#wip: the burdens we bear

[loonfull-sonnetzz]

To Soothe The Ache

Note: I lost motivation for this fic so I decided to just post the WIP since ya'll have been waiting for AGES. Sorry guys :') No beta we die like Frou Frou

༊*·˚Pairing: Alexei Vronsky X Soldier!Transman!Reader

༊*·˚Universe: Anna Karenina (2012)

༊*·˚Summary: You and Vronsky are soldiers and secretly find comfort

༊*·˚Warnings: menstruation, cramps, unsafe binding (do not bind with bandages!! Please!!), historical inaccuracies, mentions of war, probably out of character Vronsky (hadn’t read or watched Anna Karenina sorry :( ) 

༊*·˚WC: 1k

Divider credit: Florietas 

Finally, serenity.

The cavalry unit you had found yourself in had traveled across the Stara Planina, trekking through the jagged peaks and small cliffs while leading the horses, praying to god your foot doesn’t slip on the ice or one of the horses panic from the distant howl of wolves that haunted the vicious winds. All for the sake of fighting off the Ottomans in Serbia. However, the stress was worth it, even as your legs screamed to rest and your eyelids began to go heavy from the restless nights guarding the makeshift camps the unit had made throughout the weeks.

Now your unit had finally left the mountains, finding a decent clearing amongst the soaring pines to rest once again. The wind no longer howls with threats, but whispers along the gently rattled pine needles. Between the spaces of the trees, up high, you could see stars twinkling in the inky night sky, hundreds and thousands of stars gazing down upon you – you could’ve sworn you could see into the eye of the milky way – Something you could never experience in your home city St. Petersburg where the fog and smoke hid the celestials. 

You took a deep breath. One good, deep and well-deserved breath. The crisp winter air filling your lungs, held, then exhaled – coming out as white mist that danced in the dark before dissipating.

But soon enough serenity would not last. Sure, it was relieving to be out late, no longer burdened by your comrades’ complaints and sharing company with the stars, but your body protested. Not just with the ache that dully throbbed in your legs or your eyes that you had to fight to keep open, but the pains that shoot from your hips and to your stomach, an unfortunate reminder of your secret. Stress could do so much before there could be no more delays and the time of the month comes crashing in. Or Alexei Vronsky chiding you for wearing your bandages for too long.

Alexei Vronsky, the man that was just as handsome as his frivolity and ambition, became an unlikely friend. It was all an accident, really. Months ago when they were stationed at some headquarters back home in Russia. Soldiers had to share washrooms, but you were vigilant and always went early in the morning or late at night when it came to changing so no one could know you were born a different boy, a boy who didn’t have the same body as the others. But one of those nights Vronsky was out for a while and returned late, exhausted and accidentally stumbling to the washroom to only catch a brief look as you panicked and slammed the door on his face. 

Even to this day it was hard to know why you had come out to him in the first place. Perhaps it was his hesitant inquiry, or the guilt for being rude for shutting the door on him. Or perhaps something more, that you both didn’t exactly fit societal norms. Vronsky may be charming, ambitious and brave – bearing the image of the perfect soldier, but he is still a man with his own struggles. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t freak out or prodded you with uncomfortable questions as most other people, especially aristocrats like him, usually did.

Shaking your head and pushing the reminiscing thoughts aside, you briskly make your way back to your tent. Your nimble fingers made way to your buttons in a swift fashion, undoing them until the top of your military uniform started to slide down your shoulders and gooseflesh covered your exposed skin. The cold once again reminding you of it’s limited mercy as it bit your flesh and sent chills down your spine. But hypothermia was probably better than cracking your ribs in the long run.

You were already about to unhook the pins that held the bandages before you heard someone clear their throat and call your name. You whipped your gaze at the intruder, stiffening up and crossing your arms over your chest instinctively before you realized who it was.

“Come here, will you?” Alexei murmured, his voice low and soothing like the distant babble of the creek. He drew you slowly enough that you could have pulled back easily. “You’ve already done so much for us since the beginning of this journey, this is the least I could do.”

You felt your face burn from the sudden praise and care, but you soon felt your shoulders droop and arms fall to your sides. He was right in a way, you could collapse at any point if the cramps or your duty as a soldier didn’t keep you up. So you let him trace the pins, unhooking them and unraveling the bandages. Your gaze flickered from his hands to his face, his brows a little furrowed with compassion and concentration as he buttoned up your uniform – not letting a moment of the wintry air freeze you or the discomfort of having your body vulnerable and exposed go on any further.

He catches your gaze as soon as he finishes, his hands lingering on the last button before one glides over to caress your cheek. His worry became more evident on his visage. “Is there something on your mind?”

The lie on your tongue was silenced by another wave of pain, making you hold your own waist and curling further to yourself. Alexei quickly holds you steady, his sapphire eyes flickering all over you to search for the cause of sudden agony.

“I’m bleeding out,” You said with a slightly self-deprecating chuckle, a little amused by Alexei’s fretting to something natural as menstruation. This only confused your fellow comrade before it seemed to click and he sighs and embraces you, his arms wrapped around your waist.

“I’ll be okay, it’s just cramps,” You said, biting down your tongue to smother a wince. But you didn't make an effort to leave and neither did Alexei, who didn’t look convinced by your lame excuse.

“I know, darling. But I'm not leaving your side to suffer this alone. I just want to make you feel better,”  He said, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze again. His hands trailing down to hold onto your hips, the warmth soothing the ache. Alexei then dipped his head down, his soft lips pressed against yours before he whispers against your lips. “How can I be of service?”

[itsokbbygrl]

WIP Wednesday

omg she’s posting something???? YEAH BITCH I AM. Listen, idk if this will go anywhere or not but I had a few people tag me over the last few weeks so I figured I’d cook something up. This man has given me insane brainrot this week, so here you go! Marcus Acacius, you’ve earned a place in the Google docs officially. Ty for tagging me @sawymredfox @vivian-pascal @luxurychristmaspudding

The warm tones of firelight flicker against the stone walls of your bed chamber. Cicadas’ song bleats incessantly through your windows from the streets below. The soft scuffle of his worn boots against the floor began to grate against your ears as he paced. You would look for the path he carved come morning, surely etched into permanence by now, preserve it, name it for him.

“I am bound by honor to serve Rome, but I cannot in good conscience desert her people. This endless war…its devastation. These men, these boys, sent to slaughter under the impression that their bravery, their sacrifice, will bring improvement to their country, bring it riches, see it thrive, and yet upon their return see nothing but ruin. The citizens are starving in the streets, carissima, while we sit in our high towers, bathed in milk and honey, perfumed with oils. We are fed lavish meals, sleep on silk. I will not be the face of Geta’s wrath, his greed, any longer. It cannot go on like this or there will no longer be a Rome to serve.”

His face had turned red at its highest points, evidence of his belief in his words, the truth of his feelings. You rose from your place on the edge of your bed, holding his gaze as your strode carefully towards the towering beast of him, your General, still donning the beautiful formal armor he was gifted by the Emperor, laurels of gold laid atop his lush crown of curls, the increasing prominence of streaking silver betraying his age. His eyes follow you, never breaking from your own. You cup a soft palm against his heated cheek, brushing your thumb over its apple, feeling the pressure increase as he leans into the touch, coarse hairs of his beard tickling your skin. “Meum cor, it is not for you to save this world alone. This is too great a burden to bear by one man, as strong and stubborn as he may be,” you gently tease him. “This is a game of wits, one played behind the curtain of society. My father once taught me to play such a game, you must always be thinking two steps ahead of your opponent, considering all outcomes at all times, finding their weakness and luring them to their demise.” Your eyes alight, reflecting the fire that surrounds you. “Marcus, Rome will not be won by he who is the most brave, but by he who is the most cunning.”

npt: @swiftispunk @javierpena-inatacvest @sugarcoated-lame @studioghibelli @mrsmando @beardedjoel @chronically-ghosted

[gilly-moon]

first draft/WIP of a Nightlight thing where he loses his glow and is Very Unwell about it. This fic is shaping up to be long and ✨️angsty✨️ but here's a little preview of a more wholesome moment from chapter one:

.

“You must be the Nightlight.”

Twisting where he sat, Nightlight expected another member of the staff, come to ogle at him with the others. He straightened up when he found a finely-dressed lady standing at the door instead, her dark eyes reflecting the soft smile on her lips.

He nodded, rising to his feet. There was an instinctual voice in his head telling him to bow to the woman, but he hesitated. Certainly her dress was that of a noble, its dark blue velvet embroidered with gold at the cuffs and collar. But unlike the nobles he’d seen in the Capital City, she seemed otherwise unadorned, auburn hair falling in loose waves down her back.

