#my wip post titles truly only get worse huh

[sollucets]

wip wursday

@sealriously-sealrious & @romirola asked me for wip, so wip they shall have

i’m trying to get back into being a thing that writes, so this is still just. ocean eyes solstice chapter. but at least this is actually the party!! here, have astersam interactions. again we have he/him aster this chapter

💜

Aster has never met a Vampire before, to his knowledge. He's never seen eyes like that, so bright and intent on him, the crimson spots visible as he approaches. It's almost enough to stop him, to make him reconsider this after all.

But that's only for the briefest of moments, because the moment Ivy’s a step ahead, Sam's gaze flicks back down to them and goes soft and liquid and tender. His already-oval eyes curve even further in a small smile that doesn't reach his mouth. If Aster wasn't trying so hard to look at Sam instead of Ivy, he's honestly not even sure he'd have noticed it. But he has. It settles something in him.

"Hey, trouble," Aster greets Ivy cheerfully. It's a nickname David tends to bestow on the two of them equally as often these days. "Having fun?"

Ivy raises an eyebrow at him, and for just a second he thinks he sees those storm eyes flick down his body. He honestly hopes he imagined it, because the possible truth of Ivy intentionally checking him out might kill him. "Plenty," they answer. Their tone is as clipped as ever, but Ivy's mood is easier read in their body language, and they're leaning forward just the slightest bit.

"I'd bet that's your doing, then," Aster acknowledges, aiming a bright smile at Sam. It's a little overdone, maybe, but he wants to make a good impression, far more than he usually would.  

"I don't know I'd go so far as all that," the Vampire says, sounding a little hesitant. The obvious anxiety in his rumbling Southern accent is both endearing and endlessly reassuring.

"Don't sell yourself short," Aster says, with a little wink.

[amymel86]

WIP Wednesday!

hey-hey! It’s WIP Wednesday and as usual, I am unable to keep my writing to myself  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ so here I am, here to foist my offering of more of my Zokla fic onto you good ppl. Part 1 here

I have a lot planned for this fic so lets see how much of it I manage to keep to myself, huh?

Beautiful graphic by the lovely @sanzuh​ <3

*elements of the story may change by the time I post on AO3, it’s still a WIP*

Which was worse? Gripping onto the hot, thorny scales even tighter as the monster screeches and beats its wings, carrying her away from the falling ground as they rise higher and higher or the approach of King’s Landing and the looming spectre of The Red Keep?

Air of the city sky whipped passed her face before they began to slow and descend. Her cousin’s arm tightened around her and she felt utterly helpless during her deliverance into enemy hands. The den may have been ripped from the jaws of lions and now lays in the clutch on dragons, but these walls are the same, they’ve witnessed the same sins, Sansa thought as Jon alights his Zokla and turns to help her down from the monster’s neck.

He says something to her but she is not listening. Long buried echoes of her girlhood rear their ghastly heads – of a golden prince and poison-smiled queen, of the flat edge of blades and gauntleted backhands swiping across her tender childish cheeks and the tears she would swallow down in public but later let wet her soft silk pillow.

There was a noise like the cracking of a dry branch. A sting bloomed fiercely across her palm before she truly realised what she had done. Her Targaryen cousin’s cheek was beginning to stain with a pink glow.

Dark-clothed guards rush forward, the movement making the grey dragon lower her huge head and growl defensively. Jon raises one hand, commanding his men to halt. There were already seven spears pointing in Sansa’s direction. Zokla growls again. “Shhh, bump. It’s alright girl,” he murmurs before turning back to his prisoner and the soldiers. Sansa stands defiantly, with weapons drawn upon her. She was ready for whatever punishment he might unleash upon her. She struck him across the face – an act most hostile and un-lady-like. And she would repeat it too, given half the chance. Pulling her spine straight Sansa wills her lip not to tremble as her cousin silently appraises her with his one good eye, the sting of his cheek burning beneath it.

How dare he? How dare he take her captive? Hasn’t she experienced enough of this? Hasn’t she been used? Hasn’t she been beaten? They can beat her again – he can beat her if he should wish to – she will show them that she is made of steel and ice – and stone. Stone that no dragon flame could melt. She will show him that the North does not kneel. Not truly.

