#GUESS I'M WINGIN IT

[mercswercs]

I've been tryin' to figure out a move.

Like a fightin' game but it's a spell an if I do it right, I can throw a <200 ton uppercut made outta rocks.

I dunno what I'm doin, though; I'm not really approachin' this the way I taught myself. It's more like I'm... I guess wingin' it.

Workin' by feel.

[butmakeitgayblog]

When you have an AU idea in your head… how do you get it to become more than just, “oh, that’s a neat concept it should be Clexafied” to fleshing it out into an actual thing? I have tiny ideas or like a general ‘I want to see them in such and such context’ but that’s where it ends. 😞 i’d like to write something for the fandom but yeah…dunno how to get there.

Oof well I may not be the best option to pick because I really have no idea what I'm doing, I'm just wingin it lol but idrk. I guess for me personally when I get an idea for a story I like I start mentally trying to evolve it in my head? Sometimes it's easier than others, sometimes the thoughts/plot points/scenes just build themselves.

I don't think I'm describing this well.

Ok so for example, professor au. The initial thought came from an ask about a teacher/student fic rec that got me thinking about how cool it would be to see that trope flipped on its head. Older professor and older student having a secret affair. So I thought about what that would look like, what their challenges would be. Then I started thinking about the characters. What personalities do they have? Who are they as people outside of this situation? How would all this bring them together? What would happen to make them fall in love?

I just kinda start doing it, granted subconsciously, because when I get an idea for something the creative juices kinda just start taking over and then it's like one thought leads to the next that leads to the next in rapid fire. So it was like "Ooo hot older professor Lexa.... Milf Clarke.... what would that look like... divorced mom with a teen kid... jaded but, not broken. She's too tough for that.... that's why she's returning to college... she's feisty... she likes a challenge... she's in a place in her life where she wants to be more daring. To push herself beyond her boring life.... And then there's professor Lexa... nerdy type.... maybe standoffish?... no, no. She puts on a front with students. She's lonely, but she presents herself as ok. Distant, but friendly. The type where you realize you've had her for 7 classes over 4 years and yet you don't really know anything about her. But. She's a teacher who inspires her students to work. Makes them want to work hard to please her. They want to follow her word and guidance... so there's these two personality types that meet in the atmosphere of the classroom, one looking to challenge her students and another looking to be challenged.... where would that lead them? What challenges will they face? How would this relationship evolve? How would they deal with the idea of their attraction vs the social taboos and regulations surrounding their situation? Personally how would they deal with it?" And then literally I just think about what they would do in various scenarios. Things like what would their first kiss be like? Their first time admitting feelings? Would they let themselves cross there boundary of sex at school? What about meeting Madi? Etc.

Am I making any sense?

I guess what I'm saying is, when you have an idea, actively try and unfold it. Dig into, and as you do the story kind of comes to you in bits and pieces until eventually you start to realize that you have plot points and character nuance and holy fuck there's a story here

At least that's how it is for me. Other writers with other processes are very much welcome to jump on this post with their thoughts and methods

[josieescobapoetry]

Emmalita

I hear my inner static on my radio

And the screens, they glow in the dark.

And I'm here alone with big scenario

And I'm there with you in half.

Emmalita, free me wider,

I think I'm ready to start!

And I'm all strung out on ser'tonin

For desiring love itself.

Well, I pawned my stress 'n' wingin',

And I went to meet yourself.

It hangs out down on Utopia Street

At the changin' revolt stand.

Emmalita, free me wider,

I think I'm ready to start!

And I'm all strung out on ser'tonin

For desiring love itself.

Well, I'm sitting here playing lovin' roulette

With my earl' handled lost.

You will never give me live 'n' touch anymore

And I guess it's all my fault.

Emmalita, push me harder,

I think I regress now!

And I'm high on fearing of losing you

With the need of being clean.

Emmalita, free me wider,

I think I'm ready to start!

And I'm all strung out on ser'tonin

For desiring love itself.

[flappervcmp]

"Isn't that the same thing? Except you're buying the clothes for me instead of me sending you a bill?" Annie raised an eyebrow at him, shaking her head with a small laugh.

She hummed thoughtfully at his response, eyes flicking around the crowd of dancing college students (along with what she guessed were some high school kids that had snuck in to party) before turning her eyes back to him. "I don't ever seem to have that happen with my victims, but then again, I don't usually try to chat them up beforehand."

An arm wrapped around his neck as she pulled him down closer, spinning them around as they continued to dance. "So then, we're just wingin' it? More of a planner myself, which I'm sure you remember. I guess I can let it go for one night."

——- “& I’m telling you right now, if you do, I’ll just buy you a new one.” He tells her, his hand brushing against her cheek, “oh, Annie. When people are about to die, usually they start spilling secrets so when they do die, they don’t have that extra guilty conscious. It’s actually rather fun — gives it that extra razzle.” He explains as their bodies press against each other, dancing. The music was beginning to feel good, two vampires in a pool of humans was something he thought was very euphoric. A crowd of drunk college kids, throwing themselves at anyone who they found attractive.

“I don’t have that many plans,silly.” He says as says to her, “just the finale — maybe.” He winks at her as they continue to move to the rhythm of the music. He wasn’t thirsty, he’s always fulfilled his blood lust. However, he did enjoy killing, and while he was at it, he just fed — not wanting to waste a drop of blood.

[loud82]

WINGIN' IT !!!

I'm going to try and add in a minigame world like-thing to try and make my game better, I don't know if I can do this since I've never made minigames before, let alone movement. But I guess I should just believe in the heart of the carrds and WING IT!!

[abunchofbooloney]

looking through my google docs trying to see if i kept ANY notes as to what my plans were for this arc of the story and the only thing literally stops right after when booloney woke up in the containment device

[danielmaslany]

Daniel Maslany as Owl in Supergrid (2018)

[a-ghostlight-for-roman]

hoo boy guess who forgot October was coming up & now has no plans for Whumptober?