“Was the journey here bearable?” the woman asked. She pressed a hand to her chest, a simple golden ring glinting on her finger. “I do apologize, we’re so far out of the way…”

Nightlight shook his head, resting the base of his staff on the ground to lean against it. The woman’s eyes followed the movement, but her expression remained pleasant.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for the delay, as well. It seems there was some…miscommunication about when we should expect your arrival.”

Of course. But why wouldn’t the Lunanoffs do everything in their power to be rid of him as soon as possible? He was nothing more than a reminder of their pain. A dead weight to be shipped off to anyone willing to bear him as a burden.

“Well, bygones, I say!”

His eyes lifted from where they’d fallen to his feet. The lady was still smiling, her cheeks rosy with warmth. She actually seemed…pleased that he was here.

“My name is Althea,” she said brightly. “If any of the staff insists I be called ‘Lady Pitchiner,’ they’re fooling with you. We’re all family here in this quiet little corner of the universe.

“And you…is it just Nightlight? Do you have any other name you like to go by?”

Nightlight shook his head emphatically, fingers wrapping tighter around his staff. A Nightlight was a Nightlight and nothing more. He’d already lost his shine. He wouldn’t lose his name, too.

“Very well,” Althea conceded. A touch of concern dimmed her features, but she seemed adept at smoothing it down. “Nightlight, then. Have you been given a tour of the house yet?”

[insertlovelyperson]

We talk about this in a disorganized way on here and on the server (and obviously some version of your hc is in your fic) but what do you think the counselors’ families are like? Whose parents are still married, divorced, dead? Who has siblings and who doesn’t? Who’s best friends with their siblings and who has major sibling rivalry?

Great ask! Really interesting to think about since we don’t get a whole lot of insight into the counselor’s families… 

Starting off with Ryan since he’s probably the one with the most info in game: absent mother (root of his abandonment/trust issues) and dead father. In his conversation with Chris about animation school (unless I’m mistaken) Ryan mentions his mom but not his dad: “Whether or not I should like, leave my sister with my grandparents… and my mom’s not exactly around so…” I just don’t think he’d be worried about leaving his sister with his grandparents and not his mother if she was still present in his life. And the fact that he doesn’t even mention his dad suggests to me that the man probably died when he was younger, and might be the reason he latches onto Chris as sort of a surrogate father-figure. I think he’d have a good relationship with his sister before camp (outside of standard sibling squabbles), but after the night everything goes down, it becomes strained for a couple of years.

Next, onto a head canon partially brought on by the cut-content leaks: Abi’s parents are divorced (and she’s a middle child of three girls—but that’s just me). It was a nasty divorce the resulted in a split-custody agreement for alternating weeks. She preferred staying at her dad’s house because her mom liked her older sister more than her. And while her dad likes her little sister more, he wasn’t as obvious with the favoritism (that, and she actually has a good relationship with her little sister).

In a somewhat similar vein: Nick is the youngest of three boys that were all born within one or two years of each other. And similar to Abi, he often feels like his parents (happily married, unlike hers) prefer them over him. Maybe the eldest is some star, prodigy athlete and the second eldest is this genius that ends up being valedictorian. And Nick’s just… Nick. And it’s not his brothers’ fault that he feels this way, or even their parent’s favoritism, but he can’t help but resent them a little for it (maybe not helped by the fact the first girl he ever dated broke up with him and started dating his brother, and then his entire extended family made him feel like the crazy one for being upset by that). I could see him making an AITA post on reddit about it and then going no-contact for a year.

Jacob is the baby of the family. I see him having an older sister (older by 7+ years) and a single mom. And while he rolls his eyes and bemoans all the ‘nagging,’ he wouldn’t change it for anything.

Laura strikes me as someone who has an authoritative father and a mother that grins and bears it. And while she loves her mom, she can’t help but sometimes resent her for not sticking up for us. When she’s old enough, she leaves and never looks back. Meanwhile: Max is an only child with a great relationship with his parents. When Laura moves out, she moves in with them and they treat her like their own daughter (in law).

Emma is also an only child, but unlike Max, she has a less than stellar relationship with her parents. I feel like her mom and dad would be really devoted to their work, and while it earns them an extremely comfortable (and wealthy) lifestyle, she can’t help but feel like an afterthought sometimes. That being said, it doesn’t stop them from being overbearing when she needs it the least, and without any siblings to help shoulder the burden that that attention brings... its like a pendulum swinging from each extreme: suffocation or isolation.

I feel like I switch up Dylan’s family dynamic with each new WIP I start. In the first (very, very canon divergent) fic I ever wrote, it was an absent mother and a present (but emotionally distant) father. And while that interpretation is very near and dear to my heart, I feel like it’s not really cognizant of the canon version of him. To me, he grew up in a small town in the midwest as the only child of a pastor. He was in the church choir, attended every bible study, and told everyone who’d listen that he planned on being a youth minister. He was even in the Boy Scouts!  As soon as he turned eighteen, he packed a bag, took his cat, and left his parents a note with some things he thought they ought to know about him. He’s pretty sure they never bothered looking for him after that. He thinks they might’ve even told people he’d died.

Kaitlyn is the oldest of four (all brothers), and she has a pretty solid relationship with both parents. Her mom’s a mechanic at a local auto body shop that taught her how to shoot, and her dad’s a mild mannered accountant. She loves them all more than anything (though, she’s the closest with her dad). 

In conclusion, Kaitlyn and Max @ everyone else:

[exonerin]

19. Give us a small teaser from one of your WIPs

Hehehe ^^''

Thank you for the question from the list!!

The first drafts I produce are all sorts of terrible. So, please bear in mind that this is... only a rough start.

In short, it's a soulmate fic in the GFFA universe about soul mark fraud. And you would expect the Jedi would solve the soul mark fraud. Unfortunately, Anakin Skywalker is too occupied committing soul mark fraud to fight crime. So, please call back later.

Anyway, here's the beginning. If people like it. let me know, and I'll give it some attention. I have the plot outline already written. It's simply a matter of sitting down and writing. And editing. So much editing.

All The Things We Never Knew

Some stories had a clear beginning, while others traced back to the start of the galaxy. Anakin's misery started when he was a nineteen-year-old on his first solo assignment.

Initially, things had looked up. The Council gave him an opportunity to show his overbearing Master wrong. This was a chance to prove his merit, his skills, and maybe prompt a much-needed discussion on his overdue knighting. Moreover, he guarded the girl he desired -- loved.

Yet, Padmé had recoiled from his kiss. Then, when he tried again, she had frowned. The smoldering wood in the fireplace had cast dark shadows over her face as she stared into the flames. She refused to meet his gaze. Her black dress swayed around her petite figure as she twisted away from him before glancing at him through her eyelashes. Desperation looked beautiful in her brown eyes -- all emotions did, Anakin amended.

"We shouldn't," she repeated like a mantra. She quoted their duties, the promises they had sworn, and the heavy burden of secrecy.

Part of Anakin wanted to acquiesce. This could be one of his Master's strategic retreats. Pretend to agree and withdraw to try again. Sometimes, timing was everything, and patience was rewarded. Occasionally, however, persistence turned the tides of long negotiations when both parties were already worn down to the bone. Padmé looked weary and torn.

So, Anakin had inhaled and pinned her with a sullen look.

"I know you feel it, too," he claimed, using bold words that he wholeheartedly believed. "We can keep it a secret. These feelings tear me apart."

Padmé sighed wearily before shaking her head. Then, she turned her back to him and reached for her brown curls. Anakin licked his dry lips as the soft locks were lifted to reveal more skin. Was this a cue for something?

Hesitantly, he stepped forward. The flickering light from the hearth fell on her exposed neck, and the proximity helped Anakin see the elegant mark on her neck.

Anakin realized his misery had started many years ago; that this story would have started at his birth when fate had cruelly and unilaterally decided that Anakin didn't deserve a soulmate. After all, Anakin Skywalker was born without a soul mark, just like plenty of other people. He had never minded its absence before, never felt it as keenly as he did in that moment.

His indifference twisted into helpless anger at the sight of Padmé's soul mark.

"Twisted veins," she said, tilting her head to give him a small smile. The vines climbed up her nape, previously hidden by the high collars of her elaborate robes and intricate hairdos. Anakin's insistence that they were compatible and should confirm so with another kiss died on the tip of his tongue. The words twisted themselves into a question that was possibly even less appropriate.

"Who?" He was jealous of this invisible suitor, and his anger turned the question into a demand.

Padmé laughed in response, letting her hair fall back in place. Anakin could smell her perfume on the air, and his fingers itched to run through her hair to catch another whiff. As she turned to face him directly, the laughter on her face looked so wistful that Anakin's heart ached for her -- ached for himself and the realization he didn't stand a chance against this soulmate.

