, despite bubbling with joy. You want to see him, if the urge to run to the door and immediately throw it open means anything. But it’s going to be so awkward… What do you even say now?

Maybe it’s just room service, even though you didn’t order it. A maid with extra pillows, even though you didn’t ask for them? A maintenance worker coming to fix something, even though you didn’t report an issue?

You realize you’ve been standing here frozen for far too long, and scramble to get some semblance of covered, throwing open the closet and yanking one of the robes off the attached anti-theft hangers, then hurriedly putting your arms through the sleeves and tying a sloppy knot around your waist.

Finally at the door, nearly working up a sweat in your haste, your hands fumble with the chain lock and the door handle, but manage to open the door.

Carlyle is on the other side, of course, and not the random hospitality worker you were conjuring in your head. He has an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, and a smaller one held at his side in his opposite hand.

He looks as handsome as ever, clearly freshly groomed and put together himself; freshly pressed suit, dreadlocks neatly tied in a loose gather, and the warm, spiced scent of his cologne’s heart note. 

You imagine Carlyle must own more than a few suits, given his job and the fact you’ve rarely seen him in anything less formal, but if this isn’t his best suit, it’s probably close to it. The fabric of the lapels is a silky, resplendent black, shimmering just enough when the light hits it that it’s nearly impossible to resist the desire to run your fingers along them. The rosy blush paisley pattern on his chosen tie is strikingly familiar…

His free hand is hovering halfway between his tie and the door, like he’s contemplating knocking again after fussing with his focus in anticipation. He lowers it to straighten his tie, and his face breaks into a smitten, amused smile at the sight of you. 

“Good afternoon.” The way the corners of his eyes tighten and his voice has the slightest hint of wavering, you can tell he’s barely holding back laughter. “I’m truly flattered that you wanted to answer the door so quickly, but you didn’t have to rush.”

“H-Huh?”

He gestures to his face like he’s stroking a nonexistent beard. You move your own to mirror the movement, immediately regretting your choice when the fingertips find the shaving lather you still have on half of your face.

The accumulated tension is blown to smithereens.

You can feel your face heating up in embarrassment, running to answer the door like this. 

A momentary silence falls between you- with you too dazed to access your proper manners, and Carlyle too patient to suggest you move out of the doorway and let him through.

Both on one side of a threshold, but neither being quick to trespass.

It’s a foreign feeling, knowing how close you’ve gotten, yet having this invisible, manufactured barrier still standing between you.

That evening in the shop when he came by late and you were in much the same circumstances comes to mind. There’s no extinguished neon shop sign barring the way now, though, just your own awkward behavior.

“Um. Well,” You cringe at yourself, trying to relax your wooden posture. “Come in?”

As soon as Carlyle has slid past you and inside the room, you scoop up your main layers of clothes that you had laying out within reach.

“Right, um. I’ll just. Be out in a minute-” You manage to blurt out before unceremoniously locking yourself in the bathroom, only catching half of his affirmative words before the door shuts.

Finishing shaving and getting dressed doesn’t take nearly as long as you’d hope- not nearly enough to think up something meaningful to say to him. You find yourself gripping the edges of the sink, staring yourself down in the mirror, desperately trying to plan your approach.

What is even appropriate here? Should you thank him for coming? Should you apologize again?

Anything is better than this. You can’t hide in the bathroom forever torturing yourself. 

Right?

You close your eyes to splash your face with a bit of water, and take a long, drawn out, deep breath. Then you steel yourself and meekly emerge from your hiding spot. 

You stall in front of the hallway closet, eyes turned away, and pick up your tie from the neck of the nearby hanger with your blazer on it.

But before you can make much progress with your tie, you’re hit with a pleasantly familiar, slightly sweet, slightly malty smell that calls you out into the room proper, despite your best attempts to keep hiding from your date.

You glance around for the source, quickly finding that there’s a neutral white mug sitting on the grotesquely ornate lacquer tray next to the brewing machine.

“Tea?” You identify, forgetting your task and taking the still-warm mug into your hands.

“I made you a cup. I thought you might need it.”

Carlyle’s taken a seat in the embroidered club chair in the corner of the room. Even in a place like this, he manages to somehow not look out of place. He peers out at you, one leg folded over the other. His spaded tail lazily whips the empty space below him.

“Ah. T-Thanks.” You say, trying not to let your voice crack, before taking a long sip. 

Queen’s Breakfast Blend. He even put cream and sugar in it- a bit under what you would’ve, but that’s only to be expected from him. You’re sure to him, this was just as excessive as you’d like. It’s nothing like the authentic blend Devin brings you, but you’re touched that he remembered your preference.

“Can’t help but see the coffee’s untouched.” You sniff dryly and look into the beige, opaque liquid in your cup, extending a cursory bit of teasing. Testing the waters.

“Hah! Well. A man has to have some standards.” Carlyle quips in turn, clawtips drumming the fabric of the armrest.

Another long sip. You investigate the prepackaged coffees.

“...It’s the same store brand that I buy, though.” You snort. “You've been drinking it for months. Every time you turned up at the shop…”

“It’s different when you make it.” He shrugs with a knowing smile; a bolt through your chest. You can only huff out a laugh in response to prevent yourself from getting too flustered.

The mug clinks against the tray as you set it back down to focus on the fabric still hanging limp around your neck, waiting to be arranged.

You can feel Carlyle’s eyes on you as you fumble your attempts to tie it, but he’s not saying anything. Yet.

You try again. You fail again. 

Your hands are trembling the smallest bit, but it’s making it hard to complete the fine movements. You don’t know if it’s your nerves about the event in general, or maybe the fact that you know if you look up, you’ll catch Carlyle’s warm, dark brown eyes shamelessly fixated on your movements.

“B-Blast it-” You hiss under your breath as you fail to form the knot once more, but clearly not as quietly as you think, and you seem to have fully spurred your date to action.

“Here. You look like you could use some assistance.” Carlyle laughs a sift laugh as he gets to his feet and clears the short distance between you. Though, he does hesitate a moment before touching you, despite his hands already raising to do so; “If you’d like it.”

“Please.” Your voice comes out an exasperated groan, weakly throwing up your hands in defeat.

He moves in closer now that he has expressed permission, untwisting the mess of a tie and laying it flat against your flipped up collar. The room is so silent, you can hear the faint sound of the cotton brushing against this stoneskin.

“I know how to tie a tie,” You insist in your own defense, fighting no one but yourself- not angry, but more so particularly exasperated. Of course you’re failing this task while someone’s watching you do it. “I just. Don’t do it as often as you do, probably…”

“I’m sure you’re perfectly capable.” Carlyle says in a reassuring tone while his hands deftly maneuver with the finesse of someone who has absolutely done this way, way more often than you have. “Though, I’m not complaining about getting to do it myself.”

His movements are delicate but still firm, just like you remember.

His stone fingers brush the sides of your neck in the process. You simultaneously fight the urge to melt into his touch while your heart hammers in your chest so hard that you’re starting to feel it in your throat. 

…You’re fairly sure he’s dragging this out on purpose, but you, similarly, are not complaining- you’re too busy savoring the feeling.

“Is this okay?” He speaks barely above a whisper, and secures the tie at the base of your throat with a gentle tug. He’s asking about the tightness of the knot, surely, but with the way his hands linger, it’s also serving the purpose of re-confirming where your boundaries for physical closeness are, in your still undefined standing.

Your anxiety on the matter can't stand up to how badly you want him.

Your hand rises to gently touch the side of his jaw, but you hesitate, still unsure of yourself despite the clear look of invitation in Carlyle’s eyes. 

Then, there’s a slight pressure on your neck from your tie, still in Carlyle’s hands, as he gently pulls you closer by it. He does it slowly, almost agonizingly drawn out, giving you time to back out or stop it. But you don’t- you only lean in to close the gap, taking his lips in your own.

His kiss is warm and slightly rigid, just like you remember. You flinch, second guessing yourself- but his grip on your tie is still there, holding you firmly to him, clear that he has no intention of letting you go this time.

So, your hesitance melts away. Your other arm snakes around the yoke of his shoulders as you embrace him, the way you’ve been dying to do since you saw him standing at the threshold. You feel his tongue and the tips of his fangs, remapping the shape of them with your tongue. 

Your kisses grow more heated by the second, barely keeping from gnashing teeth, desperate to get more of this feeling; there’s a pit of lacking in your chest needing to be filled from the time you spent apart.

When he finally releases his hold on your tie, you pull back just enough to part your lips, you’re a glutton for air and blinking back the moisture rimming your eyelids. Overcome with emotion, you lay your head on his shoulder, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes, but not ready to break your touch for the fear that you’ll wake up and it won’t have been real.

“I missed you.”

Your voice is barely audible as you speak into the padded surface of his suit shoulder.

“I missed you, too.” He responds in a breathy, almost half-laugh, stroking the back of your head with his claw points.

Several moments pass with you unmoving, entwined with your head resting on him. None of what was bothering you seems to matter much now. 

You could stay like this forever- if only there weren’t things you had to do…

As if on cue, you hear the rumble of Carlyle clearing his throat, sounding particularly hollow from your ear’s position on his chest.

“We should be going if you want to make it to the ceremony on time.” Carlyle finally says quietly, checking his watch behind your head, but doesn’t budge yet himself, either.

“Right...” You sigh wistfully, still basking in the heady feeling of having your arms around him and his lips on yours again. You manage to somehow pry yourself away and slip your blazer on, but it’s the most difficult thing you’ve done in days.

Carlyle watches in approval as you straighten the lapels, a warm smile on his face.

“I have to say, you look stunning this evening.”

“My, what did I do to deserve such flattery?”

“Well- you see me in a suit regularly, but this is the first time I’ve gotten the pleasure of seeing you in one. It feels like a rare treat I should savor while I can.”

“I’m sorry but you’ll need to wait to do much more savoring, I’m afraid.” You say, unable to resist touching his face one more time, gently running your finger over the smooth stone surface of his bottom lip.

He kisses the tip of your thumb in response, looking you straight in the eyes as he does so.

You feel your face heat up immediately, and quickly detach your hold on him and open the door to the hallway before you give into the temptation to miss the event entirely.

“Sitting through this wedding is going to be difficult enough already- for completely other reasons now.” You quip, your voice coming out a slight rasp as you pass through the threshold of the hotel room.

“Look at this way-” Carlyle follows closely behind you, pulling the door closed with a soft click. “It's an excellent incentive.”