[crownsparrow]

MEMES FROM THE OTHER BLOG,   not accepting.

❛ Imagine the worst thing possible. Assume it’s true. Then go from there. ❜ (from Daud)

were it not for the knowledge she already possesses as to who @facetedspades​ is and just what he’s done,   emily might find herself at least mildly taken aback by the words.  as it sits,  though,  she’s not  —  not even a little  —  and there’s not even a hint of surprise anywhere in her as hands rest on her hips and a brow lifts.  

❪  and still,  she hasn’t so much as looked at him.  not really  ❫.

“that’s awful advice,”   nose wrinkles as she speaks,  of course,  coming from the knife of dunwall    the man who’d killed her mother  —  could emily possibly expect any different?  maybe there’s a touch of bias behind her perceptions,  but in this instance the young empress would argue that it’s very much allowed.   “you really live like that?  no,  you know what?  i don’t give a damn about how you live.”   

mercy,  justice,  fairness   —   they’re all tenets of the empire she’s fought to rebuild,  and so firm are her convictions that it’s the sort of worldview emily certain she’ll die believing in.  extending such goodwill to all who cross her path is typically easy enough,  and even in the instances when it isn’t so easy she manages all the same...  but now?  now there seems to be very little inclination to maintain the stance that’s become so integral to who she is as a ruler.

is it such a bad thing for there to be an exception,  though?  it’s not altogether outlandish that she should feel this way,  after all.

lips press firmly together as she draws in a steeling breath before finally,  actually looking at him  —  is the feeling of dread that’s settled over her just fictitious?  or is there some sort of reason for it?  void,  it’d better be imagined.   “if i were to follow your own reasoning,  daud,  i’d immediately assume you’re involved in the latest string of suspicious deaths across the empire.  still feeling inclined to stand your ground?”

[rebouks]

Welcome to Curtis's Container Commune!

SUBMISSIONS CLOSED

Or.. it will be a commune one day, but he needs a hand or two first! Technically seven extra pairs of hands... As of right now, all Curtis has is an empty container and a vision! That vision is a self-sufficient community, a greener world and hopefully some nicer digs.

Sure he has no money, the air is putrid, the soil barren... There's no stove, no proper bathroom, no beds, no food, no power, no water, uh.. we'll stop there, but you get the picture. It's gonna be great, right?!

Tired of the rat race? Want to get your hands dirty? Parents kicked you outta their basement? Wanna make some new friends.. maybe more?! Look no further!

Please send your applications to the former Cassidy residence as Curtis doesn't have a mailbox yet (warning: Cassie will read them all)

You might be asking; Becca, what the hell is this? Well... It's a rags to riches style mini "BC" I suppose.. though also, not really 🤔 The idea being that Curty here builds up a container community with seven other sims, since he's the jade generation of the NSB2 challenge... Maybe he finds love, maybe not? I guess you could consider it a rough take on a BC since he could fall in love with one of em? But obviously there's no roses, challenges, dates or eliminations and some sims may leave due to.. idk, not being able to cope, falling out with members of the community, whatever else?? We're wingin' it here as per, so we'll see what happens.

IMPORTANT NOTE: As of right now I'm on patch 1.89.214.1030 and have no plans to update. Any submissions need to be made/have been made for this patch or earlier. I'm sorry to potentially cut some of you off from submitting but I'm just not willing to potentially break my game for this shit lmao.

Info: Curtis is a vegetarian, recycle disciple, green fiend with the Eco Innovator aspiration aka the Jade Gen of the NSB2.

Seven sims will be chosen! (I learnt my lesson last time, no more!!)

Occults are allowed but ehhh.. not preferred.

All sims/genders/sexualities are welcome! YA preferred.

Sims may have jobs, likes and dislikes, freelance careers etc if you wish but we're sticking it to the man for the most part, so..?

Curtis is a dummy so he's not screening this shit. Obviously handy sims, gardeners etc etc would be the most use but if you wanna throw a squeamish spanner in the works, go ahead!

In a similar vein, feel free to give 'em some skills!

Sims may not bring any money with them. We're starting from 0!

I have all packs/kits except journey to Shituu and High School whatever it is.

At least one outfit per category.

CC allowed but keep it light on the clothes plx, no alpha hair either.

Give 'em as much or as little backstory as you wish. They're ultimately just gameplay sims so you don't have to go nuts if you can't be arsed.

Any in game traits allowed but keep it real y'know.. 3 traits only and no custom traits plx!

Wicked Whims is in effect 👀

Non "winners" or sims that choose to leave may stay in my game as a townie or be returned to their creator.

Hmmmm.. I think that's it? Idk.. any questions or w/e shoot me a dm!

Bear in mind this is simple gameplay so posts will just be like my regular gp posts, it's not gonna be some big production with dialogue or anything. I just felt like bringing some other peoples sims along for a fun little experiment to spice things up.

Tag me and your simmies with #Curtis'sCommune so I can see em! Deadline for submissions is August 30th (ish). I have a busy two weeks coming up so this may be longer if I can't get my shit together.. or shorter if I get a ridiculous amount. Somnium is my baby and comes first so this is gonna be real chill! Curtis is still a teen atm so it's all gooood, I won't be starting straight away.

[bullseye-stoddard]

He had no idea how anyone would go about learning art. The thought that someone could actually sit down with a pencil and a blank piece of paper and then bring something into being on the paper was as amazing to him as magic was. So if she was able to make something that good when she was just "winging it," Bullseye was even more impressed. "Well, your 'wingin' it' 's workin' pretty good, then. I mean, I guess that's how people pick up most hobbies an' stuff, but it still seems mighty impressive t' me. I learned how t' fix a fence when I was young, an' yeah, sometimes you gotta improvise wit' fixin' stuff, but that's a whole lot different than bringin' a whole thing t' life on paper." He had a feeling that even something she felt she was not great at would turn out amazing, but he figured he would wait until she finished to praise her work. Smiling back, he said, "Nice t' meet you too, Vee. I'm Bullseye, I work at th' stables. Which prob'ly ain't no surprise t' hear, but I'm guessin' most people wouldn't want t' get a drawin' based on their work either." Somehow he could not imagine a garbage worker would like to get a drawing of a garbage truck.