It was horribly unfair and there was not a single kriffing thing Anakin could do to change this reality.

"I don't know," she replied, that same melancholy tainting her voice. She swept through the double doors to the balcony, and Anakin followed her closely. Padmé was magnetic, and he couldn't resist the pull, destined to follow her wherever she went.

Yet, she would never be his. This knowledge crushed him, killing him like Padmé had killed the useless infatuation in his heart. Padmé leaned over the stone railing to reach for the Naboo night sky with a hand, the tips of her fingers straining. Anakin almost believed she would capture stars when she closed her fingers into a fist.

Her palm was empty when she opened it again.

"It's the journey of a lifetime, isn't it?" she asked with her hand still stretched to the universe. "To find one's soulmate. To know they're out there, somewhere. To know that they exist but never sure where and when exactly. Until, one day, you meet them. And you know. The one person who's irrevocably and unconditionally yours."

In the face of so much melancholy, Anakin's anger felt awkward and unwieldy. Yet, it still burnt -- like fire, like acid, like a nuclear winter. He swallowed past the sudden lump lodged in his throat.

"You haven't found them yet," he needled. "I promise I will step aside when you meet your soulmate."

His promise rang hollow, but it didn't matter, for Padmé shook her head.

"No, Anakin," she said. Suddenly, he was no longer 'Ani' and the mood in the summer villa turned sour. "No," she repeated. "I have decided to wait for my soulmate, and I request that you honor my decision to do so."

Her rejection stung like a physical slap in the face. His voice was stilted, and the muscles in his face felt stiff as he excused himself. Padmé didn't follow him into Varykino Villa when he fled from the balcony. As he stalked past the fireplace, he paused to glance over his shoulder.

Padmé was a silhouette against the Naboo night sky, the beads on her black dress glittering like the stars in the universe. She leaned on the balcony with her elbows, her gaze turned downward to the placid lakes below.

Guilt gnawed on his heart as he noticed the downtrodden slope to her shoulders. She no longer looked up at the stars… but it wasn't his fault.

Resentment at the universe burnt hot in his stomach. In a universe in which the majority of the sentients bore a soul mark, most romance stories featured fated protagonists. Yet, Anakin wasn't alone without a mark. Roughly 15% of the sentients in the galaxy didn't have a mark. This didn't assuage the bitter jealousy of a person he had never met -- a person Padmé would possibly never meet in her lifetime.

Her speech echoed in his mind as he stared at the ceiling in the guest bedroom hours later.

It's the journey of a lifetime, isn't it?

It was a journey Anakin would watch others undertake. From a safe distance, he could observe others, yet never participate.

Until, one day, you meet them. And you know.

Anakin would never know. While everyone else talked about this magical moment, he would never experience this moment. He could only rely on the descriptions of others and the depictions in the HoloDramas.

The one person who's irrevocably and unconditionally yours.

Anakin was alone. The universe had looked at him and decided he didn't deserve a soulmate. He was so intensely alone that he didn't know how to bear the weight of his loneliness. Anakin Skywalker was born without a soul mark. While he had never cared, he had never coveted a soulmate before either.

Alone in a strange bed, on a foreign planet with the sting of rejection making his cheeks heat in humiliation, he had never felt the absence of a soul mark so keenly. Mostly because he had never cared.

It was so unfair he wanted to cry. Yet, he swallowed it all; the tears, the bitterness, the loneliness. Although Anakin would argue this story had started when he was born without a soul mark, this evening would define him forever.

0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0

Then, the war began and didn't end.

Anakin's body ached constantly; from bruises, deep blaster welts and burns, exhaustion, and the uncomfortable cots. With the Jedi stretched thin across the universe, he was deployed to numerous systems, rarely returning to Coruscant.

As a kid, he had dreamt about visiting every planet in the galaxy. Now, Anakin believed he had seen enough muddy trenches, dusty planes, and frozen lakes to last him a lifetime.

Relief made him slump on the couch in his apartment when he returned from another grueling mission to retake an uninhabited, and frankly unassuming, planet, which had some strategic importance solely due to its location. His men were overjoyed with the brief respite, exchanging plans as they were dismissed for their shore leave.

The Force had felt exuberant around them, filling the Resolute with a lighthearted atmosphere, which Anakin had relished. Shore leave had seemed good for a moment. He lifted his gaze from his knees to study his room.

Mouse droids had kept the place tidy, but the place looked unlived. A dead place, which was somehow less familiar than his bunk on the Resolute. His breaths were awkwardly loud in the space, emphasizing the quiet. Somehow, the silence was more disturbing than the stale air in his room or the cold temperature.

He was alone.

So achingly, terrifyingly lonely that it cut into the marrow of his bones.

Anxiety drowned him, and Anakin didn't understand what about the quiet had prompted the stress. Yet, the chirping of his ringing commlink startled him, somehow harsher than the heavy silence that dominated his apartment. Uncomprehending, he stared at his blaring commlink, letting it ring for long seconds. Then, he jumped into action, accepting the call.

"Ani? Is that you?" Padmé asked.

His breath stuttered in his airway, and Anakin choked on it. Suddenly, the air was devoid of oxygen, his lungs seizing as he tried to breathe through the dense emotions in the air.

"Yes," he choked out. He hadn't heard from Padmé since he had lost his arm. "How are you?" he asked greedily, dying for a scrap of information -- he would take any opening. Despite knowing it was foolish, he had continued to pine, his heart sold on the girl to whom he had handed his heart thirteen years ago.

"I'm fine," Padmé replied. "Thank you for asking. Actually, I called with good news. Brilliant news, even."

"Oh?" Anakin asked, waiting impatiently.

"It might come as a shock," Padmé prefaced, and Anakin grinned dumble at the happiness coloring her voice. "But I met my soulmate."

His grin froze on his face, while his heart plummeted to his feet, where it shattered. But that could not be. He had given Padmé his heart thirteen years ago. Although she had rejected him, Anakin had hoped she would see reason in due time. Eventually, even Padmé's saintly patience would wear thin when her soulmate continued to be a no-show.

"You did?" he asked, his voice stilted and stiff. That was before.

"Yes," Padmé said gently. "Suddenly, there she was, and I knew."

"Oh."

"We married a few weeks ago. I had hoped you could attend the ceremony, but I heard you weren't on Coruscant."

Anakin hadn't believed in divine punishment, but he was forced to amend those views. Rubbing his eyes roughly with the sleeve of his tunic, he swallowed the weight of his disappointment lodged in his throat.

"Yeah," he said, his voice breaking on the sound. "I was on Christophosis."

His clothes still smelt like the acidic rain pelting the streets of Christophsis, turning the battlefield into a big mudslide. Both clones and droids had struggled with the terrain and the low visibility. His hand balled into a fist on his thigh to avoid screaming or crying.

"According to the HoloNews, the fights were tough. I worry for you, Ani. My wife is the Senator of Iego. She's an angel, Ani. Do you remember you believed I was an angel when we first met?"

Anakin's gaze fell to his muddy boots, nodding before realizing Padmé couldn't see him.

"Yeah," he rasped.

"You should meet her, Ani," Padmé said warmly. "I consider you a good friend who helped me in a tough time. Although I'm saddened you couldn't be there during the ceremony, I'm glad I could share the news with you."

"Yeah," Anakin repeated, swallowing the tears that threatened to spill. "I'm happy for you, Padmé."

The lie burnt on his tongue, coated in insincerity, but Padmé didn't appear to pick up on the false note in his voice. When she hung up, Anakin stared blankly at the commlink in his palm. Slowly, he lowered the device to the rickety coffee table, maintaining eye contact with the far wall, gaze trained just above the black Holo-Screen.

He almost choked on his shaky inhale. Ever since he had met an angel in Watto's workshop, Anakin had believed they were meant to be. One call had shattered those convictions with more force than Padmé's string of rejections had. This had never been a fair fight. From the very beginning, the cards were stacked in an invisible stranger's favor.

A real angel.

How was Anakin supposed to measure up to an angel Senator, who likely shared Padmé's interests and passions? They were soulmates, after all. After Padmé's call, the silence had become heavier, hanging in the roam like a thick miasma, creeping into each crack and crevice until even Anakin's skull was invaded. His breathing was loud to his ears, shallow pants that Anakin had seen in other clones. A panic attack, he registered dimly.

Numbly, he folded, resting his head between his knees, going through the motions on auto-pilot. His gaze landed on his muddy boots, noticing the dirt and debris he had tracked inside his room. The mouse droids would clean these signs of life later, returning the apartment to its spotless state once more. Then, every sign Anakin lived here would be removed once again.