You manage to make it into the ceremony space just in time to not stand out as rude, sliding into the carved wooden benches at the back row, amongst the hushed pre-ceremony conversation.

The ceremony venue itself is just as extravagant as the reception area you got acquainted with while setting up the cake. 

The tree is most present in this room. Huge branches reach in through the partially open roof of the area, clusters of blossoms covering the whole left side, suspended high over the altar and reaching past over the rows of wooden benches. 

If nothing else, the pictures will be fantastic…

A small band of classic Elven musicians are in one corner, playing the equivalent to faerie elevator music on their antique reed and string instruments, to fill the room while people file into their seats.

Every attendee seems to have pulled out their best gown or set of robes from their wardrobe for the occasion, desperate to win the coveted and definitely real title of ‘best dressed wedding guest’. Swathes of Aurelian fabrics dominate your vision- shimmering flowing silks and light, twinkly sheer voiles, some likely literally enchanted with magic to float or gently shift like an aurora. You do see a handful of suits, as well as several more numan-standard cocktail dresses, but they are far outnumbered by the sheer amount of Elven finery in the room. 

It’s suffocating.

You can already feel your back muscles tensing and your jaw setting, looking out at the gathering of rich people dressed in formal wear. Even knowing you’re well within the dress code, you can’t help but think you’re underdressed somehow.

Every time a set of new eyes glance over you with brief curiosity or hazy half-recognition, you’re hit with a new small wave of panic and disgust. You sure recognize many of them- all extended family members and acquaintances that you’ve encountered over the several years of large, overblown functions for every Elven holiday with Trevor’s family that you had to endure. 

You’re sure none of them recognize you in turn- after all, why would they bother to remember you? You were only present for eight years. You were only engaged to be married. Why bother to remember something as trivial as what you look like or what your name was? At the very least, if any of them do remember who you are, they don’t dare acknowledge it.

You weren’t enough before, why would you be now?

The only small mercy is that the people closest to Trevor are far at the front, without a clear view to the back where you’re seated…

“So, how many crystal chandeliers do you think that lovely lady’s gown is worth?” Carlyle leans to the side with his back straight, just enough for his words to be audible to you but not likely anyone else, nudging your knee slightly with his own to direct your line of sight. You can hear the smirk on his lips without even turning to seeing his face. “Or do you think perhaps she robbed the baron’s bank vault directly?”

“That would be a difficult heist.” You reply, barely keeping a straight face, somehow no longer able to dwell on the occasional, real or imagined scan of familiar eyes on you. “Three, maybe four.”

A few minutes pass with Carlyle pleasantly distracting you from the impending ceremony with silly chatter. It works marvelously, until you catch sight of Trevor, dressed in uncharacteristically formal elven robes, taking his place at the altar. He, as always, looks as bored as he could probably get away with looking, though he’s standing at attention with his hands joined in front of him, rather than leaning on something.

A particularly bitter thought- that he looks far too overdressed for his face to look like he’s waiting for the bus- crosses your mind. He can’t even muster the effort to look excited on his wedding day, of all days? Typical.

Bile rises in your throat. You could vomit, and being in a crowd of people might be the only thing that keeps you from doing so. You want to yank the circlet off his head and wing it like a frisbee across the room.

Your teeth grit, and it takes all you have not to scowl. He’s attractive, and it makes you angry how good he looks in his stupid robes. Of course you find him attractive, you dated him for eight years. But any sense of thinking he’s good looking now comes with the added footnote of him leaving you when you needed his support the most.

You don’t want him anymore. You’re well aware of that. But you still can’t let go of the fact he’ll never own up to the pain that he caused you, or the fact that closure from him will stay out of reach-

The fact that you weren’t good enough.

Before you can spiral too far, however, you feel the familiar sensation of a stoneskin palm gently slipping into yours.

Carlyle doesn’t say anything, clearly not wanting to be disruptive during a ceremony, but he looks over at you and gently squeezes your fingers in a firm grip when your eyes make contact.

You don’t really need him to speak, because you can hear the message loud and clear-

I’m here.

He doesn’t take his hand back, letting it rest on your leg indefinitely. The feeling of the weight is comfortable and reassuring. 

Warmth spreads in your chest. Maybe you can make it through this ceremony.

The music slows, then immediately shifts into a recognizable, though mellow composition of a wedding march. Heads all turn in expectation.

The bride finally appears at the end of the aisle, and despite your feelings around the wedding itself, you find yourself a bit stunned by the sight. Devin is pretty anyway, so it’s not surprising that she’s also pretty on her wedding day of all days. Even if her face wasn’t obfuscated by a shifting, translucent veil, she would still be almost unrecognizable in the sheer amount of layers of fabric in varying levels of opacity she’s clad in, between the veil, train, and the full body of the gown. The bodice is fitted, with slim sleeves that start at the elbow and go down all the way past her wrist into delicate closures on her middle fingers. But the rest of the gown is simply the most ornate sea of cloth you’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s so foreign to anything you’ve ever seen her wear before, and you have to imagine it must be heavy, if the squadron of flower-clad elven children in white dress, barefoot and nymphlike, holding the train of her dress behind her are any indication.

It’s definitely still Devin under all that finery though, because she can’t hold the emotionless countenance of a demure elven bride at all- she’s too overjoyed, a permanent grin on her face as she tries to lock eyes with each and every person in the rows and give them a tiny, hurried wave from behind her bouquet- starting with you. You can’t help but smile sheepishly and return the quick wave. A small child abruptly and enthusiastically throws a fistful of flower petals at your row as soon as the bride passes by. A single petal clings to your blazer.

Trevor manages to smile in what looks like an almost genuine manner, but not after a moment of thought.

She finally reaches the altar, and the gaggle of blonde elven children are dismissed, seemingly barely restraining themselves from dashing back to their seats.

Devin is already visibly struggling to keep her composure, even through the veil, the sniffling audible in the gaps of the music.

Like most elven ceremonies, the wedding itself is elaborate and a bit drawn out. It involves multiple phases, the first of which involves both of the betrothed’s parents, even before any actual marriage vows are made between the couple. You of course are familiar with this, given the research you had started back when it was going to be you up there. This is the closest thing that an elven wedding ceremony has to a typical numan bridal party, instead focusing more on the couple themselves.

Trevor has always looked like a perfect mixture of his parents, almost like he was purposefully created in a lab, selected from their best features. They never quite warmed up to you, so you simply try to avoid making much eye contact with either of them. Devin, on the other hand, looks like a carbon copy of her mother, with her father having a more neutral complexion and dark brown hair- likely a grey elf, rather than a dawn one. As you let your eyes wander to avoid looking at Trevor and his parents too much, you follow Devin’s parents back to their row. Your eyes settle on a curiosity in the front row next to them; what certainly is the back of the head and shoulders of an orc, towering above the svelte people around them.

And of course, such a culturally important ceremony is completely performed in an archaic Aurelian dialect of Elvish. You struggle to follow along with the small amount of basic Elvish you learned from your mother, but it is a battle you’re slowly losing. Even Sunday mass for the Burning Lady doesn’t take nearly this long, and that might as well be a standard measure for what constitutes “too long” back home.

Several more observances go by, from what you can tell: A cleansing ritual with pastel colored clouds pouring from a small rose gold censer, Another chanting rite performed by the priestess for longevity and fertility, A spell performed to dissolve the bride’s veil with a sparkle of magic. Then, what you assume must be their vows, given that either of them speak following being prompted by the officiant. And after that, finally, is the actual handfasting.

A set of hazardously long ribbons are secured around their joined hands and the priestess says the last of their spiel. The music slowly starts to build back up.

Bride and groom kiss.

After all of the anticipation, you thought it would’ve felt worse- a twinge of jealousy, or even disgust. But you don’t really feel much at all, apart from a strange, deja-vu adjacent sensation that it might’ve been you up there, if things were different.

And finally, somewhere, in the back of your mind… there’s relief. 

You can’t say you mind that it isn’t you. Not anymore.

It’s not you. And that’s a wonderful thing.

You squeeze Carlyle’s hand.

Mercifully, after a one more short closing verse of Elvish, the new couple walks back up the aisle, fastened together, hand in hand.

If nothing else can be said- at least Devin looks happy. You can’t bring yourself to feel sour at the moment, regardless of how wary you are for her, given who the groom is.

“Well, that was enlightening.” Carlyle rises to his feet and moves to the end of the row, where he stands, straightening the buttons on his blazer. “Very… thorough.”

“Reminded me a bit of going to mass back home as a kid, to be honest.” You chuckle as you scooch to the end of the bench after him. “But much less kneeling.”

“Oh? We must’ve gone to different types of mass, then. I haven’t been since I was a child, but I clearly remember ours was always very succinct.” He holds out his hand to you with an amused smile, giving you a flash of fang. “If we ever find ourselves on the Queen’s Isle, maybe you can instruct me on the finer details.”

“I’d like that.” You grasp his hand and he helps you to your feet.

You don’t even need to plaster a smile on your face after that, and head to the reception area, hand in hand with your own date.

All that’s left now is to see the cake through to the cutting.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST >> ☕ KO-FI

[love-kurdt]

This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

warnings for this chapter: lots of sexual content!! underage drinking, mentions of drug use, roofie mention bc college, internalized homophobia, maaaajooorrrr depression. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I’d given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen this coming. I had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when I could just freelance and eventually get published? But my father insisted that I at least attend a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Dad had enough confidence in me to allow me to pursue writing at all. But I was on thin ice with my father, had been for years, so I agreed to at least think about college.

My friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, I didn’t know. To study what, I had no clue. Where he lived within the city, I hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” I considered the day Will left to be the day my world stopped turning and time froze. So I took off my watch and hid it in a shoebox under my bed with the rest of my mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, I didn’t see a point in going anymore. I was healed. I was fine. I was ready to move on with my life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t I be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on my part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in my life, I didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and I really didn’t feel like dredging up my past once a week to pick apart as if I were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, I didn’t feel like arguing anymore with my dad. So, I begrudgingly packed my bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When I got to campus, I was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, at least by my standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring me along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, I came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

I didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but I became a lot more withdrawn since my falling out with Will. I wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as I used to be. I was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where I used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce myself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– I couldn’t do that anymore. It was like my communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during my first party, I took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours I was there. If only Troy could see how popular I was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in my head; the more I drank, the more sociable I’d become. I took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, I had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. I picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. I woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how I even got back to my dorm room. But then I looked to my right and saw Elvis’s head resting on my very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how I got home. I wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below my clavicle for days. I didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time my roommate and I hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of my time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way I saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on my bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in my closet, probably the only colorful item in my entire wardrobe that I hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath my bed that I neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So I didn’t leave my basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. I won’t lie, I was a little bit ashamed of how I’d handled things with the Party. I definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. My friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited me, but I’d always have some kind of excuse as to why I couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, I was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. I missed the feeling of being in love. I’d cleared my throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the lovebirds to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet me. I nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had me wanting to crawl out of my skin. All I wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered me. It was like Jonathan could read my mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” I actively committed those words to memory.

I ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on my way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. I’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf me, her honorary third son, in a hug. She’d pulled me all the way down to her level, so I was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but I didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” I grinned, trying my best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and I nodded, staying as neutral as possible. I knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” I replied wistfully, “I do.” I glanced down at my shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that I’d done just within the time I was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over my cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against my will. 

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held my face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled me into another hug, holding me close. I had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led me to reserve a special place in my heart for her.

We engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) me through the store with my shopping list to retrieve the items I needed. When she checked out my items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. I held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. My eyes widened, and I breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to my car. I sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing myself to fall behind schedule, but I had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in my book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, I was finally able to return to campus. I’d set my suitcase down next to my bed, and took a minute to collect my thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at me, having just been startled. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, we were all over each other.

It was around this time that I finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that I was exclusively attracted to men. I’d always believed my sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. I’d always been aware of my attraction to guys (Will); I’d been sure of that for as long as I could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected us to start dating. I was, like, twelve at the time, so of course I went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted me with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and my impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for me and El to repair our friendship following that conversation, and to help me bullshit my parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why my “sweetie pie” and I broke up so suddenly.

When I started my… situationship with Elvis, though, I began to question my 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than me, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling me “short.” I found that hilarious, as I stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. I particularly liked when those hands pinned my wrists above my head. I also liked when those blue eyes bore into my soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within my mere eighteen years of life. And I loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against my neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind me every time we did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. My wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. I figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on my social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about me secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, I would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling me “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. I assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in our situationship, my mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. I knew I was not straight. I wasn’t even sure if I was bisexual. I became more conscious of who caught my eye in public, and what I wanted out of the people I interacted with. I discovered I didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as I felt when I saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waistI felt different.

Part of me resented  myself for being different. I hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for my family, the government, or society as a whole. I'd tried to change. I hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but I'd spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so I could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that I couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. I scared myself a little when I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When my encounter with the last girl fell through, I decided I didn’t want to live my life in sexuality limbo anymore. I ran all the way back to my dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let myself into my room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before I was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all my might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate my advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing me back until we hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. I huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting myself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after me. He pushed his knee between my legs, and I took the hint, wrapping my ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” I had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when my memory cut out for the evening.

I woke up the next morning, hangover hitting me like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, I noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” I croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” I whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” my roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and ignoring the fact that I was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and I felt my stomach drop like I was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? My mom called me at least a few weeks prior to wish me a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

I watched the blonde in front of me unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” I could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while I tried to process the fact that my brain was capable of skipping over whole months of my life. There was no way it was May 1st already. 

“No,” was the only word I was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of me, leaving me exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked me senseless the night before. What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now I knew what was going on. I drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that I wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. my face was on fire with embarrassment.

I scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. I could barely breathe. I merely stood there and watched as my gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left our shared room for the last time. Well, I seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

I was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy me the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. I was very familiar with this mindset; I'd fought a gory, gruesome battle with my own mind for my entire adolescence, at war with myself to prevent acting upon my ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, my feelings finally retaliated, and my life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt me, but I felt strangely lucky. I'd been let off easily. Despite the way I stood completely stupefied in my dorm room, I knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that I'd be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved me from losing my mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass my classes distracted me for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, I army crawled through my finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, I moved out of my dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (my father) paid for it. I got a job at the local coffee shop… which I lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to my shifts. I'd been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because I didn’t think my dad would be willing to help me stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told me flat out that he wanted me out of the house. I didn’t blame him; I'd been referred to by my father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during my stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. I felt a little guilty about that one.

I appreciated the independence, I truly did. It was a great feeling to have my own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while I drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to myself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol I could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, I would catch myself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee. I'd sit down and write a chapter or two of my book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. I would check the time (on my wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After I'd haphazardly tossed my singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, I'd go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because I'd get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of myself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: I had, by some miracle, perched myself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because I was laughing too hard) that sat framed on my desk. I'd snap out of my trance ten minutes later and mentally kick myself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all my potential. I would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. I'd stumble into the shower, and drag myself through my apartment until I found my bed. Most nights, I would end up crying myself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which I'd tacked up on my bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So I vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how I ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while my lips formed a straight, thin line. I knew I was officially a hermit when even the library gave me social anxiety. I'd just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind me caught me off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” I twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when I met eyes with a short guy (well, to me he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. I liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” I smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. I couldn’t decide where I wanted my story to go next, let alone if I wanted to continue with my current plot at all, so I'd planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as I focused my gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” I replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from me. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” I pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” I struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. I needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on me? In public? I wasn’t complaining, but I hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” I stuttered, diverting my eyes to my books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at me. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

I cleared my throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing me to huff a nervous laugh, tapping my Ticonderoga pencil against my spiral-bound notebook at the same speed my knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” I glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

I nodded, confirming our silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” I whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made me feel a certain way. But that was the past, and I believed I was ready for the future. 

When I started seeing Wyatt Bowman, we’d established that our relationship would not be serious. We were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And we were actually friends. We could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And I didn’t have any objections; I actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that Elvis and I had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

I met Wes Butler in August at my first ever visit to an actual bar. I'd been sitting at the counter with a few of my female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails I'd ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped my shoulder and asked me to dance. Of course the girls encouraged me, not really giving me an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once we’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), I bid goodbye to my friends, tossing my condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

I met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. We left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. We fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and I had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited me to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. I politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, I slapped myself awake with one hand as I unsteadily held my handlebars with the other, biking back to my apartment. My grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw me over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of my classmates in English 101, watched me fall, stopped me from biking again before I hurt myself even more, and asked me what exactly had happened. Once I told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept me safe and let me take control back over my own life. Warren and I had a special bond. If I didn’t still love Will, and if I didn’t have such extreme trust issues, I would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But I couldn’t, not until I got over Will, so I ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for me. In the end, none of these men I slept with would ever be Will Byers. So I'd either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights I wasn’t at parties, I was at my desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. I'd rip a piece of college ruled paper out of my notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

Dear Will, I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry that I love you. I’m sorry I did what I did to you. And I’m sorry I can’t take it back. I wish we could be best friends again. I wish we could have late night walkie conversations like we used to. I want nothing more than to play D&D in the basement with you for the rest of our lives. Love, Mike

These occasional letters became a part of my nightly routine… whenever I wasn’t too fucked up to focus my eyes on my own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that I couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. I wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

I stopped attending my classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when my grades plummeted. My mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising me to withdraw from the classes I was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but I couldn’t care less; so, not only did I fail out of my classes, but I couldn’t even retake the classes even if I wanted to, because my record forced me into the red zone. And the entire time, I couldn’t feel a thing.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I'd probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I'd given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and I lifted my gaze up from my lap to a muscular brunette. I blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” I stuttered, lifting my bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took my hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to me on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

I was surprised someone clocked me that quickly. But then again, I was wearing insanely tight jeans that I'd cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. I wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. I made a mental note to check my horoscope. What was I thinking about originally? I couldn’t remember.

Jesus. I was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” I replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let our fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. I could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and I felt a blush rising to my face.

“Sure, yeah,” I breathed, and let Carter pull me up out of my sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. I scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. I exhaled in relief. I didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face me before looking me up and down. I gulped. I hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than me, and had a muscular build– that much I knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else I couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In my inebriated state, I didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until I felt two hands snaking their way up my shoulders and joining behind my neck, pulling me down until our lips met. I couldn’t move fast enough, lifting my shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into my chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while I was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with my increased tolerance. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress their feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was me. Mike Wheeler. My life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two of us made our way over to Carter’s bed, where we quickly undressed. Carter kissed down my body, and I ran my hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on me without warning.

“Ah!” I yelped in surprise, my exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what I’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. I felt the world zeroing in on me. I could just picture what I’d write in my next letter:

Dear Will,

I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now?

Love, Mike

next part

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[joongdokshitposting]

So uh remember when I said I wrote an essay on orv for my Communicative English assignment? Well here it is people, in all it's flawed (?) glory (cuz again English is not my first language (it is but it's a little more complex) so my vocab is weird sorta ig) (I literally just copy pasted my assignment btw so if it sounds like an assignment I wrote on at half past 2 in the night,, just look over it please 😭)

Communicative English - Speech Script

Topic: Review of the novel “Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint.”

I am somebody who has never read a web novel, I’ve only ever preferred regular novels. However, I do read webtoons often, and that is how I stumbled across this masterpiece of a story. What started off as curiosity quickly turned into obsession as I spent almost every moment not working on reading this seven thousand page monster of a book. And, see, truthfully, such a huge number would’ve absolutely had me running the opposite way. At least, that’s the case usually. But the prose and narration in this book is genuinely so intriguing that it had me hooked from chapter one. While it does have a slow beginning the wait is very much worth it as the plot constantly keeps moving forward without lagging anywhere. Not a moment is wasted, every single scene contributes to fleshing out the world and its characters and through it all we, the readers, find ourselves falling deeper into the thematic story beats.

But I’m getting carried away aren’t I? Let me step back a little. For starters, what is a web novel? As the name suggests, they are novels published directly onto the internet and can be both free to read or paid to read. The difference between regular/physical novels and web novels would be the publishing aspect. Web novels, unlike the usual novels, are written, edited and published by the authors themselves. Additionally, they can be both ongoing, where the author publishes a chapter on a timely basis, or fully published once completely written.

Now that that’s cleared, let’s move on. The book I’m currently so emotionally attached to, goes by the title “Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint” and is a Korean fantasy web novel. The story follows the life of a 28-year-old contract worker named Kim Dokja (Dokja, meaning both only-child and reader. This also contributes to the greater narrative of both the plot and the character.) whose only hobby is reading web novels.