@veevacious

Drawn from Life || Open !

[maudus1]

Two things: 1. Can you share some of the wips and fic ideas you’ve got squirreled away on your laptop with us? 🥺 2. I wish you loved your writing as much as I love your writing and self doubt or overthinking stuff didn’t hold you back from posting. You are so talented!! Don’t let your brain tell you otherwise!!!

Thank you sm 😭🥺

Sure, I can share some stuff! I have a doc I fling ideas into whenever they hit me, no matter how detailed or small or stupid. PWPs, crack, AUs, slow burns, fix-its, etc. They're usually little more than stream of consciousness rambling, and sometimes just a link, or song lyrics, a reddit thread, meme, or fanart - whatever inspired me in the moment and made me think, "I should revisit this later."

To give you an idea what the former looks like (though I'll be honest, this is tidier than most lol):

Psychologist/Client Modern AU

Premise: Obi-Wan realizes he’s becoming attracted to his beautiful young client and tries to refer him to another doctor. Little does he know, Anakin has been harboring a crush for years.

Anakin comes in one day for a session and Obi-Wan seems off somehow, nervous almost. It's unlike him. Immediately, Anakin is wary. Before he has a chance to say anything, Obi-Wan gets right to the point and tells him he's referring him to another doctor. Anakin demands to know why and he won't give him a straight answer, or at least not one Anakin believes. He's heartbroken, but the more Obi-Wan dodges his questions, the more frustrated he becomes. Obi-Wan opens the door and tells him he should probably go.

As Anakin is passing by, he gets a little too close, and that's when he notices it. A hitch in Obi-Wan's breath, dilated pupils. And he knows. There's no way he's letting it go now. So he tests his theory. Boxes Obi-Wan in. Obi-Wan is becoming increasingly agitated, holy shit he's actually stammering - that never happens - not to him, the man who's always so smooth and professional and careful with his words.

“If you're referring me,” Anakin says, leaning closer, “I guess I'm not your patient anymore then, am I?" 

Obi-Wan blinks, eyes falling briefly to Anakin’s lips. “No,” he breathes, “I suppose you aren't.”

Anakin grins. "Good.”

And then they kiss! Blah blah blah cue the hot desk sex.

Okay, the rest of this got pretty long so I'm dropping the WIPs under the cut.

First, there's Troubled Water. I have bits of multiple chapters written already but most of my focus is of course on chapter 4. Idk why but I've been struggling with it. 😅 It takes place on a different point in the timeline than originally intended (it was actually ch3 but what was supposed to be a flashback ended up turning into an entire scene of its own and thus the whole club disaster lol). It's, again, so long that it will probably end up split into two chapters but as of right now I'm kinda wingin' it.

And am I being entirely self-indulgent by using my own OCs (and some friends')? Yes.

I'm a writer, I can do anything.

Also I just thought it'd be cool to introduce a new species or two lol. The GFFA is vast okay, there's always room for more. Anyway, here's an excerpt:

“Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Da’riel of Clan Sarel. You have already met my Captain. The big guy behind you is my personal bodyguard. Don’t mind him, he only looks terrifying.” His grin takes on a mischievous edge as Bull huffs what might be a grunt or a laugh and he gestures toward the room he just emerged from. “And last but certainly not least—”

Another Dua’vian materializes in the doorway as though summoned, leaning her shoulder against the architrave. Her hair catches Anakin’s attention first; red as Queen’s Heart blossoms, it cascades in thick waves around shoulders draped in the black silk of a shirt several times too large to be hers, its hem halting mid-thigh. Her legs are bare beneath it.

Cheeks flaming, Anakin turns his gaze resolutely away.

“—this absolute vision is Liv Viventoly. If Preia is my right hand, Liv is my left.”

“What does that mean,” Anakin blurts, and everyone looks at him. Though Obi-Wan never rolls his eyes, the expression on his face is about as close as he gets to it. It’s a very particular brand of fatigue and mild annoyance entirely unique to his master, translated via a blank stare and slightly raised brows. He doesn’t even have to hear the “Honestly, Anakin,” aloud to know that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

“It means”—Liv straightens, smirking—“that I work in the shadows.” Anakin flinches back as she saunters past him and slides smoothly onto one of the tall stools at the well-stocked bar.

Like that answers anything. Why is everyone so cryptic all the time?

“What’s important is that while you’re here, know that you can trust them as I do,” Dua’primia Sarel says.

Obi-Wan nods, though Anakin senses apprehension through their bond. “We appreciate your hospitality, Dua’primia. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is—”

Anakin jolts forward. “Anakin Skywalker. We are at your service, my Lord.”

Sarel looks at his proffered hand with something like amusement and glides past Obi-Wan to clasp it with his. This close, he realizes the Dua’vian is an inch or two taller than himself—being somewhat tall for a human, it’s not an experience Anakin has often—and his eyes are a vibrant peridot green, accentuated by the black markings curving elegantly around the angles of his face that remind Anakin a bit of a Zabrak’s. A vicious scar bisects one eye from brow to cheek, long healed but still pink against his fair complexion, and Anakin spares a second to wonder if he got it during the war.

“Please,” he says, and is it just Anakin’s imagination, or did his voice lower in timbre? “Let us do away with such formalities. Call me Da’riel.” 

Anakin swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Oh—okay. Da’riel,” he repeats stiffly, hoping he isn’t completely butchering the pronunciation. By the way the man beams, he thinks he did alright. Da’riel releases his hand slowly, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of his inner wrist before Anakin withdraws it behind his poncho. He glances sidelong at Obi-Wan, but his master’s expression is as inscrutable as ever.