Jon continues to make a map of her with his grey eye that flashes violet when the light catches it just so. One side of his lips lifts faintly. She is to try and win over this man – this Targaryen. She will have to reign in her temper to do it, but for now she will bathe in the satisfaction of having struck him. His gaze is torn away when one of the soldiers asks something in a foreign tongue, a spear jabbing in Sansa’s direction.

“Kesā daor ōdrikagon zirȳla!” Jon barks. You will not harm her!

“Ziry pryjatan ao, Morghe Vala.”  Sansa struggles a little with accent but she thinks she grasps it fairly faithfully. She struck you, Dead Man.

Sansa’s Valyrian ear will have be tuned if she’s to catch everything that’s being said.

“Lo nyke hen bony ōghar va zirȳla bartos ēza issare ōdrikagon kesīr, kessa sagon ao sīkuda bona kessa sagon morghe vali,” Jon hisses and all weapons are lowered. It took Sansa a moment to translate. If I find out that one hair on her head has been harmed while here, it will be you that are the Dead Men.

“Ñuha dārilaros!” Comes the call from across the huge courtyard. My Prince. Jon grunts. He winces as he hobbles a little on his injured leg and Sansa wonders if the annoyance is at the pain or the silver haired woman now approaching them. With one word barked at his men, they leave.

“No doubt you have heard of our Queen Daenerys,” Jon tells her in a low murmur so as to inform her of the woman approaching. He turns to greet her – his aunt. “Gaomagon emā naejot yne brōzā bona?” Must you have to call me that?  He does not take kindly to the lofty title of prince, then.

The woman smiles, ignoring his irritation. “Nyke zūgagon ao would daor sagon māzis arlī.” I feared you would not be coming back to us. Her silver-white hair was swept away from her beautiful face and held with pins that glittered with rubies like droplets of spilled blood on snow. Her black leather armoured dress was split-skirted and revealed deep crimson riding breeches that looked tough in material, like some sort of hide. The bodice of her dress seemed to be made of some kind of reptilian skin, with scales that crept around her small frame. She looked every inch the Targaryen and Sansa only just now realises that she must have been the rider on the red dragon, not Viserys as Lord Royce had summised.

Just then, Zokla caught Sansa completely off guard by swishing her great, muscular tail and almost wrapping it around her, as if to separate her from the two Targaryens. The move felt a little...  protective? Sansa held her breath, unsure of what to make of it.

Jon chuckles darkly and gives his monster’s huge shoulder a shove. “Bump! Tepagon zirȳla arlī.” Give her back. “Ziry's ñuhon, daor aōhon.” She’s mine, not yours. There was a remorseful rumble from deep within the dragon’s chest before her tail slithered away allowing Sansa to step forward, out from within the dragon’s embrace.

“Qilōni iksis ziry?” The silver queen glances her way before making the demand of her War General. Who is she? She did not seem pleased to see her nephew return with a prisoner.

“This-“ Jon says, holding out his hand for Sansa to take while she curtseys as though he were presenting her like a gift. Sansa did not accept his offer and instead bowed her head at the beauty. “-is Lady Sansa Stark,” he finishes with a slight smirk upon his lips as he watches her.

“Hardyng,” Sansa corrects with a sniff, noting the quirk of Jon’s brow before turning back to the dragon queen. Her heart had stumbled at hearing her Stark name once more but Harry is barely cold and not yet buried – Sansa has hardly had time to properly come to terms with his fate – she won’t be giving up his name just yet.  “Your Grace,” she acknowledges the silver-haired queen.

Startling violet eyes swept up and down her frame. “Skoro syt iksis ziry kesīr?” Why is she here? The queen looks to her nephew with demand and suspicion in her eyes. She did not seem pleased to find a Stark (Hardyng though she may be) within their midst.

“I invited her.” Sansa almost snorts at his reply. If this was an invitation, she wouldn’t like to witness his command. She had certainly been issued with no indication that she could refuse his ‘invitation’.  “And as our guest favours the common tongue, I should think it more polite that we use it.” He seems unaware that she is able to follow Valyrian if she concentrates enough. That is fine, Sansa thinks. It may be to her advantage for him to believe her ignorant of his words.

The queen presses her lips tightly together. “Dārys se Bloodwing issi ōdrikagon.  Dārys's tīkun iksis olvie quba,” she says, ignoring her general’s request for the common tongue. Dārys and Bloodwing are both injured. Dārys’s wing is badly ripped. Jon sighs and rubs at his forehead, his inaction seeming to frustrate his aunt. “Zirȳla people gōntan bisa naejot īlva zaldrīzes's!” she spits, giving Sansa a look of dark fire. Her people did this to our dragon's!