The silence was deafening, and Anakin couldn't stand it anymore. Quickly, he switched on the holo-screen mounted on the wall. Sound blared through the room, breaking the silence.

Although Anakin hadn't planned to watch any Holos, his attention was captured by the movement flickering over the screen.

Since he didn't have anyone waiting for him -- nothing to return to but an empty room -- he didn't have any other obligations. No one would notice if he stayed cooped up on the couch for the full long weekend.

He was alone.

Lonely.

But it was easier to bear when he didn't think about it. So, he focused on the screen, watching intently as the camera panned over Coruscant, zooming in on one of the actresses.

A young girl, who had stepped from a spaceship onto Coruscant's durasteel soil for the first time. Her wonder turned into something sharper, the camera circling around her, and the music swelling. Enchanted, Anakin watched.

Her name was Lannah, he learned, and she had encountered her soulmate on the platform in the spaceship terminal. Yet, she only had the soul mark on the meaty inside of her wrist to guide her to her soulmate in a sea of strangers. Her mark was a swallow, captured in midflight on her skin. Breathlessly, yet oddly winded, Anakin watched her explore Coruscant, fielding dangerous situations to find her soulmate, who was… out there, somewhere.

The journey of a lifetime.

Padmé's words echoed in his mind. He longed for what Lannah looked for. He yearned for what Padmé had waited for with a Saint's patience until she found it. And she had found an angel. She had sounded almost giddy, high on a happiness Anakin would never experience.

Hissing, he turned the Holo off, aware that he teetered on the brink of developing yet another unhealthy obsession. If he watched one more second of Lannah's desperate chase for her soulmate, he would spend his long weekend wallowing in self-pity. He would stay cooped up on the couch, watching a Holo series, consumed by his fascination, ruled by what intrigued him until it disgusted him.

Already, he felt tempted to turn the Holo back on, the image of Lannah's soul mark on the inside of her wrist burnt on his retinas. He needed to know what magic he would never experience, needed to live vicariously through a karked Holo series and yearned for a distraction.

Massaging the bare skin on the inside of his left wrist, he scowled at his reflection in the dead Holo screen. If he stayed inside his apartment, he would cave in. He had never managed to resist temptations, giving in to impulses, and he knew what this would end. Furthermore, his apartment was a desolate, abandoned space, which made him so keenly aware of his loneliness… Merely breathing in this space made him feel weak. So, he left his quarters to wander the Lower Levels.

No one slept in the Lower Level, and Anakin could fool himself into believing he didn't need to either. In his mind, the episode of the Holo series replayed as did Padmé's words. But it was nothing a strong drink couldn't fix.

0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0

His head pounded out of phase with his heart when he woke. Anakin knew this because blood rushed in his ears, adding to his agony. His tongue with thick in his desert dry mouth, which still tasted of the artificially sweet alcoholic beverages he had consumed.

His throat was parched when he tried to swallow, and he grimaced at the sticky residue coating his tongue, teeth, and the roof of his mouth. Nausea roiled in his stomach, exacerbated by the taste of an Alderaanian Sunset in his mouth.

When he trudged through the memories of last night, he could only recall flashing stroboscope lights, neon-colored drinks, and some kind strangers, who had listened to him lament over his lack of soulmate. Although he remembered flashes of the evening in startling clarity despite his inebriated state, he couldn't recall how he had made it back to the Temple.

On the rare occasions, he had shore leave, he tended to wander the Lower Levels, but this was a novelty. He had never gotten so drunk he woke up with gaps in his memory. Under other circumstances, maybe Anakin would care about the lack of control. However, the memory of Padmé's call and a karking Holo series made him wish he had forgotten more of the previous night.

There was something transcendental about the love Padmé and Lannah felt for someone they had never met. Their conviction that this person was their home was enchanting. They wholeheartedly believed that their soulmates would welcome them with open arms -- as if they had returned from a long journey rather than meeting them for the first time. Anakin yearned to go home to a person. Instead, he woke up with a hangover in a cold, empty room.

Soulmates.

How he wished, oh-so-deperately that he was destined for someone else. How he wished with an intensity that stole his breath he wasn't so gutwrenchingly lonely. If only he bore a soul mark -- a promise that he wasn't alone. He inhaled shakily, blinking frantically to stop the tears burning in his eyes. This proved a fatal mistake. He wallowed in misery as his headache increased in intensity, his eyes feeling like foreign objects in his face. Groggily, he reached for his forehead with his left hand, hoping to massage the worst of the pain away. A black smudge made him still and narrow his eyes at the inside of his wrist. How had he ended up covered in engine grease? It took a moment before Anakin's eyes focused properly and he came to the conclusion that he was not, in fact, covered in engine grease. He wasn't looking at a smudge either.

No, in all his drunken wisdom, yesterday's Anakin had stumbled into a tattoo parlor. On the inside of his wrist sat a small tattoo the size of a credit of a constellation that didn't exist as far as Anakin was concerned. Didn't exist in the sky, Anakin amended, because he recognized the constellation nevertheless. He had seen the collection of star-shaped dots collected by thin lines before.

On Obi-Wan's skin.

Yesterday's Anakin had drawn inspiration from Obi-Wan's soul mark if this exact copy could still qualify as 'inspiration'. Still, it wasn't the blatant plagiarism that made Anakin's sore stomach lurch painfully. It was the fact that Anakin had tattooed someone's soul mark on the inside of his wrist for reasons Anakin wished he couldn't comprehend.

Unfortunately, he understood very well what had motivated yesterday's Anakin.

A part of him wanted to grab yesterday's Anakin by the shoulders and shake until all bad ideas fell from his head. Today's Anakin, however, studied the small tattoo, feeling oddly winded. He freed his right hand from the blankets to rest gold-tipped fingers on the irritated and slightly swollen skin of his left wrist carefully.

Upon noticing the redness, the mark started to throb, but Anakin ignored the pain. He traced his metal fingers over the lines connecting the individual stars, pausing on each of the six stars.

The mark was beautiful. Although it was fake, it gentled a hurt in Anakin that had driven him to the Lower Levels. Someone else's mark branded his body in a claim and a promise. Authenticity notwithstanding, this was part of an experience Anakin never believed he would have. Soothed by this scrap, Anakin bit his lips to suppress a small, silly smile.

Obi-Wan would kill him if he found out about the mark, though. This realization wiped the smile from his face. While Obi-Wan didn't hide the mark, he never flaunted the soul mark high on his left pectoral either. Common sense dictated that Anakin ought to research ways to remove the tattoo before anyone noticed the caricature of Obi-Wan's soul mark on the inside of his wrist. Selfish desires made him consider ways to hide the mark from view.

This was a crime, Anakin realized belatedly. He had committed soul mark fraud in a drunk stupor. It was illegal to fake soul marks for a reason, and Anakin didn't think his state of inebriation would keep him safe from prosecution -- or Obi-Wan's disappointment, which was somehow worse. With a defeated groan, he covered his pounding head with his hands.

A soft voice wondered why he had selected Obi-Wan's mark specifically. Uneasily, he rubbed the inside of his wrist again and again until the irritated skin turned bright red. A second voice wondered drily about the location, recalling the swallow on Lannah's skin. Groaning, he buried his head in his hands.

How had he managed to kriff up so badly?

Anakin didn't know.

He would never drink again, he swore. Then, he added a second promise: he would remove the tattoo. The latter was an empty promise.

[bonesofapoet]

the shadow’s crown

[aemond targaryen x you] (non targaryen reader)

author’s note: this man is single-handedly ruining my plans of finishing all my wips this month for nano :) language

word count: 643

In a long forgotten tower, two lone figures contemplated a tear in the fabric of their lives.

They lounged on a narrow staircase, dirty and crumbling with age. Dust motes drifted through the air from abandonment. Honey gold streams of sunlight illuminated the floaters through two cloudy window panes above them. It was a challenge to make out what the design in the stained glass used to be, through the grime. Cracks spiderwebbed from a single focal point where something smashed through it long ago; yet this accident is what provided them with the most light.

Silence, heavy with reality painted the air they breathed. It was a discomfort. It was a wakeup call. It was the only moment they could slip away like this, for a while.

A sigh escaped your lips, shaky with the weight of a life forever changed in an instant - though not for the better. You began to wonder if anyone's life changed for the better, anymore. Maybe someone, somewhere, was draped across another set of stairs in another far off place with their lover, like you did now. Only it wasn't the fate of the realm they were contemplating, but something lovely. Something kind. Something worth celebrating.

"Aegon is going to be king."

It felt like a sin, to speak the words aloud.

"Yes."

A pause.