“Well then,” Da’riel declares with a brisk clap, making his way to the bar, “drinks?”

“Can we get down to business, please?” Preia says, rolling her eyes. 

“Such a spoilsport. Would it surprise you to know she isn’t always this uptight?” Chuckling, Da’riel uncaps a sapphire-blue crystal decanter and waves it beneath his nose. “Normally my dear Captain is the one pouring the liquor.”

“And I’ll drink you under the table like always once this threat is dealt with.”

“I shall hold you to that, my friend. And you, Jedi?”

“No,” Obi-Wan replies, a little too quick to be casual. “Thank you.” Anakin shoots him an inquisitive glance. 

“Ah.” Da’riel nods sagely. “So the rumors are true.”

“Da’riel—” Preia hisses.

“What?” Da’riel looks around at everyone, not contrite in the least. 

And his master was concerned that Anakin would be the one to say or do something culturally insensitive. He hides a quiet snicker behind his hand, pretending to rub his nose, and Obi-Wan gives him an unamused look before schooling his expression back to its artificial serenity. 

“Please excuse him,” Preia says, hip cocked, a finger rubbing against her temple. “He’s very—”

Liv butts in, “Reckless, blunt, uncouth?” 

Da’riel merely laughs, and Anakin can feel that it’s genuine. This is not at all the fearsome war General, leader of a revolution, and ruler of an entire planet that Anakin imagined. He seems close to these people, treats them more as equals and friends than subordinates or subjects, yet there’s still an aura about him that commands attention and respect as power or royalty would. 

Preia smirks. “Too honest for his own good.”

Whatever it is, Anakin doesn’t sense cruel intent coming from the Dua’primia, just honest curiosity. Despite the glare his master is drilling into the side of his head like he knows what Anakin is going to do, he can’t help asking, “What rumors?” 

“That you’re, er, monks,” Preia says, chuckling to mask embarrassment on behalf of her comrade and her own curiosity. 

“You know.” Liv sips at the drink Da’riel just poured her, not looking at them as she speaks, and Anakin leaks a pulse of unease into the Force. There’s something about her he simply can’t put his finger on. “No drinking, no fu—”

“Fun!” Preia hastily interjects, staring daggers at the other redhead. 

The corners of Anakin’s mouth twitch into a partial frown. They aren’t entirely wrong. He has his own… issues with the Order, with following rules that often either don’t make sense to him or directly conflict with his own ingrained beliefs. But it rankles for some reason, like he’s being judged, like they’re being judged. Mocked, even, though he doesn’t quite discern their meaning. Jedi are guardians of peace and justice within the galaxy. Maybe he doesn’t agree with the way the Order does things sometimes, but without them, without Anakin and Obi-Wan, the world would fall to disorder. To the dark side. People should be grateful—

“We are simply tired from our journey,” Obi-Wan interrupts his thoughts, sidling close enough that their shoulders graze, and Anakin exhales.

“My apologies, Jedi,” Da’riel says sincerely. “I am merely intrigued by your culture, as I’m sure you are of ours.” Obi-Wan bows his head in acceptance. “The hour is late. Preia?”

She hands Obi-Wan a datapad. “This contains an updated blueprint of the palace and map of the city, including the hidden exits and underground tunnels. I’ve marked the positions of my officers for each shift rotation as well as their schedules.”

Obi-Wan hums, stroking his beard as his eyes flit over the information on the screen. “And the evening of the festival?” 

“We’re tripling security, pulling from both the palace guard and local law enforcement.”

“How many of them know we’re here?” Anakin says.

There’s a knock at the door before she can answer, and Bull moves to open it, standing back to allow someone entry. It's a man Anakin recognizes. Tall and broad, with neatly-combed dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, and a kind yet serious face. His attire perfectly matches the regal demeanor flowing off him in waves, fine tailored robes of pewter-blue that swish around matching trousers as he walks. When his eyes land on Obi-Wan, a fond grin meets Obi-Wan’s public, Jedi-persona equivalent; a small, polite smile, though his eyes twinkle with equally affectionate mirth as Senator Bail Organa bends to his height to trade light kisses upon each cheek. 

Anakin knows from experience that it’s just a traditional Alderaanian greeting; it doesn’t mean anything. The Senator is a happily married man. And he’s pretty sure Obi-Wan hasn’t been involved with anyone in years, if ever. Whatever illicit affair he’d thought his master had with Vos was obviously just fueled by his own overactive imagination. He knows this because Obi-Wan never did meet the Kiffar before he shipped out for his next mission, and he hasn’t been alone with Vos since. Obi-Wan even stopped going to bars and clubs; stopped going out much at all, in fact, aside from diplomatic dinners and stuff they do on missions. Otherwise, he mostly stays with Anakin, and that’s exactly how Anakin likes it. 

None of that prevents the irritation boiling within his veins or the tormenting memory of a kiss that’s burrowed its way into his very soul, a kiss that should have never been, and the hollow, bitter pang that always follows in its wake.

Goosebumps prickling the flesh at his nape, he glances around and finds Da’riel leaning back lazily against the front of the bar on one elbow, sipping his drink and watching Anakin intently. Face flushing with heat, he plops into one of the plush chairs and out of the Dua’primia's view.

“Obi-Wan. As always, it is a pleasure to see you.”

“And you as well, Bail.”

“Now that everyone is here,” Preia says, “shall we get started?”

This is Da'riel btw:

"But there are no elves in Star Wars," one might say. Well guess what: there are now. 😌

Preia and Liv belong to @jacklyn-flynn & @charlatron respectively.

As for other WIPs; there's one I started before Troubled Water, though my focus was drawn to TW instead so it's been put on the backburner for now. The original idea was some kind of canon-divergent time-travel fix-it, but in the sense that Vaderkin's consciousness from the end of RoTJ returns to his body around the end of the Mortis arc in The Clone Wars. Can't say why that inspired me but it did lol, it felt like a pivotal moment (one of the shatterpoints I like to theorize about, change one thing and they're all altered via butterfly effect etc).