At that, Jon took it upon himself to shift – step between Sansa and his queen as he stares his silver-haired aunt down. The intent seemed clear though no words, neither Valyrian, nor common were spoken. Sansa could see his shoulders rise and fall with each steady breath. Peering over them, the dragon queen seems to be even more frustrated.

“Visērȳs kessa daor sagon biare naejot gūrēñagon zȳhon zaldrīzes daor sōvegon,” Daenerys ground out between clenched teeth. Viserys will not be happy to learn his dragon can no longer fly.

“Bisa iksis vīlībāzma, Daenērys,” This is war, Daenerys, Jon rumbles, his voice low and calm. “Gōntan ao pendagon konīr daorys jiōragon ōdrikagon?” Did you think there would be no casualties?

“Not our dragons,” Daenerys answers, violet eyes flashing over Jon’s shoulder to pierce Sansa. “Never our dragons,” she hisses, spinning to stride away, taking her queenly venom with her.

Jon takes in a large lungful and reaches out to pat at his Zokla. “Tolī, riña.  Nyke'll māzigon naejot ūndegon ao tolī.” Later, girl. I’ll come to see you later. He turns to face Sansa and offers his arm again only to drop it back to his side when he notes the defiant expression she grants him. “Come, Jaesa,” he says gruffly, calling her Goddess again and starting to stalk toward the keep while expecting her to follow. “Let’s get you washed up before we present you to the King.”

***

Her cousin escorts Sansa to rooms larger than those she had been imprisoned in before. If her memory serves her well, these had been poor little Prince Tommen’s when last she had been here at King’s Landing. Rumour has it that the little prince who had been a short-lived king grew so scared at the sight of the dragons coming for him, that he jumped from his window. Sansa glances at the shuttered windows now, shaking the awful rumour from her head. Besides, he was king at the time of the Targaryen invasion, he would not have still resided in these rooms, he would not have jumped from these windows, his plummeted death was not below her new prison’s views. Sansa cannot seem to think of Tommen as anything other than the chubby-cheeked boy who loved his cat. She knows it has been a few years since, and likely the roundness of youth had slipped from his face and hardened under the crown they put upon him, but Sansa will not try to amend her memories.

Arya loved to chase the cats here too.

That memory is sharp and stinging – just as biting as her strike to Jon’s face would’ve been for him. Sansa rubs a thumb into her palm as she tucks the memory of her sister away, wraps it in soft knitted fabrics and tells herself not to think that the last place she saw her alive was this wretched castle.

Her eye casts around. The rooms are fairly bare; looking positively naked without the swaths of crimson velvets with golden trims and emblems of lions – all the things she’d come to expect of Red Keep chambers from her time here under Lannister rule. They were meant to be stags, she thinks to herself, turning to see her cousin stood behind her with his ever-watching eye. And you are meant to be a dragon though you call your beast a wolf. Can you be swayed?

“Satin!”  he barks, though his eye never strays from her as he stands there, hands behind his back, observing her like she were a curious new species of creature. A comely young man with ink-dark ringlets appears as if he had been hiding within the very walls awaiting his master’s summons.

The servant’s dark eyes quickly take in the General’s injured leg. “Aōha kris!” Your leg!

“The common tongue, please Satin,” her cousin says, ignoring the young man’s concern. “We have a guest.” He nods his head in her direction.

‘Satin’, gives her a smile. “Apologies, my lady,” he says before sweeping into a low bow.

“Fetch Lady Sansa some water to bathe,” Jon commands.

“But... your leg-“

The manservant is cut off by a sharp turn of his masters head accompanied by a searing glare.

Satin sniffs and straightens, holding his poise perfectly. “Here? In your rooms?” To which, her cousin gives a stiff nod. Satin scurries off to do as he is bid.

That catches Sansa off guard. His rooms? What on earth does he mean by bringing her here.

Something twitches in her belly – a horrid spark of a thought.

He wouldn’t violate her, would he? She knows nothing of the Targaryens and even less of the particular one standing in front of her.