The setting is as such: He’s lonely, he’s had a not-so-great childhood (as we find out eventually), and his current part-time job contract is ending, meaning he’s knee deep into leading a pathetic life where he has to work hard to survive and afford at least the bare minimum every single day. Through it all, the only salvation for this man is a web novel by the name “Three Ways to Survive in a Ruined world” (it has multiple abbreviations but the most agreed upon is TWSA) that had been running for ten whole years, him being it’s sole reader past the 120th chapter as most people gave up on such a lengthy (hitting an insane 3149 chapter count) and apparently terribly written novel (this further highlights his whole “reader” identity as we will see pretty quickly).

Now, our story begins when the web novel that Kim Dokja has been reading for ten years, becomes the new reality one day while he is riding the subway with his coworker. This dramatically shifts the supposed “genre” of Dokja’s life from “realism” (as stated by him directly) to “fantasy” thereby completely changing his life (and I mean, COMPLETELY) to the point where he becomes an irreplaceable aspect of the story and the characters we follow.

Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint (ORV for short), despite its dystopian and violent setting, is a book filled with love. And by that I don’t mean romance, god no. If anything, this book has absolutely nothing to do with that genre. No, this book? Oh no it’s not talking about rose tinted cheeks, shy confessions or tragic love declarations. Well, let’s keep that last part because it happens a lot actually. Just not the way we expect it. As mentioned, this book in itself is a love letter to readers and touches on the topic of interdependence between authors and readers. How inevitably one cannot exist without the other. This is most evident in the three main characters of ORV and their roles/powers.

Both thematically and as characters, they’re so intimately interwoven that one quite literally cannot exist without the other two. Kim Dokja the reader, Yoo Joonghyuk (the original hero of TWSA) the protagonist, and Han Sooyoung the writer. Part of what sells their need to depend on each other comes from the fact that all three of them cannot stand one another. At least, initially. Their dynamics are literally just verbal insults, attempts at murder and pathological lying. They genuinely cannot go a minute without feeling the urge to strangle each other. But guess what? While their fiery rivalry and banter remains, it slowly develops into one coming from a place of affection rather than weariness. In that sense, ORV is also a slow burn. The characters take their time opening up, and are more often than not, extremely human. Almost all the characters (and there’s a lot by the way, many surprisingly or not, non-human in nature) always have their very own completely valid and plausible reasons for doing what they’re doing. And sometimes we find ourselves sympathizing with them.

The core of this novel, from what I can understand, is about love. Both in terms of deserving and expressing it. Dokja, despite loving the characters/people in his life so much that he willingly sacrifices himself, not once, not twice, but multiple times, firmly believes he’s not worth saving. It’s heartbreaking, watching this 20 something year old who spent his entire life in isolation, deny himself of love he deserves just as much as anybody else just because he hasn’t received it for so long that he is accustomed to living a life without it. He constantly tries justifying him putting a wall between him and the world; he says it’s his job to be a “dokja”, a “reader”, someone omniscient, someone who supposedly exists outside the story, outside the narrative, and therefore should not be the point of focus at any given time.

Time and again the others tell him, they remind him of his humanity, saying how they wouldn’t have survived without him. But he counters by saying it’s the opposite and that he wouldn't have lived for thirty years if not for the characters and therefore he is only repaying. He speaks of how the ending of the story he wants to see is one where nobody dies. For that, and that alone, he dies again and again and again. And you, you have to sit there watch this mess of a man so unabashedly full of love throw himself death’s way and not be able to do anything because he won’t listen. You feel helpless, just like the other characters, including Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk, and only pray to all things divine that this man also gets the happy ending he’s so desperately fighting to give the others.

This book has genuinely impacted me in a way no other has. And that is saying something because it’s so easy for me to jump from one interest to another. It has been two weeks since I finished this book and yet it refuses to leave my mind and heart. It stays there adamantly with the same stubbornness with which Dokja denies his well deserved love. Every moment not spent working, I spend thinking about stories and readers and writers and heroes. I look to the stars and think of all the stories in the world I don’t know, stories written with such tender love that only certain readers can ever truly embrace them. I think of how, perhaps, this is how humans are too. I think of how maybe we’re all made of stories waiting to be read with love by others the way Dokja read TWSA thereby giving life to Yoo Joonghyuk and purpose to Han Sooyoung.

Sooooo is this still enough to encompass my thoughts on orv? Absolutely not :D

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 As Dawn Breaks: Chapter Ten

As Dawn Breaks: Mother Night and Father Time, after having sired seven Endless to personify life in the known universe, create Earth and human life begins. One last Endless is created: Dawn, the personification of illumination and hope, the beginning of a new day and a chance for happiness and improvement. A love will span thousands of millennia, breaking with every sunrise and renewing hope come sunset. Yet, even the personification of hope can lose the very notion of her existence from the sting of a broken heart.

Warnings: Sickness.

To Note: Dream/Morpheus x Endless!FemaleReader(Dawn), This Involves Themes That Are Not For Everyone.

Word Count: ~2.3k

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The summer season was coming to an end, and thankfully, so were the floods. Most of The Garden had recovered from the mud and excess water, but the troublesome weather had-had a positive impact on the foliage in your realm. Everywhere your eyes went plants exploded with vivd green leaves and bright flowers. The floods might have been a nuisance, but the plants of your realm certainly loved the excess moisture and nutrients the mud had provided. Even you had almost never seen such happiness from the plants. But with the end of summer came an influx of hopes and dreams. Both you and Morpheus were plenty busy and hardly had time to spend quality time together. What time you did get were only brief moments and stolen kisses between bookshelves within Lucienne’s library.

You were staring to feel increasingly run down and tired. A strange concept for a being such as an Endless, but given your age, you still had much to learn about yourself and what it meant to be one.

In the middle of the fig groove, you were slowly harvesting the little ripe fruits and placing them in a nearby basket. You had decided to join the fauns that maintained the fig groves in their season harvest to take your mind off work. It was your hope that a change in pace would lessen your lethargic state. Softly humming to yourself, you plucked a few more figs, gently cradling the soft fruit in your hand. This year was a good crop, the fruit already making your mouth water at the idea of tasting it fresh. You sighed at the thought, but only for a moment. One moment your stomach was rumbling at the thought of a delicious fig, and the next it was rebelling as you were flinging yourself away from the tree.

The breakfast you had shared with your handmaidens early this morning came up from your stomach and you spent a good minute or two heaving. Tears burned in your eyes from the force at which your body forced you to expel your stomach contents and by the time you were dry heaving and on your knees, several fauns had run over. Their little hands held your hair out of the way and stroked your back as you trembled and shook. You coughed a few more times before pressing the back of your hand over your mouth. Your stomach was still rolling within your body and the nausea lingered, but at least that awful feeling of your stomach expunging its contents was gone.

“My lady,” Steli gasped, her eyes flittering over your body in immense worry. “Oh what to do! Are you alright?”

“I think so,” You answered softly, swallowing thickly against the lingering nausea. “I don’t know what came over me…” You straighten up and gripped the skirts of your dress. “I’ve been feeling rather run down as of late, perhaps I’ve pushed myself too far. My work has been tiresome and endless as of late.”

“Then I suggest that we call for Ruta and you return to your castle. Surely you do not need to do everything my lady.” Steli insisted, the other fauns nodding in deep agreement.

“Me and Naehia shall see that Lady Dawn returns to the castle without incident, Steli,” Knohae spoke up, taking your elbow as Naehia trotted forwards, her hooves stamping the grove dirt nervously. None of the fauns were in a state of their usual calm demeanor. It was probably best to put their unease and fear to rest and return to your private chambers within the castle. So you nodded and allowed the two fauns to escort you back to the castle. Ruta and several other handmaidens were already waiting for you at the castle gates.

“My lady!” Ruta gasped, gliding over to you in a flurry of worry and flying fabric. “What has happened!? Steli said that you got sick while tending to the fig grove!” You nodded and wrinkled your nose as another wave of nausea rolled through your stomach. You pressed your hand against your abdomen.

“To be honest I am not sure. I’ve never been sick before,” You softly responded as Ruta took charge in leading you back to your private rooms. “There is much I still don’t understand about being an Endless.” You let out a noise of frustration and pushed your fingers against your jaw. “Perhaps I am simply too stressed with work as of late.” Ruta hummed in agreement.

“You have been working tirelessly since the summer flooding with little rest, Dawn.” Ruta noted, eyeing your haggard appearance. The handmaidens had noticed that you were more quick to tire as of late, perhaps you had over worked yourself and just needed to rest yourself. Ruta would make that happen regardless of your wishes. “Come now, my lady, let’s get you to bed to rest.” You let Ruta mother and fawn over you as she guided you through your private gardens and into your bedroom chambers. You laid down on your bed of collected down feathers and closed your eyes. This action didn’t immediately lessen your state of discomfort, but at the very least you could take a moment to slip into your dreamscape.

You found yourself walking the halls of Morpheus’s palace, wandering aimlessly since you knew that your lover was far too busy to be visited by you. So you decided to drop by the library, surely Lucienne wouldn’t mind your company. Floating through the halls of the palace, you slipped your way into the library. It was quiet as ever and soothed your tired nerves. Venturing into the heart of the library, you spotted Lucienne bent over a desk with a deep concentrated look on her face. You meandered over to her.

“Deep in thought, my friend?” Lucienne’s eyes flew up to yours in surprise.

“Lady Dawn!” The librarian exclaimed, her eyes wide. “I did not realize you were coming to visit us this day. Lord Morpheus certainly didn’t mention it as he is currently away on business.” You softly chuckled and shook your head.

“Oh I am not here in physical being,” You explained to her, running your fingers through your body and showing that you were, in fact, but an apparition of a dream. Lucienne blinked at you with a frown.

“Pray tell why you of all Endless are sleeping?” You understood her surprise and disbelief.

“I believe to have run myself down and ragged, I’m afraid.” You told her, your eyebrows pinching in your own confusion. “I was not aware that Endless could garner such a state but I think I’ve merely overworked myself into a state of fatigue and sickness.” Lucienne was startled by those words. Endless did not get sick or rundown… and they certainly did not get fatigued. What in The Dreaming was wrong with you!?

“Dawn are you alright?” Lucienne pressed, peering over her spectacles and assessing your state. She couldn’t believe it! You did look rundown and worse for wear! But how could it be that an Endless being, one of such magnitude, prowess, and power, could possibly get tired? It wasn’t for her to question because what she saw was true. You sighed tiredly, feeling the effects of what you appeared to be.