Like, what if he lived the future shown to him in that vision that the Father erased, and how would he react differently afterward, how would he talk to Obi-Wan and Ahsoka about what they went through on Mortis and the implications if he actually, finally understood and believed that he was indeed the Chosen One, how would they approach the Sith situation and the war from that point on... yeah I just have a lot of thoughts idk. I know that arc isn't a fan favorite but I personally loved the metaphor and the entire Prophetic Greek Tragedy vibe.

Excerpt:

“General Skywalker, come in.”

He feels… strange. Heavy yet impossibly lighter. Awareness presses down around him, suffocating, and a sharp pain lances through his skull as he draws the first shuddering breath in what feels simultaneously like mere minutes and several millennia. His mouth is dry, his throat sore, and his eyes burn as he slowly blinks into wakefulness. The crust of sleep clings to his long lashes, the salt-stained skin upon his cheeks pulling uncomfortably as he moves. He rubs them with a gloved hand and groans at the bright flashing lights of a console as they sharpen into focus. 

Wait—

He has a body. 

Moments ago he was formless and adrift, yet he is once again whole. And before that, he was… he was…

Kriff, he has hands. Hands he sees unfiltered, rather than through a tinted transparisteel visor protecting damaged retinas. And he’s breathing. Unassisted by a mechanical apparatus, by endless tubes and wires, no longer submerged under the ceaselessly distracting harsh rasp of a ventilator. Fingers flexing inches before his face, he blinks again, stunned. Not only does he have a body, but it’s his body. His limbs—well, with the exception of one. His gaze drifts slowly down to his long legs, toes curling experimentally in his boots. The sheer relief of it sends him reeling. 

Red light glints off his leather tabards and he looks up, expecting that any moment now, this will all prove another dream, a nightmare; a life free of that shell dangled temptingly before him only to be snatched away again. But the scene does not change. Dazed, he assesses his surroundings. A ship. He's on a ship? Familiar, Republic make. And there is a presence in the Force, a presence he has not felt in—

Hours. Years. An eternity.

Breath held, he turns. Only his head; as though any attempt to move this foreign yet thrillingly familiar youthful body will snap him out of this vision, send him back to that… that hell. And as he does, he sees him, a shining beacon of pure light, warm and bright and soothing. A man in beige robes, slumped in the co-pilot’s chair beside him, just beyond arm’s reach. Legs akimbo, elbows perched upon the armrests, hands dangling limply over his lap. His bearded chin is tucked to his chest which rises and falls in the slow, steady rhythm of unconsciousness. Auburn hair spills across his forehead, obscuring his eyes. But he would know this man anywhere.

Obi-Wan.

The desperate beat of his heart and rough, relieved exhale that escapes his lips seems thunderously loud in the otherwise silent cockpit. Fresh tears springing to his eyes, he attempts to stand—to go to him, to sweep Obi-Wan into his arms and feel his warmth, to surround himself with his scent and know for certain that he’s here, he's real, he’s alive—only to wobble and collapse back into the seat like a fawn testing new legs for the first time. 

How is this happening?

He feels himself, and not himself. As though he took a nap and awoke with another lifetime sliced into his brain, a vision he can't shake, an overwrite of his programming, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between it and the reality he's presented with the more he struggles to process it—

A flicker of blue dances in his periphery, repeating a question, and it is only with great reluctance that he tears his eyes away from his former Master. The holo-projection of another man stands at attention in the center console, brow furrowed with worry. Fondness and guilt and confusion flood him with equal measure as he takes in his Captain’s, his friend’s, appearance. 

“General Skywalker, do you read me?”

Skywalker.

The voice of the last person to call him by that name, in that other life, echoes in his mind. It is the name of your true self, you have only forgotten. The son he tried to kill, to corrupt, to save. The son who saved him, and in the end, returned him to the light. Luke.

Clearing his parched throat, he responds, “I—we read you, Rex,” and marvels at the sound of his own voice, so crisp and clear and young, without the distortion of that burdensome helmet. “You—you’re a sight for sore eyes. Can you hear me?”

Fabric rustles behind him and he instinctively reaches for the lightsaber at his hip before the sleepy, curious brush of another Force signature meets his own. Gasping, he whips around in the flight chair.

“Ahsoka!”

She winces, rubbing her tired eyes. “Not so loud, Skyguy,” she says on the back end of a yawn, glancing around the cockpit. “What happened? We were—-mmphh!” Her surprised grunt is muffled against his shoulder as he all but falls out of his seat to the floor at her feet and drags her into his arms, then his lap, cradling her like a child. 

Face buried in her soft lekku, he squeezes her close to his chest, body wracked with silent sobs. All he’d wanted was to protect Ahsoka. To mentor her, as his master before him, and give her the tools she needed to protect herself and innocents across the galaxy. Brilliant, kind, stubborn and strong, and so, so wise beyond her time, she became one of the most talented Jedi he had ever met. Though they’d gotten off to a rocky start, she made him proud, made him feel honored to be her master. Watching her leave the Order tore his heart in two. Watching her leave him destroyed him. Already he’d been questioning the Council, questioning the Order as a whole and their damn inflexible code. But more than that, he questioned himself. He’d failed as her master, failed as a Jedi. 

The memories haunt him. For months he examined the shatterpoints of their lives together, in hindsight—every lesson taught, every battle fought, wondering where he went wrong, what he could have done differently, how he could have fixed things, helped her, kept her close—spiraling down, down into the depths of his own torment and self-loathing. Without Ahsoka, Obi-Wan had been his only remaining tether to the Jedi. To the light. A tether broken, in the end, by his selfishness. By jealousy and hatred and greed, by the fear of abandonment, loss, and… deep, shameful, unrequited feelings. 