"Your idiot brother -" you cut yourself off, upon feeling Aemond tense - hardly noticeable, had he not been stretched on the stone before you, chest pulled back against your own. His fingers began to toy with your hands clasped around his waist. "He wouldn’t find his own cock if it wasn't attached to his body."

The tension in the stairwell lessened at your jest. It became less frigid, less ominous, when the prince himself gifted you mercy wrapped in a silver bow. Effortless laughter sung through the darkness and brightened the sunlight illuminating the gloom’s restless cage. Though short lived, and quiet as it was - it was a moment you would come to cherish. This moment was now imprinted upon decaying stone, the song of the prince's laughter to live on in this disrepair forever.

"Be that as it may," a trace of lightness remains in his words. You feel idle patterns drawn on your leg, tension slowly easing with Aemond's hushed words. "He will sit the Iron Throne with mother's guidance, and we will all bear witness to the fool emboldened with power from a kingdom he doesn't want."

Bitterness poisons the air once again. Aemond relaxed farther into you, safe from listening little birds here. No one knew about this place. No one knew this is where you came, when life grew heavy with the burdens of living.

Another pause.

Carefully crafted, should have been the words that fell through your lips - except times are desperate now, and you and Aemond had never hid behind the games of court. Not with one another.

"It should be you. The realm would thrive under your rule. You're the one guiding your family through the dark with the Queen."

Aemond hums. The drawing on your leg ceases, replaced by a palm sliding up your thigh to give a gentle squeeze.

"Desire for a crown has plagued your mind, has it?"

It's unexpected, the laugh abruptly rolling off your tongue. It's a sweet sound, your laughter. Familiar. Warm. Aemond allows himself an easy smile in the dark.

"Absolutely not. You know I have no lust for the weight the Queen carries. Besides -" your hand rests upon Aemond's, his thumb absently stroking your thigh. "I enjoy our life together with little more than what is expected of us."

Lips brush his cheek. Aemond leans into your touch, head tipping back with the intent to kiss you properly, before duty beckons him back from this moment held out of time.

It's gentle, when his lips meet yours. Hands intertwined wherever they lay, reassurance gliding silently from skin to skin. A moment belonging to you and Prince Aemond alone; a balm over old wounds that may reopen anew.

[priafey]

!! wip whenever !!

tagged on may 15th and may 29th by the incomparable inky @inkoherentwriting <33

i tag @plutoprophecy @azures-grace and @v1ctory-or-sovngarde i'll show you mine if you show me yours? teehee

here's gwilin and lei having a little heart-to-heart in the cemetery behind the temple of mara, from the next chapter of Among The Many Lost Souls:

"What were you, if not enraged, earlier? With the girl?" "That was the only time I've lost control like that." "And it will not be the last." Gwilin sighed and buried a hand in his hair. He propped up his head, poising his elbow on his knee. "I won't let it happen again. Someone has to keep this guild from falling apart." "This burden, why do you think it yours to bear?" "Because I can't leave. Not with Mercer at the helm. You don't know what he's done." "The rape?" "Yes, the–" He couldn't echo the word. "Gwilin, I don't doubt you've experienced far more than is fair for any one soul to be subjected to, in the short time you've been a vampire. The plights of my own life necessarily outnumber your own, however… it is not with pride I would admit my earliest dealings. The ones preceding my decision to remove myself from mortal affairs entirely. I don't remain withdrawn in this way because it is easy. I do it because I have found it more tenable than facing the carnage inevitably following the pursuit of any of my desires. You yourself are living proof of this. I desired, fleetingly, not to take your life. I felt the strings of my heart tugged on by the frail pleas of a mortal, and have thus engendered a suffering within you, and within the world, that is incalculable." "Do you mean to say our desires are meant to be suppressed?" "I am saying we have desires, and turning from them can be just as disastrous as freely indulging them. I don't think my turning from them will save me, Gwilin, or anyone around me. I simply find the turning more bearable." Lei watched Gwilin gently rise. He stopped an arm's length from him, attention then wandering toward the mausoleum. "I suspect you don't share my sentiment." "I think I do, and I don't. If anything has helped keep me sane these past few months…" "…it's the girl." "And Brynjolf." "Do they move you?" Then he murmured what he really meant. "Is it love?" "They're both… very pretty." “Yes, but do they haunt you, Gwilin? Does the mere thought of them awaken feelings in you you’d never known lay dormant? In moments of silence, do you find yourself craving their mouth, their voice, their hair?” Gwilin furrowed his brow, like the thought of such feelings being within his reach was beyond comprehension. “I crave blood. Sylvie gives it to me. I crave sex. Brynjolf gives it to me. I can’t ask for more. Not from this pale shadow of a life you’ve given me.” “Oh, Gwilin. You can always ask for more…”

[softguarnere]

Fic Writer Interview

Thank you for the tag @mercurygray!

How many works do you have on AO3?

Currently 6, but hopefully that number will go up over spring break

What's your total AO3 word count?

119,136

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Like A Girl (Like A Man) - Band of Brothers

Just A Kid - The Outsiders

Bear The Burden Alone - The Chronicles of Narnia

For Whatever We Lose - Band of Brothers

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, absolutely! I share my writing because it allows me to connect with people who share my interests. If I'm not posting replies, it feels more like a one sided conversation, imo. Also, it seems the polite thing to do

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

It's about to be Like A Girl (Like A Man)! You'll see why soon >:)

What the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

On AO3, it's probably Bear The Burden Alone, but I try to keep the fics that I post here on Tumblr kinda upbeat with hopeful -- albeit open-ended -- endings.

Do you write crossovers?

Yeah! For Whatever We Lose is actually a crossover with The Pacific, and I'd love to do more crossovers in the future

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yep! I've deleted the comments, but some people were VERY ANGRY about the background Babe/Roe content in LAGLAM -- you know, despite the fact that the plot of the fic is driven by a queer woman's decision to cross-dress. Guess they had to draw the line somewhere, but the hypocrisy of it all makes me chuckle

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Kinda? I deleted most of it from the original LAGLAM drafts and instead just alluded to it, but things are going to be different in FWWL. Get ready for crappy ocean metaphors and religious imagery, babes!

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I hope not :( That would stink

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not to my knowledge

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but I think it would be fun!

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Everlark! (said while frothing at the mouth because they make me go insane) I've been obsessed with them since I first read The Hunger Games at age 9. I could write you a whole novel about why I think they're perfect together, but I'll spare you the ramble (unless anyone wants it?)

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Tears in my eyes when I tell you that it's probably the requests in my inbox. I keep telling myself that I'll get to them, but I've just felt unmotivated with all the stuff I've had going on in my personal life/at school. I really really do hope to get to them someday, though, because some of them will be really fun to write

What are your writing strengths?

I have no clue, lol. I tend to get compliments about how I describe settings, so I'm gonna say that!

What are your writing weaknesses?

My abuse of commas and italics.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Personally, I love doing it. Especially in a fic like LAGLAM, where even though most people don't speak the language I'm using (Cherokee), I feel like they can still see the importance to the characters and to the story. And I like tricking people into caring about Indigenous language preservation. My teachers told me that anything can be a vessel for carrying language on, and by God, I took that to heart

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Oh boy. I was in the fifth grade. I had won many writing competitions. Two classmates approached me and told me that they wished The Hunger Games had more post-Mockingjay Everlark content, and that since I was a good writer, they wanted me to write it. I was traded many cosmic brownies and other such snacks throughout the year for my services in providing my classmates with Everlark fics on pages of notebook paper that are probably crumpled up in a landfill by now. At the time, I had no idea I was writing fanfiction, but it was the start of my favorite hobby. Look at me now, baby!

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

I've always wanted to write for TURN: Washington's Spies but have never had the courage haha

What's your favorite fic you've written?