“I am merely tired, my friend,” You responded, missing the worrying look that appeared on Lucienne’s face. Taking a seat at the table, you rested your chin in your hand and gazed at the stack of books Lucienne appeared to be in the middle of cataloguing. “Will you tell me of these books? I fear I am in great need of a distraction.” Lucienne was agreeable to your ask, certainly if it meant that you would be resting… but something in the back of her mind was sending out warning bells that something was not quite right with Dawn of the Endless.

Your mysterious sickness had passed uneventfully and it slipped from your mind within a few weeks of you taking more time to rest. You were quick to forget the incident within the fig grove after not having purged your stomach any further, and went back to conducting your business. Though you had continued on with your work with little thought to what had happened, your handmaidens remained close by your side should another event occur. At the present, you were helping some of the naiads plan a hope festival within their village. You were helping them to brainstorm the foliage and flora that would be on display, along with choosing the right linen color for the picnic later on.

“Well considering that we’ve incorporated plectranthus scutellarioides and tradescantia pallida, perhaps we should stick with a theme of red, burgundy, and pink.” You proposed, your mind thinking over what coleus and wander jew looked like. They were some of the more colorful plants within the festival space and it was only natural. Kissise, the naiad who was leading the picnic division of planning, bobbed her head in agreement.

“Oh warm colors would be such a change from our usual cool color pallet do you not think so sisters?” She chittered, turning her bright eyes to the naiads next to her. They tutted in agreement, their beautiful features glowing with happiness.

“Oh certainly, sister Kissise!” Metis agreed, her eyes now shining with determination. “We can show our sisters in the mountains that we are far from rigid in our ways.” You had feared this would be brought up during planning. The Naiad clans of the springs, rivers, fountains, and lakes all had a healthy competition between them. They were always competing to see who had the most beautiful and healthy ecosystems in The Gardens and a fair deal of challenges between the clans had called for intervention before.

“Ladies,” You spoke calmly, eyeing each of the six naiads gathered. “We are not here to congregate about competition or challenge… I also believe the differences between the clans is what makes your homes beautiful and inspiring to our guests.” You reminded them. They apologized softly and you returned to the task. “So, are the linens are settled? I believe it would be best to get them to the weavers as soon as possible.”

“Yes my lady, we would love to have those colors,” Terenei answered, bowing her head to you. You crossed out that task on your papyrus with the quill in your hand and as you briefly ran down the rest of the tasks you needed to speak with them about, Ruta and Rosea swept into the room.

“Forgive our interruption my lady,” Rosea murmured as Ruta marched right up to you. You blinked in confusion at your head handmaiden. Then Ruta was slipping her arm through yours and pulling you away from the sturdy tree trunk table.

“Ruta?” You questioned. “Is something amiss?” Your head handmaiden eyed you as she tugged you along, clearly leading you in a determined destination. She didn’t answer your question and pulled you into the lounge chamber of your handmaidens. It was a garden for them to maintain and do what they will, and the rest of your handmaidens were clearly gathered on purpose. You turned to Ruta and Rosea. “May I ask what this is about?” Zinnia, the handmaiden who assisted in harvesting the almond trees, spoke first.

“Forgive us, my lady,” Zinna spoke, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “But we cannot remain in silence any longer.” You knew what she spoke of, your fatigue and nausea were persisting, and clearly your handmaidens had-had enough.

“It hasn’t grown worse,” You started speaking. Ruta snorted at you and shook her head.

“Dawn, this is not natural for your being, and you know it. Please, as one of your closest friends, I beg you, look into yourself for the cause.” Your hands wove together in front of you and you chewed your lip. You hated that you had worried your handmaidens to this degree, but you didn’t see how anything could really be wrong with you.

“Forgive me for suggesting such a thing, my lady,” Gallia spoke up nervously. “But your symptoms, they appear to be much like my sisters when she was with child.” An eery silence settled in the room as you and your handmaidens digested the suggestion. It was plausible, certainly, but you didn’t think that as an Endless, you were capable of such a thing.

“I—“ You softly stuttered. “I doubt I could— can…” Ruta stepped forwards and took your hands in hers.

“Might I suggest dropping the wards which guard your being?” Ruta offered. “Surely then you would be able to surely assess what is wrong within your being.”  You frowned at the thought. Your wards were what protected you from the magic of man and otherworldly creatures. But they also prevented the other Endless from feeling your being throughout the universe, prevented them from feeling the connection all Endless held. The oldest of the Endless had insisted upon that protection, Morpheus had insisted upon it. You may be Endless but the elder Endless were often overly protective of your being.

“Very well,” You softly spoke, not wanting to worry your handmaidens any further. Ruta gave your hands a squeeze as you looked within yourself and lowered the wards you hadn’t touched in centuries. The rush of the other Endless’ energy made a hum flutter within your physical body. But that happy hum of energy was soon forgotten as you picked up a ninth Endlessenergy signature. You froze in place and eyes opening with uncertainty and a scant amount of fear, your lips started to tremble. “Ruta,” At your barely heard call, your head handmaiden knew that their suspicions were correct. “Ruta I do not know what to do. I— What am I to do about this?”

As you began to break down in nervous fear, Ruta cradled you within her arms and hushed you like a mother to a child. They would take care of you, they would always take care of you… but no one knew how your lover would react.

Date Published: 2/17/23

Last Edit: 2/17/23

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[reconstructwriter]

Twenty Fanfic Writer Questions

Thank you @charmwasjess for tagging me, I feel so loved - spreading the love @panther-os, @s-c-g-s-c-g, @ankahikoibaat

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 

Twenty four. Huh. I need to import more of my stuff from fanfiction.net

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count? 

How do I find this out… ohh statistics sounds handy. 265k

3. What fandoms do you write for? 

Currently Star Wars, I've also written for Order of the Stick, Percy Jackson, Final Fantasy 7 and Danny Phantom

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Underestimated, Standing Above the Blood, May the Force be Taxed, A Supreme Chancellor to Kill, A Phantom Christmas Carol.

5. Do you respond to comments? 

ohh yes, responding to comments is a reward, one I let myself have once I've gotten the next chapter of the story ready. This motivates me to get a chapter ready for posting faster!

but I usually write out my thoughts first in anticipation of getting to post them

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

So far: ‘Yet Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves’. A suicide fic starring a Sith Apprentice who has a Dooku-inspired Sith Master so its toxic relationships: the Fic. I went with non-romantic flower disease in this for extra toxicity plot and while the ending isn’t totally tragic because its implied (1) person lives that’s it.

However ‘Will the Wolf Survive’ may well outstrip it if I go with my knife-twister!

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

Probably Palpatine’s Jedi Holiday. It starts and ends with a holiday and Palpatine is exposed as a Sith in one of the more humiliating ways possible.

8. Do you get hate on fics? 

Yes, the Anakin/Consequences fics I’ve written involving the Tusken Massacre have gotten a certain subset of fans whining about Anakin being characterized as a whiny asshole and/or defending his genocide of an entire tribe down to the babes in arms and their Space-puppies.

I’m salty about it but I’ve managed to hammer out a few chapters running purely on spite.

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

Eh, I’m ace/aro and on the indifferent/repulsed side of the spectrum so in the rare case when I’m writing romance that leads to sexytimes I tend to dance around the actual physical acts, generally going for M rated instead of E rated.

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

I’ve read them more than written them but I love crossovers. My craziest published one is over on fanfiction.net: Dresden Files x Predator Series featuring the titular protagonist facing off against a Predator out to hunt down the mythical ‘human wizard’.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? 

Nope, though that’s a Writer Goal ™

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

Nope, though I might not mind later on.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship? 

This is cruel making me pick just one. I tend to go for vibes on a ship more than specific pairings – foe-yay + hurt/comfort – so if the pairing fits the vibes I’m fine with just about any if at least one is a blorbo. Hypothetically Jaster Mereel/Ferus Olin pairing with those vibes would probably be my greatest wish. Rex/A’Sharad Hett and Jaster/Feemor are very close runners up.

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

My strength is finishing posted WIPs. I’ve yet to post anything and later abandoning it (yet). However on the flip-side my hard drive is stuffed with WIPs from many a fandom where my interest has waned. They will likely never see the light of day.

16. What are your writing strengths? 

Sheer determination. I can consistently word vomit thousands of words/a dozen pages of work every day (don't tell corporate) and usually have at least a finished rough draft of a story before I post. If not, come hell or high water I will finish my posted WIPs.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Focus. Often those thousands of words are on an unrelated project or ten. Also sometimes what I mean in writing is perfectly obvious to me but not to the reader, resulting in occasional misunderstandings.

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

I'm also gonna go with: does sign language count? I find it interesting and I read this post about this one show with lots of characters who sign and how their signing shows their characterization – I grabbed ahold of that idea and ran with it!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Justice League, Back in the olden days when the animated series was out and my biggest obsession and I hadn’t found fanfiction.net or ao3. Was ao3 around?

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? 

of all time…that’s hard but narrowly May the Force be Taxed! I actually got to do the thing where I use my real-world work knowledge and experience for a realistic fanfic. I based the Galactic Republic Tax Law on US Tax Law, Palpatine’s move to change tax law in the middle of tax season is based on President Biden doing the same thing (though of course Palpatine’s decision was considerably more assholish for all parties involved), etc.

It was such fun to write and so relieving – since I wrote this during tax season I got to take out a lot of stress from irl clientele, co-workers and stupid politicians/bankers who really should know better and insert it in this fic. Qui Gon being a terrible record-keeper, Darth Sidious having not nearly enough clues about how taxes worked and the IRS auditors were definitely not my co-workers…

Plus I got to give Palpatine and the Sith in general a fitting fate in the form of a tax bill with nigh-unending zeros that they and anyone else in any way affiliated with the Sith is charged with. The Sith Order Dies because no one is willing to get near the Galaxy’s largest tax bill!

[linnorabeifong]

“New Years”

Thank you to @nyamadermont for the tag.

Words written (published or not, WIPs totally count too!):   I have Forty-six thousand words written.

Smut scenes written (if applicable): So many. Most are unpublished. I’m a little embarrassed. There is a scene in “ Minx” a scene in “The Smoke Lingers”, “Happy New Year To Me I Guess” and “She Hates Her Body” . 4/10 am I a certified smut writer ? 

I have an entire huge smut fic waiting to go. Just to give y’all an idea how atrocious my drafts are… heavens this is embarrassing bless you. Maybe giving man the ability to write was wrong.

“Fuck you, Zolt” 

“Oh really, princess because it looks like you’re the one getting fucked to me” 

Yeah, yeah but it gets worse believe it or not. 

So.Much.Worse.