But here she is, right here in the secure circle of his arms. His beloved young padawan, the girl he’s come to cherish like a friend, a sister, who he’d met lightsaber for lightsaber in that dark future but even then, corrupted as he was, could not bring himself to kill because he loved her so. Loves her still.

“Master?” Ahsoka murmurs, hands hanging limp at her sides for several seconds before hesitantly returning his embrace with equal strength. Too often preoccupied with and separated by the war, the opportunities to shown her such open affection were far and few between, usually coming after particularly difficult missions, brief brushes with death, and how kriffed up is that? Filled with regret, he promises himself here and now that will change. 

“Are you…” Trailing off, she reaches up to slowly pet his hair and he releases a quiet sigh, finally pulling back to look at her. Her eyes are wide and worried and so very, terrifically, blue. “Master, what’s wrong?”

Letting out a soft chuckle, he shakes his head. “Nothing, Snips.” The old nickname rolls off his tongue without even thinking and his heart clenches, this time with both pain and joy. “Nothing at all. Everything is perfect.”

There’s a crackle of static behind them, then, “Ah, General Kenobi. It’s good to see you, sir. Are you three alright? General Skywalker seems—”

He lifts his gaze to the co-pilot’s chair. Obi-Wan is awake and perched upright in front of the holo, staring silently at them with a frown so achingly familiar a tangled web of affection, longing, pain, betrayal swells within his chest. It hurts, it hurts so much to look at Obi-Wan like this, yet now that those eyes are open and trained so intently on him, he can’t tear his own away. And Obi-Wan’s just as beautiful as ever, just as heart-wrenchingly perfect and good. 

Too late, he remembers that their bond, while not as strong as it had once been, remains. Unlike most master and padawan pairs after the apprentice reaches knighthood, neither he nor Obi-Wan could bring themselves to sever it. They were at war, their connection was vital. It made them a better team. Until— 

His mental shields slam into place but not before Obi-Wan arches a single brow, lips parting as if to repeat Rex’s inquiry. 

“I’m fine,” he rushes to cut Obi-Wan off, “we’re all fine. Just, uh—where are you?” 

He can only beg the Force that his former master and current padawan did not feel too much, did not see the torment buried within him. By the way they appear to be communicating with one another like whispers behind closed doors, however, he’s sure they will have questions. Questions he doesn’t know how to answer. Letting go of Ahsoka, he clambers to his feet, limbs still trembling, and drops heavily back into the pilot’s chair.

“Standing by, sir. We were worried. You were,” Rex hesitates, “off the scopes there for a moment.”

Memories hit him in a rush. Chaotic, lacking order. He's in a dark room with his dead mother whispering poison in his ear. On a balcony overlooking a pristine lake, flowers scenting the air, one hand rising to touch soft skin. In a junkyard, fingers covered in mech oil, the ever-present grit of sand between his molars. At an opera listening to the viper beside him spit lies, lies, lies. The sky above shifts rapidly from day to night, and he's lost in a spinning whirlpool of stars and the obscene rush of power he feels as he brings gods to their knees. Then he's watching the silhouette of a robed man against the backdrop of sunset thinking look at me, look at me, please look at me, I need you—

Sifting through them is a struggle. Everything blurs together, and he can't control what comes or when, skull throbbing from the effort. His thoughts, his feelings, are an amalgamation of eras he can't quite reconcile; the slave boy, the padawan learner, the Jedi Knight, the General, the Sith Lord. It's too much, it's too much and he doesn't know who or what he is anymore and the panic is rising— 

A comforting hand settles upon his shoulder and he opens his eyes. Ahsoka.

“A moment?” Obi-Wan says, still staring at him. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable under that all-too perceptive gaze. At length, his master turns to the holo. “We’ve been gone far longer than a moment.”

Rex’s eyes flit between them. “Sir, I don’t understand. You’ll need to explain.”

Ahsoka snorts. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”

Still have a lot of mental fleshing out to do before it goes anywhere but there ya have it.

May the Force be with you, always!

As for the first part of your comment, really, thank you. It's not that I don't love my writing so much as the process can be difficult at times. 😅 I'm a perfectionist, and not by choice so much as my brain simply won't let things go until they feel right. Even after publishing something I have a very bad habit of going back in and editing it a dozen more times. It's very annoying! 😂

Sometimes that single-minded focus gets me stuck in a huge rut because I'm too zoned in on trivialities to navigate back to the big picture. Basically writer's block is the worst feeling ever and sometimes I get down about not being as productive as I should be. But I do love writing, and making people happy with my work gives me a lot of joy and motivation to keep at it. Well, I should probably get back to work on TW but I hope you enjoyed the excerpts! All your kind words made me smile and I'm gonna try to carry that positivity with me. 🥰

[maggielindemanns]

I'm so sorry someone compared your eliott to ch*rles I really think that could not be father from the truth! you have done brilliantly with your characterization of them and this is such a big difference from any stunt that any of the Williams ever played because like he is fighting for an established relationship where they both actively admitted to how deeply they cared for each other and eliott fighting for that is not at all a ch*rles-esque move because they're actually BOTH in love??? (1/2)

(2/2) and whether or not lucas asked for space, eliott is not coming out of left field or like betraying his trust by trying to prove to him that they can work?? he is just too invested in how incredibly special what they have is and he wants lucas to not let his fear or insecurity dictate his happiness... like as much as this could I guess be "selfish" of eliott it is actually something lucas really needs as well to help him address his abandonment issues and learn to love himself and others

anon, i’m giving you the fattest smooch on your forehead rn, THANK YOU for alllll of this

first, i’m gonna say thank you for the characterization comment, because honestly i was lowkey wingin it for them and trying to keep em as consistent as i possibly could shdkajak BUT thank you 🥺💘

secondly, yes @ the established relationship point !!! that’s what i was trying to get across - eliott wanted to fight for lucas bc they already had something and the feelings are mutual and that is a FACT !