Her cousin approaches and Sansa stands strong with steel in her spine. If she is afraid, she will be damned if he’s to know about it. He’s standing close now, his skin and armour still coated in battle-grime; dirt, blood and sweat. His eye roams her face as Satin scurries back in, directing his under-servants with the bath tub and buckets. Jon does not move and Sansa wonders if he’ll ever look his fill of her. “You need not be afraid of me, cousin,” he murmurs low for only her ears. Sansa peers over his shoulder at the way the servants (save for Satin) skitter around like mice trying desperately to fulfil their master’s wish before they can flee again. They seemed afraid.

Swallowing, Sansa forces a smile. The worst kind of beasts can smell fear – it excites them. She does not know what sort of beast stands before her yet but she won’t let him get her scent. “Why have you brought me to your chambers, General?” she asks calmly as hot steaming water splashes into the tub by the hearth.

“They are yours now,” he says, “while you stay with us.”

“And where will you sleep?”

Satin makes an odd, amused snorting noise. Jon ignores it. “It is a big castle, my lady. I’m sure I will find somewhere to lay my head.”

That did not assuage her thoughts. She’s been in the position of prisoner before, she knows of many different ways captors treat their captives. Robb will gut you if you hurt me, she thinks, hoping it to be true. “I am well aware of how large the castle is,” she tells him dismissively, looking around, feigning disinterest. “There are far less golden lions than last I was a ‘guest’ here.”

Jon leans forward and tilts his head as he asks, “An improvement?”

Sansa catches sight of a new little serving mouse scurrying in and frantically whispering into Satin’s ear. Whatever he was told, it made his pleasant complexion turn pallid. She will have relearn all there is to know about the servants and the guards while she is here. To be informed is to be forearmed after all. There is just enough time for her answer before Satin approaches them. “An improvement? Perhaps. Though there may be a few too many dragons for my liking. I am yet to decide.”

Her answer earns a wry smile from her cousin before his manservant comes up to whisper in his ear, causing that smile to slide right off. “Ziry iksos rhēdan? Sir?” he asks, finally tearing his gaze away from Sansa. It’s started? Now?

“Kessa, istiti jikagon naejot zirȳla.” Yes, we must go to her.

Jon offers her quick glace before taking Satin by the arm and hauling him away, hissing, “Se skoros gaomagon īlon gīmigon hen ra? īlon daor dohaeragon zirȳla!” And what do we know of these things? We cannot help her. Satin shrugs out of Jon’s grip. There is a fury in his eyes when he squares up to his master with his reply. Sansa did not catch the words but she had never before seen a servant react in such a manner towards their lord. For half a moment, she believes she is about to witness a beating. Instead, she watches as her cousin growls some response and fishes out a small bag of coins. “Jurnegon syt dohaeragon.  Sindigon pōja lykemagon,” he murmurs, handing the coin to Satin. Find someone to help. Buy their silence. “Jikagon.” Go.

[mieohmy]

drafts... // yjh

to start with: hi everyone again 💕 you can probably tell by the title but sometimes I can’t write shit so I have a bunch of wips/horrible writings that I’ll never finish or just straight up hate -which means I’ll just post them so they can rot away and I never have to look at them again(and no they are not proofread) 🙂

D I S C O N T I N U E D

yoon jeonghan x matchmaker!reader

genre: fluff, humor, angst, strangers-to-lovers?

warnings: cursing

wc: 1.9k

summary: yoon jeonghan- your toughest matchmaking customer yet. flash forward thirteen dates and still insatiable. your only choice is to further investigate the reason behind all his failed attempts....but maybe it’s because he only wants you?

“How was your last date?”

He leans back with a bored sigh. “Uninteresting. She looked like her face was gonna melt with all that makeup on.”

And as much as you were starting to ‘dislike’ his presence here, yoon jeonghan was still your client and a fucking funny one at that.

You press your lips to prevent the laughter and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Neither does the shake of your head to collect your thoughts.

If there was anyone else in the room, literally anyone, they would’ve known exactly who jeonghan wanted really to go on a date with. (Hint hint: actually- no. you don’t even need one.)

“Well, i know she wasn’t the best choice, but we’re running out of options.” You hated forfeiting, but this guy was truly giving a run for your money.

“Are there other choices? Anyone?”

You rub your temple in frustration, scrolling through the options of contenders.

Honestly, you had no clue why he was constantly coming back to your office.

If you’re just gonna reject and complain about every girl, then why are you still here?

But you are indeed a professional- so the only thing you do is smile that polite worker smile and say, “Okay then. There’s another available person that’s willing to go out. Should we try one more time?”