Half of me wants to traumatize all of Ao3 and Tumblr  with thousands of words of smut.  Yeah…..But if anyone actually wants the smut I will post it. 

New things I tried: Everything. I only started writing fanfic in August. 

Fic I spent the most time on: They’ve all been time consuming. Particularly this one. It hasn’t been updated in a while since I’m trying to write longer chapters and there’s a big overarching plot to work with and sun-plots. It’s hard to write since I have to balance foreshadowing with my character and plot development. It’s ten chapters out of the thirty six I have outlined.

Happy Birthday To Me I Guess 

Fic I spent the least time on: “Minx” I’m a sinner I wrote this in a church while sitting in the pew.

Favorite thing I wrote: “She Hates Her Body” is so near and dear to my heart. I’ve received so many comments on it from people who related to it.

Favourite thing I read: I can’t pick. All of my Bookmarks. Suitcases and How I Always Loved You.

Writing goals for next year:

Just finishing up all of my current works. Really finding a satisfying end.

Everyone join in.💖

[motherodysseus]

Ptolemaea - A Chapter One Preview

Note: I am hard at work on this next chapter! There's a lot to set up, and it is shaping up to be a bit of a behemoth (potentially around 9-10k words). I'm close to halfway there... I think, lol. But I thought I'd whet your appetites with a dialogue-heavy sneak peek. Enjoy!

“Is there not a chance that they might be impressed by me?” Alys asks after righting herself. “For winning back mine own hand, which was already supposed to be mine by rights?” She knows the answer, in truth, but feels desperate enough to ask.

“I suppose a small one,” Lymon considers. “Several houses have, or have had, ladies lead them, both in battle and as heads of house. And nearly all the Great Houses still recognize your father’s word as, if not law, then bond. But – whether we agree with them or not – most still see a lady’s place as in the home. Wedded, producing heirs, keeping house; not besting boys in the art of war. Or, one of the arts, at least. We will have to count ourselves lucky if they perceive it as a rebellion against your uncle –”

“Which it is,” she counters.

“Aye, but it is as likely, if not more so, that they will take offense, viewing it as a rejection of their house. We can’t presume that they will see it for what it truly is: a disavowal of your Uncle’s grasp for power,” he concludes.

Frustrated, Alys drops her head into her hands, fingers digging into her scalp. She wishes to growl, to scream, to rip at her hair or slam her fists on the table. To do anything to act upon her feelings. Instead, she takes a deep breath, then another, working to calm the tumult in her mind. Perhaps one more breath would do. Once she collects herself, she sets her hands back on the table, folding them together as her fingers continue to twist the signet. “Is there any other option?” she asks. “Any possibility of getting through this unscathed?” And unwed?

“There is one. You will not like it,” says the Maester, lips drawn thin. 

“Tell me.”

“You run. No, do not interrupt. I know you have been in near constant contact with your Velaryon kin, the Lady Laena and your Aunt, the Princess Rhaenys, since your mother’s passing. I am the one who sends your letters, after all,” he says. “I took the liberty of sending a raven to your Uncle, Lord Corlys, making him aware of your plight – something you neglected to share with him, or any of them, it would seem.” 

Aye, because until this moment, I assumed that I had this in hand. Arrogant, mayhaps, but it is the truth. Lymon takes her silence as encouragement to continue.

“He and the Princess Rhaenys have agreed to take you in as their ward. It is not customary, I know, but they are one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms; soon to be made even more so with the wedding of your cousin Laenor to the Princess of Dragonstone a moon’s turn from now. They will have the security of the Crown behind them, and they can protect you until Cregan secures his seat. You may even be able to advocate for aid, if not from the Crown, then from your Uncles. Docking the Velaryon fleet at White Harbor would be a show of force, and could serve to discourage the lords that back Bennard against this coup.”

Alys quietly absorbs Lymon’s counsel. My Maester has been hard at work, it seems. It is a clever, nay, brilliant plan; but it is an unacceptable one.

“If I abandon my house, and my brother, what message does that send? And, should I run, as you suggest, what is to stop Bennard from closing the gates to us? A few hundred men can hold Winterfell, even if ten thousand set upon its gates. Winter is Coming, and all he’ll need to do is wait us out.” Alys sighs. “It is tempting to call upon the Velaryons for aid, I admit; but to ask for interference from a Southern house, kin or no, is tantamount to admitting Creg cannot hold the North. It would bolster Bennard’s claim that he is untried, unfit, unready. My brother would never allow it, nor can I. No, Maester. I cannot leave; for there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, a true one.”

[newtthetranswriter]

Kalecgos Soulmate Au Part 2

Word count: 1276 

Summary: After Tyrande and Malfurion leave the seed to a new world tree in the safety of the Dream, The Dragon Isles awaken. Sending forth a call for all dragons to return home. Little did Y/n know that more than just reclaiming the island would be in their near future.

Warnings: None really for this chapter except maybe slight spoilers for the Dragon flight expansion of W.o.W

A/n: Welcome back to Part 2 of my Kalecgos soulmate au. Kalecgos finally makes an actual appearance in this one so yay. Anyway, thank you for coming back for part 2. I hope you enjoy and Remember to hydrate or diedrate.

Prologue - Part 1 - Part 3

    It’s been about a year since Merithra tried to convince me to meet my supposed soulmate in Dalaran. Of course after hearing about it I considered it but I know that when people try to meet their soulmate before it’s time things can go wrong. So after hearing that this Blue dragon was also hesitant to have the Green Aspect set him up with his soulmate, I held strong to not looking for him. Wanting to escape Merithra’s constant nagging trying to get me to go to Dalaran and look for a half elf with blue hair, I decided it was time for me to go back to the mortal world and take my post of protecting the Kaldorei once again. So I left the Dream and settled at Nordrassil, where many of the Kaldorei had taken residence after the burning of the old world tree.

   I returned to my work of training new druids, and providing counsel to Malfurion as he led the Kaldorei. With Tyrande aiding in the conflicts caused by Sylvanas opening a portal to the Shadowlands, Malfurion was left to lead his people without any help, so I stepped up having spent most of the past thousand years or so helping Tyrande with the same task. 

   Eventually Tyrande returned to Nordrassil with a seed for a new world tree. She had expressed her hope to give the tree the best chance possible, as it was made of the souls from the fallen Kaldorei. Also wanting to make sure this new tree had the best chance, I suggested meeting with Merithra in the Dream. There the Green Dragonflight could watch over the seed as it grew and when it was ready it would emerge in Azeroth where its protection would fall to Kaldorei. Agreeing with my idea, Malfurion and Tyrande Journeyed to the Dream.

   Sometime after the seed was planted something unexpected happened. The ancestral home of all dragons awakened. The Dragon Isles had been asleep in a sense for ten thousand years in order to protect it. With the awakening of the Isles every dragon on Azeroth felt a pull to return home. Knowing that this was a sign of something big about to happen I once again left my position as protector to answer the call.

   Unlike the Red or Bronze dragons who took to the skies to return home, us Green dragons traveled through the Emerald Dream to reach our home. Arriving on the Isle was like a dream, never in my almost two thousand years did I think I would ever see the fabled land. The part of the Island once inhabited by green dragons is a location known as the Ohn’aharan Plains, an area filled with lush fields of green and beautiful rivers. It’s also the home of the Centaur, a group of peoples Merithra once made a pact with. 

    After conversing with the Centaur it was quickly made aware that the current generation had no idea about the dragons or their previous bonds. With the release of Raszageth and the Primalists working to free the other Incarnates, Merithra planned to  try and reforge the bonds between the Centaur and Green dragonflight. Not being able to spare time to meet with the other Aspects who would be meeting in Valdraken, she requested that I go in her place as a representative of sorts. After receiving word from Alexstrasza that it was fine for her to send me to relay messages between the Aspects and herself, I made my way to Valdraken.

    Arriving in Valdraken was shocking to say the least. It was a beautiful city, full of trading posts and inns. People of all kinds could be found here, many different dragonkin stood guard while others ran stores. The recently awakened Dracthyr could also be seen walking the streets, conversing with each other or other citizens learning about this new world they awoke to. It was truly fascinating.

    Lost in a day dream, I wandered around the different sections of the city. At the moment I had ended up in the Sapphire Enclave, here many blue dragons could be seen resting on rooftops or in their mortal visages milling about. I was amazed at the amount of magic that could be felt in such a small area, but that should be expected when the Blue dragonflight was in charge of protecting all things magic in the world. 

    I had stumbled upon a small library, the sign outside read ‘Azure Archive Annex’, being curious I walked inside hoping to see what ancient books may be inside. While looking through book after book of Arcane secrets, I failed to notice another person who had entered the small building.

    My focus on the books was eventually broken when I stepped to the side and knocked into another body. Wanting to apologize, I turned to the stranger only to be shocked to see a slightly buff Half-elf with blue hair and mesmerizing blue eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was how handsome they appeared to be or the amount of mana I could feel radiating from them but I was rendered speechless. 

   The blue haired stranger noticed my shock and decided to speak first. “Sorry for bumping into you. I was just focused on this book and not paying attention to those around me.” That snapped me out of my frozen state.

    “No, don't worry about it, it's completely my fault. I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t realize anyone else was here.” I said, trying to take the blame for the collision. “Anyway, I’m Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.” I offered my hand for him to shake, strangely hoping to get to know the stranger.

    I noticed him looking at the dragon on my wrist almost surprised, before he finally took my hand and introduced himself. “I’m Kalec, it’s a pleasure to meet you as well. May I ask, what brings you to the Sapphire enclave?” As he introduced himself, I couldn't help but notice his name seemed familiar like I had heard it before.

    Brushing off the thought, I decided to continue the conversation. “Oh, I was just exploring Valdraken before I have to attend a meeting later and just got distracted by the beautiful books here. What brings you here Kalec?” I questioned as both turned back to shelves. 

    “Coincidentally, I also have a meeting to attend later. As for being in the enclave I just wanted to check in with the other members of the Blue flight who returned. There aren’t many of us here but it’s always good to make sure they’re doing well.” Kalec explained. “Well, I’ll be seeing you, Y/n.” With that He nodded to me and left the small library.

    With that I realized where I heard his name before, Kalec was the nickname the Blue aspect used for his mortal visage. It felt odd that I had spoken so casually with the leader of a different flight. Sure I spoke to Merithra like she was my sister, but talking to another flight's Aspect like we were equals was sometimes viewed as disrespectful. But then again it felt natural to speak to him in such a way. Realizing that it was close to time for the meeting with the Aspects, I shivered slightly at having to face him again after likely embarrassing myself, but then moved to leave the library. On my way out I decided to check on my soulmate mark, looking at my wrist, the small dragon there looked happy but also surprised, and for some reason I felt like my soulmate was likely seeing the same expression on their wrist.