thirdly, yes again !!!! i was hoping that how much eliott valued lucas and his relationship with him was something that was clear so that him trying to go back for him was not something random and !! i was trying to also use his spam twitter to show that eliott’s words of admiration for lucas weren’t unwelcome and lucas knew he messed up in trying to push him away the way he did but if that didn’t come across, i really apologize, ya know?

as a “writer” (i guess i could be called that shdkaja) if something made me feel icky or unsure in a bad bad way or i thought it was creepy, i wouldn’t write it and def wouldn’t post it, so the ch*rles comparison really made me like 🤢🤢🤢 but !!! to each their own mayhaps !!! i’m open to criticism and all, but like... idk i just feel like that anon was just all types of wrong?????

all in all, thank you for this, really, sorry this response is so long also, ily and thank you for reading my au and picking up on these things !!!! 💛💛

[battleswithmyself]

04:10am - 17/02/2022

Evan

Dr Pierce Fitzgerald,

Today is going to be a good day and here’s why. It’s because you’re you and that’s enough.

Coming to the realisation of the fact I don’t fear death. I hope for it. The idea to sacrifice myself so someone else can live comes across as selfish. It’s most likely an excuse for me to die.

Ruining friendships to being hard to reach.

I think I’m just trying to make myself disappear.

“No one deserves to be forgotten” yet that’s all I want.

Just Breathe Pierce

“No one deserves to be forgotten” I shouldn’t be thinking this way.

Self harming in the bathroom again after a year of not doing that. Feels like 100 steps backwards. My face is numb, smiling is almost painful. My eyes are sore. I haven’t been crying.

You still matter

Those words mean everything and always make be breakdown internally. Because I don’t believe it myself.

No one deserves to fade away

Watching Dear Evan Hansen was hard with dad next to me, he must know how dark everything got (how it still is, just to as extreme) seeing him struggle knowing. He must know surely, but I can’t tell him, I can’t tell him what I did to myself to feel somewhat alive.

No one should flicker out or have any doubt that it matters that they are here.

No one deserves to disappear.

Why do I align my feelings and thoughts with a musical.?

“”I know, because there’s Zoe, and all my hope is pinned on Zoe, who I don’t even know, and doesn’t know me. Maybe if I could just talk to her. Maybe nothing would be different at all. I wish everything was different.“”

Who is Zoe in my situation? You know exactly who “Zoe” is.

Words fail

There’s nothing I can say.

I guess I thought I could be part of this (life)

That's not a worthy explanation

I know there is none

Nothing can make sense of all these things I've done (Self harm, suicide attempts/thoughts)

No, I'd rather pretend I'm something better than these broken parts

Pretend I'm something other than this mess that I am

'Cause then I don't have to look at it

And no one gets to look at it

It’s too hard to type these words so copying and pasting them is the only way I can do it.

I don’t do sadness

I just want it all to end

Awful sweet to be a little butterfly.

Just wingin' over things

And nothing deep inside.

Nothing goin', goin' wild in you, you know.

You're slowing by the riverside,

Or floatin' high and blue.

I want it all to just stop

04:49am

I can’t end it because of Mum, Dad and mainly Kurt

There’s also “Zoe” for that slight hint and chance for “Zoe”

I need sleep, yet I just can’t sleep

I enjoyed harming myself again

It just didn’t make me feel as alive as it used to. Should I go deeper?

It can’t be seen by other people, that creates more questions and you hate questions. But you also need help, do you want help?

I don't do sadness.

So been there.

Don't do sadness.

Just don't care.

Goodnight,

Sincerely the only person who truly knows how you feel.

-Me

[claroquequiza]

i'm late for this and idk if you'll get to this commentary prompt or if someone else asked, but one of my favorite moments in Afterdrop is where Mccree compares Hanzo and his situation to the criminals sent to that island to work, and i was wondering if you could elaborate on that scene!

McCree and Hanzo Get to Know Each Other And Are Instantly Best Friends

He tapped the earpiece. “Shimada here. I have returned to base and completed my security sweep. I can now report.”

“‘Bout time,” the cowboy huffed. “Alright, then Shimada, what did you get up to today?”

Hanzo fought down a sigh before he launched into a detailed description of the day’s activities. This, this was the worst part of his association with Overwatch: having to regurgitate all his movements once daily to his handler , who apparently considered even the smallest detail to be Overwatch business, and all over a channel that may or may not be secure. If it was not, it would be child’s play to track down the former Shimada heir.

Hanzo was found several times in the early years, and it was almost always due to electronic tracking--he had to build up some secret monetary funds to finally escape.

Worst of all, the cowboy seemed perfectly aware of Hanzo’s paranoia. Hanzo prodded at the unopened bentō, feeling his hunger fade and his paranoia rise as the cowboy asked him to clarify exactly where and when multiple times.

“You left ‘bout 1100? Got t’Sado ‘bout 12? Where in Sado? When did you arrive at Watchpoint: Niigata? When did you leave? Got back around 1930, you reckon?” And on and on. At least the fool was not revealing the location of the safehouse over the channel. Or perhaps not so foolish; Hanzo could imagine that would be a step too far in the cowboy’s attempts to discomfit him.

Jesse’s strategy here is to make Hanzo drop the comm and disappear. He knows better than just about anyone how someone knowing and transmitting your location fucks with your head when you’re on the run.

But Hanzo often found ways to return the favor.

“And so, uh, that cleanin’ bot--what exactly did they do with it?”

Hanzo raised an eyebrow, eyes focusing on the long and deepening shadows as the light coming through the window failed. “They charged it through the wall with the induction coils.”

“I know that. For what purpose?”

“To use the cleaning bot to access the servers.” There was silence on the other end of the channel. Hanzo smiled slightly. The cowboy usually asked for clarification to annoy him, and avoided asking when he actually needed clarification.

“How?”

“I do not understand.”

Something clicked on the cowboy’s end. A lighter, perhaps. “How did they use the bot to access the server?” he finally asked. Hanzo’s smile grew.