The look on jeonghan’s face is unreadable. It almost makes you nervous. Does he.... does he not want to-?

“Okay,” he simply states.

When he gets up to leave, your eyebrows furrow. But you didn’t have the time to dwell on his strange action when his voice interrupts your further thoughts.

“Just text me the details. I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait-! You don’t even know anything about them....” your voice falters.

After a solid five minutes of making sure he was truly gone, you whip out your phone, furiously typing for the familiar contact on the screen.

“...yes?”

“Josh, I’m fucking quitting my job and moving to Alaska.”

There’s a pause.

“Is it that one guy again?? Jungle juice or whatever?”

“..... his name isn’t even hard to pronounce, and yes. More than 13 dates and jeonghan hasn’t found a single match. You know how stubborn I am but maybe it’s time to give up. I mean, is he just extremely picky or what?? I don’t get it.”

You spin circles in your chair, a perfect representation of how your mind felt.

“I don’t know y/n... could the problem might not be his dates but more him instead?”

The chair stops. “Him? What do you mean?”

The voice on the other line suddenly gets quieter. “I dunno, maybe there’s something wrong with junkyard and that’s why no one wants to date him?

The urge to correct him again is strong but the newfound thought distracts you.

“Huh.... Joshua, you might be onto something. I’ve never had problems with my clients being straight up horrible at dating though. But then again, thirteen failed dates and not a single success?”

You stare at the twirling ceiling. “But he must really want to find love, why else would he keep asking for my services?”  

Joshua’s voice turns suspicious. “You’re right... why else would he keep coming back to you?”

You snap your fingers, the perfect plan in mind. “I’m a genius, josh. I’ll take him out to really see what’s been happening on all the dates. Then we can figure out the problem.”

“So... you’re saying you’re gonna ask him out on a date to see what he’s been doing wrong on his other dates?”

The chair squeaks. “Oh. Uh. I guess so?”

“Okay.... just be careful. See you later.” There’s a certain edge to his voice that you notice.

After the call ends with a beep, you stare at the black phone screen.

Did josh mean something when he said that?

Shrugging it off,  you text jeonghan a few minutes later, surprised when he responds almost immediately.

You hesitantly tell him the reason for the so-called “date”, not expecting him to agree so quickly.

“Jeonghan, I-“ you stop and instead pass him as many tissues as you can, purposely avoiding looking at him and his very much see through shirt.

After a tense silence of just cleaning up, you mutter, “Did you really not wear anything underneath?”

He laughs. “So you were looking?”

“Haha, funny. And no. But when a mad person throws a drink at your white shirt, what do you expect?”

You soften, helping him with all the used wet napkins. You admire his strength to stay calm and not get angry in a situation like this.

“Are you really okay though? Do you have a jacket or anything to cover up with?”

He shakes his head.  

Coughing, you reach behind you, giving jeonghan a sheepish look.

“Well, I brought mine?”

Once you reach your car, you finally bring up what’s been buried in the back of your brain for quite a while, actually.

“Jeonghan.”

He looks at you curiously, your jacket still draped around him.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

You exhale, trying your best to seem unaffected and upbeat.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t think I can help you anymore.”

His heart stops. 

“...what did you say?”

“I think we should stop the whole matchmaking stuff, whatever this is. It’s not working out, which was obviously proven today. How many dates has it been? Why waste your time when we both know that it’s most likely not going to lead to anything?”

You smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “I suggest you find someone else to assist you if you’re that desperate for love. Once again, I’m sorry.”

Even with the feeling of defeat making you sink inside lower and lower, there was just simply nothing else you could do.

And jeonghan watches as you drive off, leaving him alone in the parking lot. The jacket -no, your jacket still wrapped around him, but suddenly it feels a lot colder than before.

But when you thought jeonghan finally left your life for good, he shows up once again, this time at your house.

What’s even worse is that it’s late at night and pouring outside. And you were stuck at home in possible the most embarrassing and ratty clothes to be caught wearing.

“What the hell jeonghan? What are you doing here?”

You examine his soaked body, aghast.

“I came to see you. And return your jacket, but mostly to see you.”

“Did you walk in the rain or something? Go back home. It’s so late -you must be crazy.

“No.”

His hard-set expression only makes you more frustrated.