[winkle-pickers]

I’m gonna be extra and ask for “I’m trash p2” AND TTYE 🥸

Thaaaanks!!! 😇

LMAO GOING STRAIGHT FOR THE JUGULAR HUH

I'm trash p2

I don't think any Spidey mutuals follow me on this account lol, but: Have some Tony & Natasha needling each other <3

“Look,” Tony says, gesturing across his property. “This is the picture of domestic fucking bliss. Garden, two kids, shithead alpaca, porch to sit on and reflect on my dawning old age. Why the hell would I want to go back to climbing into a tin can and letting enhanced fuckfaces smack me around.” It’s a rhetorical question, so he states it, rather than asking. It doesn’t matter. Natasha has never once in her life grasped the concept of a rhetorical question, because she thinks she knows everything. Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying, there’s maybe a middle ground between full-time Iron Man and removing yourself entirely from society by fucking off to the middle of nowhere and only showing your face in the city twice a year for Stark Industries shareholder meetings.” “I don’t even show up for those anymore,” Tony cackles. “I do ‘em remotely, and then when I’ve had enough I can just say the internet out here sucks and fake my connection breaking up.” “That doesn’t work as well as you think it does. Anyways, that’s not the point.” “The point, then, Romanoff,” Tony says, making little walking motions with his fingers. “Get to it.”

Ten Thousand Year Elegy

I was so torn between posting this snippet or a shorter Hondadorf one. But I really love Anzu/Kaiba bickering and Honda/Jounouchi sweetness so, here's one from the next chapter!!

“I can’t believe you’re willing eat plain ostrich legs roasted on a fire, but not the barbequed ones with the delicious dry-rub Link invented,” Anzu was saying to Kaiba. Kaiba huffed. “What’s confusing about that? Jounouchi just killed this one. It hasn’t been sitting out on a filthy rock in the open air growing bacteria for god knows how long.” The familiar bantering and bickering was sort of soothing, in a way. Even in a confusing and highly disorienting world where Honda Hiroto could suddenly use ancestral Goron magic, at least he could count on the unwavering constant of Kaiba choosing random nitpicky hills to die on. Jounouchi was sitting beside Honda, and was currently engaged in a spirited conversation with Yuugi about different ways they could season the ostrich next time, even though they didn’t have all the ingredients for Link and Aji’s dry rub. While Jounouchi talked through a massive and disgusting mouthful of food, he casually put his hand on Honda’s knee. No comment, no concerned look. Just: Hey, man. I’m here and so are you. Kaiba may have been predictable, but Jounouchi Katsuya was the one thing in Honda’s life that had always been as reliable as the sun coming up every morning.

[thecoffeelorian]

Fandom:  Good Omens Title:  Sanctuary Rating:  General Chapter:  002 P.O.V.:  Anthony J. Crowley Word Count:  1,187 Brief Description:   After 6,000 years of working for Hell, Crowley's schedule is suddenly and miraculously open... Other Notes:   Rebooted this old story as of 08/01/2023. Hopefully, there won't be any more unexpected catastrophes coming along to interrupt my progress. Other Links:  AO3  

Part One Quick Message:  Please like this post if you would like for me to tag you in my future updates!  Thanks!

Once upon a time, there was a serpent, and the serpent met an angel...

Today's a bit like waking up from a bad dream.  The worst dream that anyone alive or dead could ever think to have, perhaps, let alone think about trying to live through.  The one where darkness and cold is normal; leading humanity astray is encouraged; and everyone from the most toxic workplace in myth or legend hates each other with the fire of a thousand suns.  

The one where

(hope is nowhere to be found)

only evil grows, and in the absence of light, air, and water, no less.  The one where, perhaps, Humanity itself has grown so used to its own evil side that it no longer needs any external devils, because it'sss so willing to embrace its own destruction.  But only, obviously, with a small nudge in the wrong direction first.

This has been his life, his very nature, up until a few days ago.  

Hell itself would have demanded nothing less from one of its own, after all, whether or not he actually showed up at the old office from time to time.  In fact, up until a week ago, he just might have been their unofficial top employee.

After that same week had come and gone, though...?  

Well, perhaps he should start here--he's suddenly rooted to this little spit of land out in the eastern edge of the Atlantic Ocean.  Attached, maybe, or something pretty close to it if he's got his comparisons right.  

Also, there are no more eternal bonfires to lick at his scales, no freezing beams of false sunlight to watch his every move, no thousand thousand Dukes of Hell to give him a negative performance review...and oh yeah, absolutely no schedules for the next six thousand years, if not more.

Or so they might have him believe.

Outside, the weather promises a dry, warm day, especially since Adam still seems to be in charge of that department somehow.  Perhaps it's better if he is, given how other humans at least three times his age would have played fast and loose with their own climates otherwise.  Under his watch, though, it's nothing short of ideal: minimal allergy levels all across the spectrum; high air quality from the Islands to the Channel; no measured risks for those with pre-existing conditions; and the humidity isn't rising above ten percent. 

And if that didn't miraculously add up to what appears to be the perfect day, there's just one more thing to consider.

Aziraphale's joining him back at the flat.

That's right.  Aziraphale.  Back at the flat.  Alone...with him.

"Isn't this perfect?"

Correction--alone, and fidgety, and having the sense of 

(still existing in Their crosshairs)

getting rolled off of the white cliffs of Dover in a barrel so large, it can carry both himself and half a dozen wasps’ nests, thus making the chance of being stung at least once rise by at least 600%.

And wouldn’t he know it, all of those imaginary wasps are just dying to start a row with him.

"Nh...what now?"

Not that ‘Zira’s noticed yet, though

(”zira”?  of all of the nicknames available on Earth, you go with zira?)

, because he’s too busy marveling at the blessed absence of greenhouse gasses.  Yeah.  No pollution equals no Pollution, and that means the entire Human race can breathe.

"The outdoors, Crowley!  The weather!  Oh, it's almost as if someone's keeping the storms away, just for us..."

But can all of this be considered too bloody perfect, though...?  Is it really all that much of a good thing that he’s opening the car door for Aziraphale right now, here, with seemingly no other Angels or Demons around to sabotage things?  Are they really on their way to enjoy just one more drink, and maybe also a good deal of planning for the future besides?  Is this really the first trouble-free day in his existence, never mind zero days since he went up to the surface, and never planned to return?

Or is one of them poised to drop the spiritual equivalent of mop water onto his path tomorrow, and not bother putting up a single wet floor sign...?!

"Right.  Us.  Yeah, really good..."

The Car seems to disagree with this sentiment, because It doesn’t hesitate to offer up ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’ as ambiance.  Apparently, It is more than prepared to leave, and just might be willing to go a mite slower than 120 miles per hour so as not to ruin the moment.

Traitor.

Apparently, It's also not thinking twice about nudging him along as well, because as soon as Aziraphale's comfortably seated, It wiggles the corresponding door in order to rope him into closing it.

"...I just...can't handle it, this thing, called love..."

He does, of course, but not without those waspish-thoughtish-things taking a lap or two around his track of consciousness.

They're about to indulge in just one more drink, and maybe also a good deal of planning for the future besides.  

Their future.  

Together.  

It's these many factors that should be adding up to the first trouble-free day in his life.  Zero days since he went up to the surface, and never planned to return.

"...It swings, it jives, it shakes all over like a jellyfish..."

Unfortunately, he's not yet done looking over his own shoulder.  He can still see those flies buzzing around the lawns, even as he's turning the old key into the ignition.  Their flies.  They're probably not done with him after all, even though he's expecting to be sacked any time now.  Maybe They're somewhere out there right now, just waiting for him to turn around before They decide to go for the bloody jugular.  And yet--

"Oh, my--do you see the size of that cloud?"

--And yet, apparently, They don’t seem to be alone in Their continued attempts to screw up his existence.  Oh, no, They were just getting started.  Only this time, They've decided to drag in a bit of extra muscle, because of course, They would be the ones to unofficially arrange an official rematch.

Well, well, well.

Little did any of Them know that he wasn't going to be taken by surprise a second time.

"A cloud.  Seriously.  Is that all You've got?"

"Well, I'm not in charge of the weather, so I imagine that--wait, what?!"

Ha.  He knew exactly how to deal with "clouds", never mind pillars of fire, pillars of salt, disembodied voices, talking donkeys, the sudden onset of blindness, speechlessness, accidental deaths, beheadings, and on rare occasions, the unexpected insane king or emperor.

In other words, it would take so much more than one meteorological anomaly to take him down, thank Nobody very much.

"Hold on tight, angel.  It's about to become really bumpy..."

In fact, if his inferences were correct, and Somebody on either side was thinking of waving another Great Flood or Bubonic Plague in his direction to try and steer him off course...then it just might be time for that Somebody to learn a very, very tough lesson.

Nobody.  Interrupts.  The alcohol.

[elliemarchetti]

A Court of Deadly Virtues (Book 1)

Plot: A Court of Mist and Fury retelling from Nesta’s POV. Set in Chapter 57.

This is going to be more canon-divergent further on, but for now every change involves mostly Nesta and Cassian’s relationship.

Previous chapters

Words: 1.107

Kindness [4/7]

Only the eldest and the golden Queens attended the second meeting, escorted by five guards each. By the time they decided on the perfect date, spring had begun in the Mortal Lands, and crocuses and daffodils were poking their heads out of the no longer frozen earth. Feyre still wore her flowing ivory robe and gold feathered crown, but this time she and Rhysand held hands resolutely. The older woman ran her shrewd eyes over them and sat down without an invitation, arranging the skirts of her emerald robe around her. The negotiations were less gracious, and not even the images of the secret, beautiful city showed by the Veritas were worthy of the rulers trust.

“Who says this isn’t another manipulation?” the crone asked. “A lot has changed since the war and the Morrigan’s so called friendship with our female ancestors. Perhaps you’re not who you say you are and the High Lord crept into our minds to make us believe he has allies more powerful than those he can really count on. It would explain why you seek our help so desperately.”

“That’s crazy talk,” hissed Nesta, unable to hold her tongue any longer. “Crazy talk from arrogant, crazy fools.”