I have a couple of one-shots that I'm pretty pleased with, but currently I'm going to say LAGLAM because it's been so special to me <3

Tagging (but no pressure!): @almost-a-class-act @latibvles @footprintsinthesxnd @liebgotts-lovergirl

[poisonedfate]

However Many Sentences Whatever Day it Currently is (Tag Game)

Rules: Post a number of sentences from any of your WIPs, equivalent to whatever day of the month it is.

tagged by: @freylins thank you so much!!!! and please accept my sincerest apologies for taking so long, i had decided on a specific wip that was barely even a wip at that point, but i'm too stubborn to change my mind so. hey. here we are.

tagging: i've seen most writers i know do this + i don't have that many writer pals, so instead take this is a plead to befriend

this is the angry kisses wip which turned into the angst wip and has been on my mind for WEEKS

He knew it wasn't exactly fair, Arthur had been nothing if not understanding, but Merlin just couldn't help himself. It would've been easier, he thought, if things had gone the way he expected. Having to persuade Arthur of the good that magic can do, showing him that he only ever wanted to help - if their countless conversations were anything to go by, he knew the prince would only need to be convinced so much, his kindness had already taken him far enough. Looking back on it now, perhaps Merlin should've seen this coming - mistrust over acceptance - but even then, Arthur had taken his words, his explanations and quickly learned to live with them. What he couldn't have predicted was that he'd be the one pulling away. There was a heaviness in his chest every time he thought about Arthur's eyes at that moment, as he wondered out loud about the trust between them. An ache in Merlin's chest kept reminding him of the promises he aimed to keep. He believed in Arthur, more than he ever expected to, and not having to keep this from him any longer allowed him to breathe just a little easier - but how does one let go of something he thought was safe? He never cared much for his own skin, never cared much about being the one staring into the brightness of written fate, but dragging the other, pulling Arthur closer to that same light, did knowledge and trust outweigh the danger and the burden? Keeping that part of himself hidden had become like second nature to Merlin, so even beyond everything else, letting Arthur in had proven to be difficult. In some ways, he did want to show Arthur, wanted to share, have Arthur know him completely, but there was another part of him, one with a louder voice, one that bargained for him to stay the same. There was something familiar in the way Arthur knew him, something easy in the way he recognised him, the way he looked at him, the way they were with each other - Merlin didn't know if he could bear it changing.

this is definitely cheating, because it isn't 17 sentences, but also i'm incapable of writing short sentences so i'm thinking it balances out

[winterchimez]

hi......yes im alive 😃

i'll be honest i don't really know where to start...so i might as well try my best to give a proper update for everyone on the dash and explain everything as i possibly can

so it's been a month (a little more than that) since i left and to put it simply i was at the lowest point in life, physically and mentally. a lot of irl matters happened; losing close ones and going through a tremendous amount of stress and pain has not made anything better. with that, i was on meds a lot; mentally, i was very unwell, and neither was my physical health any better.

i had to take a step away from all social medias i had, and even shut myself out completely and not talk to anyone, all because i just didn't have the strength and energy to do it. i've lost count on the amount of times i've broke down over the past several months (but May was the worst), and i just couldn't keep going on like this.

so i finally made the huge decision to quit my current job by the end of the year (my job played huge part on my health) so that's finally a huge burden off my chest. though, all of that fatigue and stress are now slowly getting to me (since i've held them in / ignored them for so long) so by the time i'm home i'm beyond exhausted to do anything else.

which also comes to the main point of all of this: writing. it's still a hobby that i absolutely love since a young age till now, and i have so much in store that i can't wait to write them! though with my current condition it's hard to determine when i'll be able to get back into it. i am somewhat working on one or two wips but it's going REAL slow, and i don't even know if they'll eventually see the light of day.

what i can promise though is i'll definitely write when i'm capable & feeling much better. i may or may not drop some fics once in a while, or that might not happen until i quit my current job but we shall see. i'm definitely planning on finishing all of the ongoing series (both here & on my other blog), writing the requests that you guys have sent in, and more collabs to come in the future!

so i humbly ask that you guys be patient with me, and i will be back when i can. i might hop into tumblr to check notifs once in a while, but know that i'm slowly coming back out of my shell so bear with me.

till then, take care yall & see you guys real soon. 🫶🏻💗

~ ally ❄️

[walkawaytall]

wip wednesday

“The Tibrin mission report,” General Rieekan said after a long moment of quiet. “Seertay noted that you, Voln, and Cleave were encouraged to talk to one of the the therapists about witnessing the executions.”

Leia highlighted a random phrase in her notes for want of something to focus on other than this conversation. “I believe we were,” she said once the silence became unbearable.

“Did you?”

Leia pressed her lips together, frustrated with the direction the conversation had taken. “It wasn’t a requirement to return to the field.”

“So, that’s a no. Leia?” Carlist tapped her wrist lightly with his finger until she turned her attention back to him. “I’m not asking this in any official capacity; I’m asking as a friend: Why didn’t you?”

She set her jaw, tamping down her irritation so it wouldn’t show, and shrugged. “I have survived far worse.”

An expression of grief Leia had rarely seen outside of memorial services and briefings about lives lost crossed Carlist’s face. He parted his lips as if he meant to say something before clamping his mouth shut and looking at her for a moment. Leia met his gaze with steely resolve, unwilling to go too far down the path of why she was resistant to continuously talking about her experiences.

The older man’s expression softened further and he nodded. “I suppose that is unfortunately true,” he finally said, and Leia couldn’t ignore the quiet emotion in his voice.

She shook her head slightly, still meeting Rieekan’s gaze. “Please don’t look at me like that, Carlist,” she pleaded softly.

He drew his eyebrows together in concern. “Like what, Your Highness?”

“Like I am a disaster you failed to mitigate.”

General Rieekan continued to look at her face. “That isn’t…” He shook his head. “I am concerned by the burdens you have been made to bear these past couple of years.”

“It is nothing I wasn’t raised for,” Leia said flatly. “You know that.”

“Bail and Breha didn’t want—”

“They didn’t,” she agreed before he could finish. “But I was raised for it nonetheless.”

[calicohyde]

Tagged by @heartofnovel to find the given words in my WIP(s). Their words for me are feeling, grip, mess, and brush.

feeling

"Yeah, and he's been drinking," Frenchie adds. "I mean obviously he's been drinking, but more now than before- you know, before. Must be feeling guilty, we figure."

from The Burden Easy, currently 15k Sign up here to be tagged when I post Our Flag Means Death fanfiction on main.

grip

The hard plastic corner of her camera digs painfully into the base of her thumb. She's squeezing it too tight, but her palms are sweating and she fears that if she loosens her grip she'll drop it. In the other hand, she holds her pocket knife just as tightly.

from Curse The Messenger draft 1.4, currently 30k

mess

It's messy, it always is, but Eddie has never minded that. Her curls hide a lot of the unevenness, and the unprofessional shag is its own kind of look that Eddie likes anyway. Loose curls hug around the shells of her ears, ending at the lobe, an extra shadow. One sticks out from her temple, one rests over her forehead. This is how she usually looks, and she can bear it getting most of the way to her shoulders before it starts driving her crazy and making her feel too much like someone else. This time it's not enough.

from Curse The Messenger

brush

"You can leave," Fred says. Xe folds xemself onto the desk, half of xem pulling up and half sinking down. Cross-legged, xyr knee brushes against Eddie's shoulder when Eddie breathes. Eddie doesn't leave.

from Curse The Messenger Sign up here to be tagged when I post about this project.

I tag @fanged-writer @gailynovelry and @magic-is-something-we-create. My words for y'all are need, creation, block, road, and luck.

[emberleesblog]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Week 8

Took me a while to find something I felt okay with this week. I have a lot of ideas, all Amphibia based, but haven't had the time to write them recently. So for this week, have a small follow up snippet from Week 3 and then a list of ideas I'm hoping to write!

Enjoy!

"Scars come from battles Sasha! Fr-from experiences! Proof that we lived through something....significant enough to bear its burden on our flesh! They say what's a life will lived if you're unable to reflect on what it leaves behind?" Anne yelled, waving her arms fruitlessly at the shocked blonde. "Anne died! She left a mark on the world-TWO worlds, and was riddled with scars. If I were her I should have thousands of them littering my skin, as she literally crumbled to dust in Sprig's arms. But I don't."

She stopped pacing, a sob choking her words as Sasha tried to reach out for her, only pulling back from her touch with a grimace.

"I'm unmarked Sash. Smooth as a newborn. I don't even have her scars from childhood. I'm meant to be a copy of her..."

She paused, wiping at her nose with her sleeve before taking a deep, hiccupping breath to murmur, "A perfect copy of her. Yet I'm still such a failure."

Hope you enjoyed that!

Ideas that are yet to be fully written:

*Escapism- A story of best friends Marcy and Sasha fleeing their small town with blood on their hands and a madman on their trail, leading them to the city. Struggling to reconnect with each other and their pasts, they find that the city isn't all that welcoming and that you can't hide forever. Thankfully a crash meeting with a bubbly brunette may be the solution they're after.

*Missing Time to Missing You- a story about the missing years from Sasha's POV. WIPS 2,3,4 and today all tie into this :)

*Reconnecting- A small reflective piece from each girls' POV of how they reunite after 10 years. Lots of pining

*Cardamon and Lemongrass- Anne and her mum bonding over cooking, and reconnecting after Amphibia

*NWT- Sasha grieving the loss of Anne and Marcy while in Wartwood with the pets they left behind. Inspired by this pic cause it got me in the feels

*NWT- Mermaids. The girls playing mermaids during a trip to the beach. Sasha is the pirate because she's the unwanted invader according to her parents

*NWT- How Anne Boonchuy became goth.