“Listen. If you’re looking for more help, I can’t do anything. You- yoon jeonghan- are my hardest customer. I really don’t know what you want from me. I’ve tried everything and nothing’s worked.”

You can tell he’s getting increasingly annoyed, eyebrows furrowing and teeth gritting.

That causes you to sigh, arms crossing and uncrossing.

“I’m sorry. You’re just a case I can’t help. It-”

“The case isn’t about me. The case is that I’m in love with you.”

His voice is strained and controlled, like he’s barely able to hold it back.

.....huh?

You stare at each other for a solid minute.

Then comes the uncomfortable feeling of his eyes boring into yours and you feel the urge to close the door.

Unfortunately, that’s the one time your body actually listens to your brain and you swing the door shut in his face.

Even more unfortunately, it takes a minute for you to come back to your senses and let out a horrified, muffled scream.

Your hands scramble to reopen the door again.

There’s no one in sight, only the rain still coming down strong.

“Jeonghan?” you call out tentatively.

You walk out under the safety of your front porch, glancing for any sign of him.

After a couple more seconds of no results, you sigh and turn around to go back inside-

“Oh my god jeonghan.” He was to the side of your door, barely out of your peripheral view.

Jeonghan looks up from his small huddled position on the ground.

The sight of him looking like an abandoned puppy makes your heart squeeze.

Coughing, you attempt to smile feebly.

“I’m so sorry. Please come inside? It’s raining hard and you’re very much wet.”

Luckily he doesn’t protest much and follows you in. You force him to take a shower while you dry his clothes. There was some spare clothes found that might possibly fit him? It was better than nothing. You really did not want to see nothing. you don’t think you could handle that.

It all makes sense. Why he kept coming back to you. Why he was so eager to go out on that fake date with you, even if it was only an experiment.

But that’s not the real question. The real question is, how did you feel?

When the bathroom door finally opens, you start from your anxious seat on the couch.

But when he sits next to you, you slowly feel a wave of anger course through your body-no matter how good he looked.

“Are you stupid?”

His effort to dry his hair with the towel stops with your words.

He only stares at you.

You stand up, snatching the towel from jeonghan and beginning to dry his hair for him.

Quite forcefully, he notes.

Jeonghan heats up from your touch, noticeably getting softer and gentler. On the other hand, you were very much annoyed while also focusing on drying his hair to your best ability.

“Who the hell just goes in the rain like that? And shows up at someone else’s house without notice? And then proceeds to confess their love for them?”

Jeonghan says nothing. Eventually, you finish drying his hair and throw the towel to the side.

“How long?” Your voice is tight, attempting to hold back the emotions. But the look in your eyes is different-desperate, curious. You really just want to know.

This. This isnt what you expected. Your job is to find someone perfect for him, and that someone couldn’t possibly be you yourself, right?

Out of all the people in the world, jeonghan only wants you. That one thought is enough to make you shiver.

For the first in a while, jeonghan speaks up. “Since the first time we met.”

“Stop lying. I know for a fact you don’t give a shit about love at first sight.”

He laughs. “That’s why I like you. You get me, my jokes, and pranks. Basically everything I say and do. Ah, and it was like after three failed dates or whatever. What can I say, I really liked seeing your face after all those boring dates.”

It’s hard for you to hold back a smile.

“Alright, since I believe you this time, I guess I’ll  accept your confession.”

“Wait, what? You like me back?”

“Well,” your voice cracks and you shoot him a crooked grin. “I don’t know, but we can always try?”

He stifles a laugh at your obvious attempt to hide your shyness, looking back at you with a glint in his eyes.

“Okay. Bet.”

Your head tilts in confusion.

“I bet I can get you to fall in love with me in one week,” he says, trademark smirk pasted on his face.

And jeonghan already knows -you’re not one to back down to challenges.

“Oh, it’s on, lover boy.”

a/n: EWWW ALSKJFASL anyways- sorry for typos and yes there are so many random cuts and scenes (ones i liked and didnt want to delete) that probably make no sense since my unproductive ass doesn’t want to rewrite the whole story-like there is nothing going on with this aHA that’s all :) 

[katzuyas]

I was tagged for a few things still back in 2018, so let’s get these out here to have a clean slate for 2019 and tag some lovely peeps along the way!

tagged by @kazul9

to post the last sentence from a wip, and here it is!