“Did Agent Winston not explain it to you?”

“He’s a busy ape,” replied the cowboy shortly. “Now I’m wonderin’ if you actually understood what was goin’ on or just wingin’ it.”

Jesse’s a smart man, so I was worried that he might come off as too dumb here, but I figure that Hanzo might have more experience with corporate espionage whereas Jesse is more of a counter-terrorism expert. I look forward to making that a bit clearer in upcoming chapters.

The kettle whistled on the stove. Hanzo held in a hiss and a groan as he stood to retrieve it and pour some water into one of the mugs he’d found in the cabinets. He took this time, swishing the water around to warm the mug before tossing the water out into the sink and refilling it. He settled back into the chair to allow it to cool a little before adding the tea.

I do not make tea correctly. I don’t warm up the mug beforehand, but tea is serious business for Hanzo.

“They charged the bot with the induction charger.”

“I know that, get to the point.”

“The bot powered on and began its usual cleaning cycle.”

He waited.

“And?”

“When it realized it was low on cleaning fluid, it tried to contact the cleaning staff.”

The other end was silent for a few moments. Then the cowboy ground out, “So did it--open the door?”

Hanzo allowed himself to chuckle dryly. “Without power? And would Overwatch be foolish enough to give a cleaning bot authorization to allow access to a Watchpoint’s central servers?”

“Then how, Shimada?” The cowboy’s voice was almost a growl. He did not appreciate any smugness from Hanzo. Hanzo, for his part, was tired and still chilled from the ocean and the wind, and was therefore already ready for the game to end.

“The wifi.”

“Come again?”

“It tried to connect to the Watchpoint’s wifi. When it could not detect it, it searched for any open network, because how could there be an unauthorized open network in range of the server room so deep within the base? The perpetrators merely had to provide an open wifi signal, wait for the bot to connect, and then hijack it.”

I used to work at a cellphone store, and by far the question I got most often from people is how secure WiFi is. I figure it’s a common enough fear that it would make sense to make it the cleaning bot’s downfall, especially since Overwatch was apparently so overly confident that it allowed a rebellion to flourish in its own ranks.

There was a burst of noise on the other end, a forceful exhale. Hanzo could imagine a puff of smoke winding through the air. He wrinkled his nose. “Clever,” the cowboy mused.

“As I said earlier,” Hanzo deadpanned. He heard a sniff.

“By the way, Shimada, I was readin’ up on Sado earlier. Not a popular place now, is it?”

SO. This was kind of an accident! I wanted Japan to be affected by the giant Omnic that regularly attacks South Korea, and it turns out I got the location completely wrong! The kaiju Omnic apparently lives in the East China Sea, rather than the Sea of Japan, so by all rights Hanzo should have been visiting a Watchpoint off the coast of Kyushu or some such. But this mistake worked out well because of Sado’s history, so--mistakes can be good?? I Guess?? I mean, an awful lot of islands were used this way, so I expect I could have found an island in Kyushu that was used similarly, but it turned out to be an awesome metaphor, so yay!

But I did get the game lore completely wrong here.

Hanzo knitted his eyebrows together. “I do not know. I do not know this region well.”

“Well, I was wonderin’ how you liked it. Seems like your kinda place, t’be honest.” Hanzo suppressed a snort, thinking back on the large yet lonely island. The cowboy had had to send the accursed dinghy because the island had become so depopulated in the wake of the Omnic Crisis that it only had ferry service once every two weeks. It was isolated, yes, but there was such a thing as too isolated. Getting his arrows’ components and training equipment there would be a constant nightmare.

I was super excited to explain where Hanzo gets and keeps his equipment, so I dropped a little hint of that here. I don’t know why I love backstory so much, but I do. God help me, I love it.

He stood again to put the tea leaves and strainer in the mug, his prosthetics catching on the irritated skin of his stubs. He grimaced as he hobbled the short distance to the counter. “It was--not to my taste,” he muttered.

The cowboy chuckled. Darkly. Hanzo felt his hackles rise a bit. “Well, that would be part of the reason it’d suit you. It used t’be a popular place t’send exiles. Political figures, poets that said the wrong thing to the wrong people. Criminals.”

Hanzo lowered his hands to his sides, staring at the mug without seeing.

“Even had a gold mine for the criminal element t’find some good, backbreaking work while staying nice and far away from everyone.” The cowboy paused. “Perfect for you, right?”

Hanzo did not reply.

“That’ll be all for today, Shimada.”

And the connection went dead.

And here is the reason for the title of the fic! An afterdrop is a phase of hypothermia where a victim’s core body temperature will often drop after you start warming them up! The reason seems to be that the body stops circulating the blood in the limbs in an effort to keep the blood in the core nice and toasty, and once you start warming the victim up, all that chilly blood in the limbs starts flowing into the core and makes them cold again.

So here, Hanzo is annoyed and frustrated by his circumstances, but hey, he’s at least a little partial to giving tit for tat and trying to hit back at Jesse! But from now on, Hanzo’s not even going to attempt that much. Things get even worse with the disaster at the warehouse and so on, but here is where Hanzo might have started warming up a little--only to get much, much colder.

Thank you so much for the prompt!! I hope you enjoyed it!!

[permetscore]

naruto: idk i think i dont really wanna be hokage anymore

sasuke: huh?

naruto: i mean like. it was kind of a kiddy dream, right? i don't really think i want the job, i don't think i'd be very good at it. i just wanted the acknowledgement, really, but i've got that! and i've got friends, and family... i think i'm good.

sasuke: that's good, then.

naruto: but idk what else to do with my life if i don't do that, you know? that was the whole plan.

sasuke: are you asking me for advice?

naruto: i mean, i guess?

sasuke: dude i didn't plan to live past like, max 17. i'm wingin' absolutely everything here.

naruto: dude

sasuke: why do you think all my decisions are so poorly thought out?

naruto: because you're stupid?

sasuke: shut the fuck up