*NWT- All I have saved on my phone is the lines 'It started with a game of chicken. Because it wouldn't be them if it didn't.' I'm not sure where that one was going, but it's definitely Sashanne coded.

That's all for now, see you all next week!

[leafkingofbirds]

WIP Wednesday

From the upcoming chapter of A Heavy Burden to Bear.

I have a terrible headache but I'm excited to share this little scene I've been working on, which has been soo much fun! Mild TW for language.

“Damn you, Kieran, stop,” Oleander snaps huffily. “I refuse to chase you like some runaway bride.”

Kieran feels a hand grab his elbow, stopping him. He turns and snarls at his friend. “Go back inside, the both of you. I don’t wish for company.”

“Too bad. You have it now.” Oleander’s trademark sarcasm holds an undertone of steel. “You shattered a wine glass during a toast to your consort and left a trail of ice behind you. If the Sun Court isn’t already gossiping about Jack and Ella having an affair behind your back, they will be soon. You embarrassed your court by losing control of your magic mere hours after earning it back, so you will shut up and listen.”

Kieran scowls but acquiesces, turning on them and crossing his arms. He wants to fight - to challenge Oleander to a duel of honor to show them who is prince and who is not. But Oleander is a formidable opponent, and they know Kieran’s weaknesses.

“Speak, then, before I decide to answer your insults with my fists.”

Ella didn’t follow, the bitter voice inside whispers. Because she doesn’t care. 

“That would be rather uncouth of you. Jack is here to apologize. Though I don’t see how an apology is strictly warranted,” Oleander says sniffily. They roll their eyes, uncowed. “But that's his business. I am here because you seem to be making a habit of dramatically storming out of rooms lately. Seeing as Ella is currently ill-disposed to being your emotional support creature, the duty falls to me.”

“Get away from me,” Kieran growls, trying to throw Oleander’s arm off him. “I am your gods-damned prince!” 

“Then fucking act like it,” Oleander snaps coldly. They release Kieran’s arm, but they know him too well to fear him, and that enrages Kieran. “You were my friend before you were my prince, so take my counsel for once in your gods-damned life. You just changed a millenia-old system of government and created an entirely new court using some heretofore-unknown mastery of the Sources of Magic. I still don’t fully understand it myself. Until you stormed out like a tantruming toddler, everyone in that room saw you as an almighty tower of strength, almost as untouchable as the Fae of old. There was awe in their eyes, Kieran. You emerged after the near-destruction of centuries-old establishments like a phoenix from flames, and you have a chance to convince everyone to see you as a paragon of power in the realm. No one now can argue that you aren’t a true Prince of Fae. You will need every ounce of that power and respect if you plan to hold onto your crown.”

Oleander’s expression takes on a rare quality: sincerity. They stab their finger back towards the palace. “Those people in there may smile and eat your food and act neutered, for now, but we are far from becoming bosom friends to the other courts. Fae politics are still in play, and you cannot give them an opening. We have survived - for now - but we have never been more vulnerable. Enemies and allies alike will crawl out of the woodwork to circle us like carrion crows, sensing us weak, and furious that you elevated a changeling as you did. Courtless Fae made hungry and desperate for magic will begin to arrive at your doorstep wondering if the crown is either strong enough to protect them or vulnerable enough to steal for themselves. More powers than you know still lurk in the darkest depths of the woods, watching and waiting for a sliver of a chance. You cannot give it to them. No matter what.”

Kieran remains silent. As a rule, Oleander knows far more than they ever choose to speak aloud. But this time, their words have a ring of dire warning that speaks of firsthand knowledge.

“What do you know that you aren’t telling me?” Kieran asks quietly.

Oleander’s dark eyes narrow. “Little more than I’ve already said, and nothing else that I dare speak aloud in open air. Rest assured, what I know is for your hearing only." Oleander looks briefly at Jack. “No offense, my lord. But we can’t discount the fact that there are certainly those amongst the other courts who do not forget their grudges so easily.”

Jack looks surprised, then mutters, "None taken."

"As friendly as we currently are with the heads of the other courts, not all of their followers necessarily share our current amiability. You once charged me to instruct Ella in this very thing, Kieran. I didn’t think I’d have to remind you that as we speak, songs are being written and legends will be told about this night. All eyes are upon you, watching and waiting for what you do next. When these tales are re-told in far reaches of your realm, make sure you are remembered favorably.”

Kieran wants to bite back that he doesn’t give a single fuck about politics or how he’s remembered. But as Oleander glares at him, he’s reminded…Oleander knows things that Kieran doesn't.

The crown, again, must come above all. He doesn’t have the luxury of showing his true emotions.

Before, he could do that only with Ella. Now he could not do it at all.

“We are far from being out of the woods, Kieran. If you haven’t noticed, the Moon Court is still vastly outnumbered,” Oleander continues unabated. “You will be Ruler of All Fae again in a matter of weeks, and you must conduct yourself like one, if you hope to sway any of the remaining exiled Fae to return to your court. I personally know of at least a dozen who have yet to show their faces, and I’m sure there are a few hundred more living out there in hiding. You have given us hope, but our court is still in danger. I understand this situation with Ella has been difficult, but at least she is still alive, and–”

Kieran points an accusatory finger at Jack. “Not according to him.”

Jack looks surprised, then he scowls too. “I…spoke clumsily. I’m not so practiced at giving speeches as some."

“Who would have guessed?” Oleander says sarcastically. “I’m sure there’s a veritable mountain of unresolved drama between the two of you, but I don’t care. You’re leaders of Fae. Figure out how to conduct yourselves and get along, or there’ll be no hope at all for the rest of us.”

Kieran and Jack gape at Oleander in silence.

“Now, I’ll try to mitigate the damage that embarrassing display just cost our reputation,” Oleander snaps. “While you two learn to make nice like good little boys.”

Oleander arches a brow, tugs their waistcoat, and turns on their heel to return to the ballroom.

[captainbobbin]

Hi, hello! 💜 📝🦐 please! 💜 Also: *boop!*

(in response to this ask meme)

awuaaaagh a boop! - prepare for one in return mwuaha - also I'm gonna do these two out of order because it will flow a little better haha, plus I'm rambling so its under a readmore -

🦐 - tell me about a character or story that is giving you shrimp emotions right now

spoilers for DQXI ahead!

I went back and replayed some more DQXI yet again yesterday (I play a good chunk of it every week on stream for my chat and I always loredump and theorise with them as we play haha) but I had missed a few weeks due to the recent funeral and other irl distractions. But going back to it was like coming home and. man. man. Hendrik. Hendrik my special boy who I love so dearly. I could talk about him for weeks, he has rewired my brain chemistry. I'm pretty sure you followed me for my KH stuff in general but DQXI is another square enix game and to me Hendrik has a nice overlap with the way I characterise my version of Isa. Hendrik is a big brooding dad type of guy who begins as an antagonist to the player due to being misled, lied to and betrayed; as the game goes on you realise that not only is he the most powerful thing in-game but that he is wracked with survivors guilt, catholic guilt, imposters guilt, every kind of guilt imaginable, he's a giant socially awkward unstoppable force teddy bear man who is the worlds most revered hero, destiny's chosen strongman, a horsegirl and a clown and I will never tire of talking about him he is just so so special to me. He's so pretty. I think I spend most of my time playing DQXI either deep-diving into lore/theories or just going 'god look how pretty Sylvando is. Look how pretty Hendrik is. I love them. I love them so much' lmaoooooo (a lot of people pair Hendrik and Jasper together and I totally get that but I love Sylv and Hendrik winding up together, they just work so well as a pair, they fit together so nicely auuugh)

One of the things we talked about in my last DQXI stream was that right at the start of act 2, when Hendrik is at your side but not a party member yet, (and hes only just getting over his projection of angst onto you and he's trying so hard to be better already and he dedicates himself to you there and then pretty much), in the throne room of Heliodor's ruined castle where Hendrik once served you fight the Spectral Sentinel Tyriant, and we discussed the possibility that Tyriant might just be the reanimated dead body of Arnout, the former king of Zwaardsrust (Hendrik's original home, which was razed to the earth when he was just a little boy.....). The size of the body, the way it fights, the fact that the orb it is designated is the purple orb, which was buried in the ruins of Zwaardsrust..... awauaugh I love this game so much and I am obsessed with digging up lore and playing with it, especially the stuff revolving around Sylv and Hendrik haha

I just. I love the guy. He has so much grief and inner turmoil and layers and the entirety of Act 2 is him learning to be a person again and trusting those around him, pushing through his internalised blame (with debatable results) and just trying to heal while out on the road. I'm just. obsessed with him. My big purple wife 💜