" [...] You're free to get yourself a nice corner of the house and make those love notes come true."

this is from SSS which was supposed to be my christmas smut fic, but I got so busy I never managed to finish it in time for the holidays //sighs regretfully maybe next christmas!

WIP title meme game

tagged by @kanzaki19 and @and-then-yoi-happened

The Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Pick out the title that most intrigues you, or interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!

Gardenia's Gathering of Roses

dazzle me with gold

believe in the heart, for tomorrow

samovar

SSS

Apollo (which I will probably never finish rip)

 as for one that intrigues me most... that would be probably dmwg but I won't share that bc it's been too long and I need to get back to writing it soon-ish, so instead have a little bit of Apollo, for the unsung fic that will never find its conclusion:

 Victor felt his mask slip on the sweat caking his face and a single thought had him reach back to untie the strings holding it in place. He was stopped halfway, though.

"Don't," hot mouth whispered into his ear and he'd listened, spellbound.

"You don't want to know who I am?" Victor turned his head to capture that mouth, but he'd missed, nuzzling against the soft velvet of the man's mask instead. "I want to know who you are, too. Will you tell me?"

Clumsy fingers sunk into Victor's hair, brushing through it, while amused dark eyes looked into his as if the man already knew. And he had, which should've spiked caution in Victor, but he was too far gone by that time to care about anything else other than the subtle quirk of the lips that he couldn't forget the taste of.

"Who could ever mistake you for anyone else, Victor?" the man asked, caressing Victor's jaw with his thumb in a way that made Victor lift his chin up like a puppy begging for scratches.

Teeth scraped over the column of his throat like a promise of something Victor desperately wanted with a force that surprised even himself. He swallowed hard, feeling how the man's lips caught on his Adam's apple as it moved, and blessing the second his eyes fell on the guy's ugly tie.

"I'm a little bit at a disadvantage here." Victor smiled, pushing his own hand into the man's hair: clumped with gel, messy, but no less divine. "You seem to know me, but I still don't know anything about you."

"You know I can dance," the man said. He gyrated his hips against Victor's as if to prove his point and Victor greedily pulled him closer. "You know how my body looks like under these clothes," the man was talking while they shifted against each other. "You know how my lips taste like."

Dark eyes looked at Victor, mischievous, and Victor was powerless against the force of his want. He dipped his head down and stole another kiss, a brief, short one, just enough to make him hungry for more.

"Your name," Victor begged, chasing after the man's lips when he swayed away with the music. "Just that. I promise I won't ask anything else."

There were fingers on Victor's tie, undoing the knot, undoing the buttons of his shirt, undoing his self-control. When he opened his mouth to ask once more, the man lifted the expensive fabric of Victor's Armani tie and wrapped it around his head, akin to his own, another crown on another god. Leaning closer, the man smooshed their cheeks together hard enough that their masks shifted. He laughed into Victor's ear, drunk on delight.

"Now we match," he told Victor while he completely ignored his question.

If it was a hint that he would get no answers from the man at all, Victor knew when to take it. He sighed quietly. Rubbing his nose into the side of the guy's head, he got a whiff of the distinct stink of alcohol and sweat, but that gave him absolutely no clues. Victor wrapped his arms around the body pressed so tightly against him that he could feel each breath and thrum of the heart beating to the music, which threatened to have swallowed them both if Victor hadn't allowed the man to steal all of his attention first.

He would've caved and given up on finding who the man was, content enough to have him for this one night of life and love, but the soft, barely audible words spoken into his jaw rejuvenated the hope inside him.

"I've dreamed of you all my life."

A simple sentence like that should've made him uneasy, should've made Victor step back and away, and run for the hills, but it didn't. It made him sway them to the music and say back:

"You've got me now."

And that was his mistake, it seemed.

The man pulled out of his embrace, eyes downcast and mouth a wry smile. Before Victor could take his words back, explain, correct himself, anything, there were lips on his own and then–

–he was gone.

The man disappeared into the mass of bodies around them like a ghost, like smoke into thin air, only leaving the memory of his lips against Victor's and an empty ache inside his heart. Which Victor was not about to take.

He tore through the crowd, only catching the sight of the ugly tie disappear behind another group of people. Victor knew he shouldn't, but something inside him called for the other man, urged him to follow him, and he was powerless to resist it... so he did it anyway. He tore his mask off, dropping it to the floor without a care, and without the obstacle to slow him down he caught him – right when the lighting in the club shifted, the vibrant colours playing off of the fear, regret and beautiful, striking longing in the man's dark eyes.