Feyre turned to her with a pleading expression at the same time as Elain reached out to silence her, but there were too many innocent lives at stake to stand back and let everyone else do the dirty work. If they didn’t want to risk their lives, so be it, but they at least owed them a chance to fight back.

“Perhaps an evacuation is possible...” speculated the golden woman, but it was evident she was just making up things to shut her up.

“We’ll need ten thousand ships,” Nesta replied, her voice nearly breaking. She did the math for a whole night and ran over the same calculations nearly a hundred times, fearing she missed something, hoping there was an error and they weren’t really in need of such a fleet, but she was right, and she didn’t even started to consider the cost of transportation from the inner villages. Everyone was talking about numbers, and hypothetical lives, but Nesta knew those people, she knew they had nothing, she knew families born poor and farmers who preferred to die than abandon their fields or a couple of decrepit cows. No mortal knew the whole truth about the Fae, their knowledge based on erroneous legends and rumours, they had no idea what they would’ve to endure and they didn’t know how to fight. They would be slain, and what little good was left in their simple lives blown away like a house of cards in a blizzard.

“We’re stuck here,” she resumed, cold rage and burning accusations exuding from her like a vengeful aura. “And you’ll watch us die in hope they’ll be satisfied and won’t look at the Continent, but they would, and if you do nothing you’re going to regret every choice you made in this room.”

The old Queen gripped the shiny armrests of her chair, furious at such obstinacy: “Then I suggest you ask one of your winged males to take you across the sea and see for yourself the power of our defences.”

Nesta stared at the woman in pure disgust. She wasn’t going to beg, she wasn’t going to ask for more, and judging by the look on Cassian’s face, even he wouldn’t have allowed her to make a fool of herself. It was a matter of pride, and love.

“Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this home. I fought alongside both humans and Fae who believed in equality, and I’ll be on that field again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this home and your people. I cannot think of a better way to end my life than to defend those who need it most,” said the Illyrian with such ardour, that for a moment Nesta felt more important than she was, not just a pawn in someone else’s game but a powerful player who somehow won the heart of Prythian’s most fearsome warrior. A single tear trickled down her hollow cheek, and thick calloused fingers were ready to wipe it away before it could fall on her dress. If he’d got down on his knee right now and asked her to marry him, it would’ve made less of a stir, but Nesta felt no embarrassment, and didn’t flinch at the almost familiar touch, completely ignoring the Morrigan who looked at them with wide eyes. She didn’t seem jealous or annoyed, even though Nesta suspected she and Cassian had some shared history, but rather amazed. The Queens didn’t seem to share the same sentiment, and as swiftly as they arrived, they disappeared from the large drawing room, leaving behind them a heavy lead box. Nesta gasped as Rhysand lifted it to reveal what was inside, but she didn’t lean over Cassian’s shoulder to find out what was written on the note resting on the second half of the coveted Book.

“You should come with us,” whispered the Fae, so softly only she and Elain, who was still by the window looking on her garden, could hear him. “You heard the situation and you’ve made perfect calculations. You should pack lightly and stay in Velaris for a while, as safe as it can be now that the Queens know of its existence.”

“I...”Elain muttered, looking like a dog caught in a snare. “I can’t.”

The words flowed out so quickly, and Elain looked so stubbornly at the floor, that Nesta wondered if she was having second thoughts on the wedding and something happened between her and Azriel. More than ever, the iron ring she wore on her finger seemed immensely ugly and unsuitable for her sweetest sister.

“Then I’ll send a unit of my soldiers to guard the estate. No one will notice their presence and they’ll be completely autonomous. If you change your mind, one of them will wait in this room at noon and midnight every day.”

Nesta just nodded, unable to find the right words to thank Cassian for such a great kindness.

“I wish things were different,” he admitted, before walking off to rejoin the rest of his companions, who were beginning to cast curious glances at them.

“I could never leave my sister,” Nesta replied, and momentarily prayed to some forgotten God for him to get close enough to touch, so she could remember what it was like to have their fingers intertwined, but he didn’t, and when the small group flew away, Nesta was unable to meet Elain’s guilty eyes.

[hetaari]

2, 3, 5, 6, 8, 11, 13, 15, 17, 20, 21,22 and 24 for that writing ask game :)

Fun fact it took me ten thousand years to answer this bc this ask was apparently long enough to crash the app multiple times whilst I was answering it lmao

*cracks knuckles, cracks neck, cracks spine*

2: Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

Augh I want to. Hurry to get to the interesting bits of An Unconventional Sort Of Enployment quickly!!! I’m editing the chapters that were already published bc I must’ve gotten so excited to publish them that they came out rushed :/// what I’m looking forward to most is developing relationships! I plan for everything to remain non-romantic bc I’m not good at writing romance lmao but that doesn’t make it any less fulfilling! Developing platonic relationships is actually one of my favorite things to write so I’m really looking forward to it

3: What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

It’s actually a whole fic idea and also it’s vocaloid so maybe you wouldn’t find it very interesting but anyway. It’s like:

Kaito: have you ever wondered what it’s be like to be someone else

Len: ???? Are you depressed again

Kaito: no I was just thinking about it

Len: I can help you with that

So Kaito changes his name (well, barely, it’s only one letter off) and pretends to be a girl but! He’s inadvertently committing identity theft bc the lady he’s pretending to be already exists and is actually related to him but he somehow completely forgot, and all his friends know her but either they actually thought he was her or they also forgot that she exists too

5: What character that you’re writing do you most identify with?

(Previously answered) Do ocs count? Madeleine wasn’t supposed to be a self-insert at all but at some point whilst I was drafting I was like “ah fuck that’s me innit” bc I realized her personality was far too similar to mine lol

6: What character do you have the most fun writing?

(Previously answered) Germany. I love making him miserable in particular. Also Japan, the way he speaks is so satisfying, same with Russia

8: Is what you like to write the same as what you like to read?

Generally yes, but—and I don’t mean to come off as someone who doesn’t read books—why is smut in fanfiction often better written than smut in published books? Is it censorship? A stylistic choice? Published smut often feels so weird and cringe in the way it’s written and I don’t understand why…In fact, fanfiction and standard published books really hit different in general, for better or for worse

11: What do you envy in other writers?

I feel a bit like I’ve stagnated. I’m writing the same things over and over again so I see someone else has written something radical I’m like “damn why didn’t I think of that” so I should really try doing something different…and while I know that the worth of written works is not in their length, I see so many writers put so much emphasis on the length of their works and it’s a bit discouraging as someone more used to brevity

13: Do you share your writing online? (Drop a link!) Do you have projects you’ve kept just for yourself?

Yeah lol. My ao3 is here lol. But yeah I’ve been playing around with an original work for a bit actually. Might consider talking about it more. Anything else I’ve kept to myself are just things that I couldn’t finish

15: Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?

It depends but mainly titles. Summaries I have the least problems with because if all else fails, I can simply make the summary a phrase that’s connected to the title, but that may become a problem if I don’t have a title lmao. In the case of gore however, that’s when I struggle a bit with tags, like “this isn’t extreme to me, but would other people find it too much?” because if it is extreme, I don’t want to want to have people let their guard down, but if it isn’t extreme, I don’t want to falsely advertise

17: Do you think readers perceive your work - or you - differently to you? What do you think would surprise your readers about your writing or your motivations?

Yeah, I believe art looks a bit different depending on the eye of the beholder, no matter how slightly. I don’t think my motivations are very surprising or complicated—they’re pretty much along the lines of “hey you know what would be interesting?”

20: Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

Okay first of all I’m sorry for talking about Welcome Back again, it’s my first completed multi chapter work so I’m a bit proud it, like it’s my firstborn child lol.

The way I went about it is actually something I want to repeat—taking a canon moment (in this case, Vene getting kicked out and later being sent back to Germany in a box) and going in a wildly different direction with it. It was supposed to remain a one shot but I suddenly decided to continue it, which is why the transition between the first and second chapter may seem a little odd.

Vene did kind of turn out to be kind of the antagonist though, not that he meant it. But it was a lose-lose situation i think, because he effectively fucked Germany up by telling him he was a country in the first place, but at the same time, it was really fucking weird that Germany would just live his life not knowing about a crucial part of his existence! Not really knowing what else to do, Vene just decided to wipe Germany’s memory just to put him out of his misery. Of course, that may not last forever—even though everyone was sworn to secrecy, somebody is bound to slip up, or Germany may become concerned as to why he hasn’t looked a day past 20 in years (though, knowing how he lived his life before, not once questioning it at all, this is kind of unlikely) but mark his words, Vene would wipe Germany’s memories as many times as he’d have to, even if it does hurt to do so

Also a big fan of how vene and Germany telling each other welcome back for different yet similar reasons—Germany when vene kept showing up at his house after being thrown out, even when he came back quite literally dead; and Vene, even though Germany didn’t technically leave, but he seemed alive again after being put back in the dark about his true nature

21: What other medium do you think your story would work well as? (film, webcomic, animated series?)

Probably comics? I might just be saying this since my paragraphs and dialogue don’t tend to be very long most of the time, which would fit well in a comic strip

22: Do you reread your old works? How do you feel about them?

(Previously answered) Occasionally. Some of them still hold up, but others? I Can Tell They’re Old.

24: Would you say your writing has changed over time?

Absolutely. I’ve gained a wider vocabulary, and just the general way I structure sentences has changed a bit since I started writing seriously again two years ago. They also increased in length somewhat and are just less sloppy in general

[jupiter---daydreams]

Progress Update on Heroes and Vultures (numero cinco)!!!!

Word Count: 10790

Page Count: 40

I really wasn't happy with the first half of chapter 3, and I had a much better idea anyway, so I decided "oh I'll just rewrite all that." If I had known...

But tonight, I decided to actually sit down and write. Who would've guessed that'd be the answer?

No further progress on chapter 5, but I have my sights on it and it's days are numbered!! I don't have the strictest outline for it, at least it's a lot looser than my usual chapter outline, so I'm gonna struggle a bit, but I'll get through it!

Also over TEN THOUSAND WORDS and FORTY PAGES??? That feels like a big milestone so I'm really proud of myself 🥳🥳. This is by far the farther I've ever gotten with any original writing and I think it's because I told people about it pretty much instantly. I'm a person that needs validation, which is why I usually get really far into fanfics, but my original work typically peters out. Either way, I'm SO proud and happy!!

Writing excerpt:

"I don't like the way I look. Plain and simple, I just don't like my appearance. I'm well-built, muscular even, but it looks wrong on my shorter stature and small shoulder. It feels wrong. And the patchwork of scars certainly don't help the picture."