📝 - tell me about a project you're working on, or share something from a WIP -

here are some messy notes I did recently for the next instalment in my Open Wounds series, which is about Hendrik dealing with his emotions regarding Norberto (Sylvando) and their strange, budding relationship -

Thank you, my darling. It hung in his ears. Hendrik had followed Sylvando to the Stallion and back five times over, carrying whatever burden he was issued, internally leashed by those words of praise. In order to save the world, one needed provisions. The ship needed stocking. Hendrik was only doing his duty. It was merely a boon that he did so whilst looking at Sylvando's back, sauntering ahead of him, smile easy and reputation preceding him. The scarlet clouds ought to make the clown vanish into gloom, as it had yesterday, yet spirits seemed to have risen. Like Hendrik's own flesh, perhaps the world was healing, just a little. The clown's presence certainly gave the impression of that effect. The longer they were in Gondolia, the more people came out of hiding, the more townsfolk did business with them, the more smiles began to appear. Conversations were had with shopkeepers that Hendrik did not understand - don't you worry, honey, those Beastly Boys aren't so anymore! They've done me very proud since last I was here - and Sylvando glittered under Erdwin’s Lantern, a thought that was both horrid and harpsichordical; in times of strife and despite any grief, the strong flourish and bloom, and to observe a knight perform his duty and be one with the people, taking hands and offering encouraging words, offers of support, promises to repair, all while doom crept ready to be taken down, it offered Hendrik a cacophony of implacable feelings that he really could do nothing with. He just followed, experiencing it, fascinated by the way civilians recognised the two of them, recognised that the two of them were together, recognised that the two of them were different, and then recognised that the two of them were the same. 

Shamefully, Hendrik had almost forgotten to think of Jasper. Shamefully, he still rather had.

The only time Hendrik's mind had drifted to Jasper was when, as they gathered materials together, idly talking about nothing - and by the Gods it was nice to talk at all, to be able to talk at all with him - Sylvando regaled some airy tale of a time when he had discovered some squeaky little mousies had made snuck aboard his ship and tried to make a nest in a gap in the pantry floorboards. He talked of how he had kept an eye on them, left small amounts of food near the opening to save the mice from gnawing through sacks and taking more than their share. Sylvando had scooped them out the next time they moored and freed them, finding some snug shrub to set their fluffy little hiding place under and watching them scurry away. He had told the story, again, smiling, faint gestures with his hands, harmless, pressureless, filling the silence. It was rather admirable, and Hendrik could not help but think that it spoke of Sylvando's character, a character that had not changed despite everything else changing so much. Norberto had tried to bring home a wild sabrecub once - his father forbade it, for obvious reasons. But the boy - and now the jester - had always been able to see the good in all things, had always had a soft spot for creatures in need of aid. 

Hendrik's back tingled.

Sylvando had cared for rodents aboard his vessel, had refused to outright kill pests that, by all means, he could have and perhaps should have to ensure the ship was clean and safe and without burden. Instead he had left tissue nearby for them to nest with, crumbs and peeling nearby for them to eat, and had personally made sure that the mice had a real home as soon as he was physically able to, carrying them to where they ought to be with gentle hands and no doubt nurturing words.

Vermin, Jasper would have said. Disgusting, vile, loathsome little cockroach-beasts. He would have raised his boot over them and brought it down swiftly with a wrinkled nose and curled-back lip. 

If we pass where I left them, I'll show you, Sylvando had turned to him and said, smile light and charming. It's the finest little mouse-house around! I bet none of their other forest friends have purple crepe paper and ribbons adorning their humble abode, eh? Those little stowaways got only the best - I'd have nothing less on my ship, you know.

Hendrik peered out of the window, stood in the belly of The Stallion. 

[midnightsunnyday]

Find the words

@shabootldoo tagged me to find the following words in my WIPs: water, lights, and tree.

Water: (With Good Intentions Chapter Two. Which is taking forever to write btw. Here we have the brothers showing signs of becoming worse after the events of chapter 16 and MC is no longer there to help with their problems):

“Though I hate to admit it, I agree with Mammon.” Satan turned a page of his book. The Human Psyche and You, it read. “We all failed to assist them that day. Moreover, there’s clearly some bias in your disciplinary measures. Had any one of us spoken to Lord Diavolo that way, surely we’d be hanging from more than just our waists.” “Or locked in an attic,” Beelzebub spoke barely above a whisper, yet Lucifer heard it all the same. “Passive-aggressive remarks will get you more than just my attention, Beel. Speak fully on what it is you need to say.” Beelzebub sat slumped and turned away from the others. Belphegor’s burdens were not his own, yet he carried them all the same. “I…don’t want to argue with you, Lucifer.” “Then finish your food, in silence.”  “I still say we should bust em’ out,” said Mammon, failing to grasp the point of silence. “What’s the point of them being trapped in their room ignoring everyone? Isn’t  it better to, you know, talk about it?” “Humans don’t just get over being killed, especially by those they trusted once,” said Satan. “Such matters are,” he rolled his shoulders, “a bit more complicated than most.” “We've died before.” Mammon guzzled his water, posing the experience as if a simple summer’s walk. “Wasn’t so bad.” “That’s because we can’t die. Though please, you’re always welcome to try. Preferably now, if possible.”  “Hey!”

Lights (With Good Intentions Chapter Two. In this scene, Lucifer is struggling with his loyalty to Diavolo and his growing affection for MC. Angst ensues):

The day of the prince's birth was an occasion that, when first learned, filled Lucifer with a dreary derision, where the hours leading up to it were hazed in an overwhelming show of Dionysian blunder that would make the Greek god himself blush with embarrassment. Every year, Lucifer worked himself past the point of exhaustion, ensuring that every drape, every hors-d'œuvre, hell, every tile of the grand ballroom floor sparkled the way it should. And his brothers, who labored from wall to wall, hated him for it, relegating him as nothing more than Diavolo’s “perfect little lap dog.” But none of it mattered. His brother’s respect was one thing, hopefully mended with time, yet his reputation as the prince’s right hand was another; such bonds he couldn’t risk testing.   Over time, Lucifer learned to find pleasure in routine, satisfied with how everything formed together through the sway of his own hands, entirely in his element. And Diavolo, in trusting him to do so, spared no effort in praising him and his brothers’ after, drowning them in food, Demonus, and even parting with many of his own gifts. Naturally, Lucifer questioned him. Nothing is given freely, the past still fresh on his mind. But Diavolo had a way of breaching past suspicions, humbling Lucifer with a boastful laugh. “In all my years of knowing you, not once have I ever seen you as just my right hand.” Diavolo’s gaze was thoughtful, bearing down from the parapet walk of the castle. Below them was the bailey, a frenzied glow of lights and fevered guests, their voices leveling into the night. His face brightened. “This party is more than just the celebration of my birth, but all the things that came together and made it worth celebrating.”

Tree: (Untitled Asmodeus, Belphegor, and Lilith story. Not sure if it'll ever be finished, but we'll see).

The Jewel of the Heavens was more than just a title. It was the living embodiment of the Father’s everlasting love for all his creation and the beauty that lay within it. It was therefore that such a being would not be born, but molded. The Father had willed together every fragment, from the largest stars to the tiniest of creatures, and like the pressure that builds and springs forth the diamond, so too, did his treasured child, shining brilliantly with the immensity of everything and anything that was and ever will be.  The Father then breathed life into him and with satisfaction, smiled as they stirred. He then looked upon what he created and said, “You are the jewel of this realm and the most beautiful of my creations, for I have molded you from everything I love, and you will spread my will across that which is below, so that they may know of it.”   And so Asmodeus did. And it was good.   Yet mortals were strange and chaotic. They did not love in the way that the Father commanded. They were closed off and selective, secretive and jealous, petty and vengeful. Some stuck with one partner at a time, never allowing another’s touch. While others kept multiple lovers, seemingly without want as they were never bound to begin with. They stood at alters with promises before priests. They hid it away with closed curtains in darkened rooms. They fought and scraped, cried and destroyed, lied and cheated, all for what they thought was scarce. Yet in actuality, was as boundless as the sea itself. It was only natural, then, that Asmodeus would have many lovers, and that those lovers would naturally, want to be his. His siblings, on the other hand, thought it nothing more than— “Being a total sleaze.” Belphegor yawned, lounging in the branch of a tall oak tree.

Um, also I'm not sure who to tag in this. All my writer friends in this fandom are inactive or deleted their accounts so...if you see this and want to participate, then please do so!

Words: love, taken, broken

Reserve: pillow, clouds, laughter