"Where are you going?" Victor asked, holding the other's wrist lightly enough that he could pull away if he truly wanted.

He didn't.

But he didn't answer either.

Simply turned his head away, the blue of his mask telling Victor how close he was to drowning in the ocean of his own despair.

"How am I supposed to find you again?" Victor asked once more. He wanted. He needed. Pleas–

"The whole point of a masquerade is to stay anonymous, isn't it?" the man said, finally looking at Victor again. He stepped closer, lifting his hand as if to touch Victor's face, but hesitated and let it drop. "You aren't."

Victor felt like his heart was being pierced by a thousand golden spears made up of all the medals he'd won over the years. Was his fame the reason? His media persona? His hand shook where he was still holding onto the man's wrist, but he refused to let go. Not until he tells him to.

"Is there really no chance I could change your mind?"

The man bit his lip, seemingly at a dissonance with himself, and then lurched forward to join their lips together in a kiss that was not only hinted with Victor's desperation, but also the man's own longing. Losing sense faster than he could control, Victor blinked dazedly when the man pulled away too soon. Dark eyes looked into Victor's with something sweet, something fragile, that Victor did not dare call adoration.

"If you can find me, you can try," the man said, his thumb swiping over the plush of Victor's bottom lip.

Swallowing hard, Victor spoke, aware of how his mouth moved around the man's finger. "But how? How do I find you?"

"You're Victor Nikiforov." The man smirked at him, confident, sexy, playful, and with complete faith in what he was saying, added: "If anyone can do it, it's you."

And Victor realized that this was another challenge that he was issued. To keep him on his toes, to make him work for it, to keep his interest going – and going it was. It was only right that to keep a god, he was to go to incredible lengths. Feeling his heart beat so much faster, Victor smiled.

He was ready for this.

First Sentences Game

tagged by @iwritebetterthanispeak

Rules: list the first lines of your last ten published stories. note if there are any patterns yourself and see if anyone else notices any! tag ten friends!

I'm going to go with ao3 only since those are the fics I actually do any sort of editing and concrete writing for, so let's go!

 A single rose, red like the setting sun that bleeds though the branches of a tree outside a window of a loveless man's house, by all means should look lonely. – from red, for love triumphant

If Yuuri wasn't so used to Phichit's phone going off constantly, he probably would've jumped when the thing came to life in his friends' hands. – from draped in your love, I breathe

"A little shorter in the back maybe," Victor says, looking into the mirror that Lucien is holding behind his head. – from thread your needle through my heart

Everyone knows who Victor Nikiforov is. – from dazzle me with gold

There's an elegant line to Victor's nape when he bows his head over the small piece of paper with jumps and combinations scrawled onto it in a confusing sequence of symbols that no one other than a figure skating junkie could decipher. – from pulchritudinous

"The Garden of Tears, they call it," the old healer says. – from Everlasting

"How about we just take the popular vote and give Yuuri his gold already?" Victor sighs as they all watch Yuuri Katsuki make his way around the ice before the start of his free skate. – from together, we're golden

There is nothing worse, Victor thinks as he shakes the already wheezing bottle of conditioner, than being empty. – from what living feels like

St. Petersburg is... dark. – from lighter, better, fuller

Standing at gunpoint in his own bathroom, of all places, with hands still under the lukewarm stream of tap water, Yuuri imagined there were worse ways to start the day. – from a black heart of gold

 the patterns I see are mostly in titles bc wow all the lowercase really got to me huh? lmao also very dramatic and almost all of them are from some song or another, so I'm very obvious in that department.

as for the actual first lines... I do tend to start my fics either in the middle of some action/scene/conversation or it's a statement of fact, which I then agree or disagree with and try to prove to the readers. the first one, I've found, definitely works better to get people involved faster!

I also tend to put the first names of the characters whose pov I use in the first line, if I can, to help people figure out whose voice to read with

these are all writing tags so I will tag you for all, one, or whichever of these you prefer! @accioharo, @belovedyuuri, @gabzjones, @louciferish, @lilithsins, @joeys-piano, @victuurikatsu, @dreaming-fireflies, @teekettle, and @postingpebbles

have fun, if you wish, and if not then feel free to forget this ever happened 😉 I hope you have an amazing, productive and inspiring new year!!! ❤️❤️❤️